My chest hurt, my eyes stung, I couldn't breathe. I had written my "Caregiver Report to the Court" and emphasized the need for a slow transition for my anxious foster daughter. I had poured every ounce of love I had into my precious girl. I had communicated as often as possible with her CASA and her social worker. None of that mattered...I had failed my girl.
The commissioner treated my daughter like property.
My mind raced. I just kept thinking about how my baby girl would think I abandoned her after I worked so tirelessly to gain her trust. I thought about how it would feel to give her to a stranger to drive her down to her mother. There was no transition time before the move, something I knew my foster daughter desperately needed. It was all wrong.
Then came the guilt. Every time I had complained of exhaustion from lack of sleep, been frustrated with baby K's crying fits, or wished I could run to the grocery store alone replayed in my head. I thought that maybe if I had been more appreciative of every second, maybe she wouldn't have left me. Maybe I was not thankful enough, maybe I had not loved her enough.
I bargained with God, trying to make impossible trades. I didn't care if it was harder to study for the bar, I didn't care if I never got a full night of sleep again. I would give almost anything to have my baby girl back or at least have a slower transition, but this was not a trade I could make.
The three days after court were a blur. I sobbed as I packed up the clothes I had been so excited to buy for her and see her wear. I wrote a letter to her mom, explaining her schedule and what might be hard for her during this transition. It took me the full three days; I was too much of a wreck to write it all at once. Every time baby K reached for me or gave me a grin, I felt like I was being stabbed in the chest.
Saturday arrived way too fast. I got the call at 11:00 from the person who would be transporting my daughter to her new home. This was it. We grabbed her bags and I picked up baby girl from her toys for the last time. I buckled my baby into a carseat she'd never been in and shut the car door, blinking away tears as I waved goodbye through the window.
As soon as the car pulled away, I went back inside and immediately began to put her belongings from the living room into her bedroom. I couldn't bear to look at her toys, the playpen, and her little winter jackets knowing never again would I see her among these things. I cried later that day as I folded laundry that included her Easter dress and little hoodies. Everything I looked at reminded me of what we had lost.
Days later, I still break down at the little reminders - a tiny sock between the couch cushions, her empty carseat in the back of our car, her bucket of bottles on the kitchen counter. Our house is so quiet, and I don't really know how to define myself anymore.
Five days ago, I was a mommy. Now I'm not.
I don't write this to make you sad. I write this because I think it's important for people to realize that foster parents aren't machines. We feel immense sadness when our foster kids leave, we get "too" attached, and we love our foster babies like they are our own. Yet, we welcome broken children into our home because we know there will be so much joy when they're with us, and because these little ones deserve a home. I also write this for foster parents who feel that that no one understands their pain of losing a foster child. I promise, you are not alone in your grief.
During this time of heartache, I am reminding myself that the sun also rises and that better things will be coming. For now, it's time to grieve.
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