A brief peek into the fresh realities of saying goodbye to a child you loved as your own
We bought him a puzzle in the dollar section at Target this week. And Zeke asked when he’s coming home.
I cry my eyes out in the car at least every other day and text my girlfriends, mentors, and family numerous times throughout the week just to take a breath.
I feel like I’m in a lion’s den of confusion and pain I didn’t see coming. I knew that reunification would be hard—I didn’t realize that reunification could turn out quite like ours did.
Add the pregnancy and I'm a hot mess. It is a unique pain to not be able to see the boy you called son, while looking ahead to the birth of another child. He can’t be replaced and he or she will be his or her own person. *Deep breath*
So, despite the beautiful photos strewn across the internet and the positive steps you might perceive our family to be taking in grief, we’re still wrecked.
Yes, it is seriously AWESOME that we’re going to a gym now (should’ve done this a year a go, see Instagram), but going to the gym won’t preclude me from hanging on to every word in the faithful text of support I’ll receive from my cousin tomorrow. He's not forgotten just because he's not here.
This isn’t a blog post to elicit sympathy—truly—but one to just be real and write it out in. I can't share the nitty-gritty details, nor would I. But I can just tell you that expectations are the root of a lot of pain and when you love someone big, it's going to hurt big. And that's OK. Pain isn't to be escaped-- we have to walk through these seasons and feel all the things. We’re doing well at what we can, but ‘doing things’ and ‘talking over things’ and ‘showing up for life’ won't turn this story around or suddenly erase sadness and grief. This season will last as long as it needs to because we’re not control of this process. Only God can dictate what is ahead of us.
If you’re pursuing foster care, please don’t stop. These kids and their families need people to step into the mess of state dependency and show up. What we did and hope to do again is n e c e s s a r y.
And all the other stress that comes with periods of unknown
We're officially a million years into a case without a concrete timeline. I know there's nothing new to our struggle over here at the Zehring household. Anyone who's been in a period of waiting-- for a pregnancy, for wellness, for finality in a foster care case, for closure in a relationship-- knows that the limbo period is the worst. We also know, or at least many of us could say that this place of in-between is also where the growth happens.
All of this is true and Nick and I know this in our hearts, but it just doesn't make it easier.
So here I am, writing this all out and asking myself: in this space of foster parenting (insert all other challenges) how do we navigate the most fundamental part of this journey without becoming overwhelming inward focused and negative?
How to harness numbers to set better expectations
When you decide you’re going to become a foster parent, you sign up for 30+ hours of classes, find an agency that will pick your personal story and life apart, and you’ll literally label containers in your linen closet so you know where Hydrocortisone cream is for your home inspection. The preparation to become a foster parent is unreal—and crucial.
I feel like Nick and I did a lot of preparing of our home, our hearts, and our heads on how to parent children in foster care. We did extra reading on trauma-informed parenting, sensitive discipline, and boundary setting with extended family and friends.
What we didn’t dive deep into was the data behind the machine of foster care and the Department of Child Services.
Now, I can’t say that digging into data really is the most important, crucial part of foster care. At the end of the day, your role and job is to care for the child in your home.
However, if you’re anything like Nick and I and you want to be eyes wide open on all the hard, challenging parts of this journey it can be helpful to know the numbers behind what will happen with your child’s case.
One Reason Trauma-Informed Parenting is Key
Let me start by prefacing this: every case is different and every child needs different things.
We are over a year into foster care and we’ve only ever known the needs of one precious boy. His needs have drastically changed since he came to us and that’s been a great thing. Less needs means improvement.
What I’ve outlined below is a brief breakdown of what it can mean to be trauma-informed as a foster parent.
Truth: Knowing This Fact Doesn’t Make It Easier
In the ‘mom’ circles I’m in, we have all shared one of the deepest, most universal fears: losing our children. We fear losing our children to illness, danger, violence, accidents, and/or their choices.
As a foster parent, I know very intimately the fear of losing a child because it’s a fear that I literally licensed myself to experience. In the licensing process and the weeks and months following our initial days with our middle man, I assumed that my head knowledge of this process of loss would, in some ways, make it easier.
I’ve learned—and do believe—that when our emotions are out of control and in flux, we need to lean on what we know. So, before Nick and I were in this current space of foster care, I proudly told myself that foster care was weathering me for the possibility of losing any of my children. I wore this thought like armor on my shoulders. I naively believed that my intellectual acceptance of potentially losing my children was putting my heart a step ahead of the fear-based admissions many of my friends and I have uttered in close circles.
I’ve literally told myself that, “I’m a step ahead of the game. I understand that we could all lose our children at some point. Understanding this as a foster parent will make it easier. Setting the right expectations and being ‘eyes-wide-opened’ will help my grieving process in the long run.”
I am not a step ahead of any game. Knowing that I may experience the loss of a child in the coming weeks and months does not, in any way, make this grief easier.