This is the latest article I’ve written about our journey as a foster family.
It’s been almost three months since we took our first permanent placement as a foster family – a newborn. Healthy, thriving, and smiley, our baby represents a tremendous blessing to our family. Struggles abound, but blessings do too. We’re learning, growing, and changing as a family, and we count it all as pure joy.
The Learning
Asking for help.
Heather Finocchiaro of Foster Village reminded me at church one Sunday that her organization delivers welcome packs the day after placement. Foster Village maintains a resource center in North Naples to get families what they need to care for foster placements. About a month in, I realized that we needed meals, which our church also sets up for families through the Meal Train platform. I’ve texted neighbors when a fussy baby prevents me from fixing dinner, which is simultaneously humbling and life-giving. I understand in a new way that self-sufficiency only works in the context of community; I’ve had to learn that it’s okay to ask for help when we need it.
Navigating change alongside our daughter. Every routine/normal activity or event now feels different for my family, and especially for my 10-year-old daughter. Going to my parents’ pool, a sleepover with her grandparents, her spring break – now with our sweet baby. For her, the baby (often) represents an intrusion, and she expresses the accompanying angst by grasping for control. The baby also represents a change in identity. She spent 10 years as an only child and now she has – for all intents and purposes – a sibling, who arrived without (much) warning. Emotions tied to value statements abounded the first eight weeks for her (e.g. “I t’s horrible that the baby’s coming with us camping.”). But, the other day, she commented, “I’ve decided to think of [the baby] as my [sibling].” We’ll take it.
Saying “no.”
Like many women, I hate saying “no.” I’m a do-whatever-it-takes, burn-the-3 a.m.-oil, make-everyone-happy Yes Mom (and Yes Employee). Now, I can’t always drop whatever I’m doing and make chocolate chip cookies. I can’t attend training events, and I can’t say yes to every meeting maker or insert myself into every project. And, I’ve started saying no to workouts in favor of naptime on the couch. It’s not hard caring for a baby. But, it is hard to care for a baby AND do anything else.
The questions and comments I’ve considered.
Last month, I mentioned some questions and comments I get often as I’m out and about. Our modus operandi is this: we don’t get offended, and we respond as best as we can while protecting our family and our baby.
Every day, I’m reminded of how fascinated Southwest Floridians are by new life. People love babies – they love to ask questions about babies, and they love to talk about the babies in their own life. When we share a bit about our baby, we’ve heard the comment a couple of times: “Your baby’s so lucky.” I smile and nod and often respond with, “We’re the ones who are blessed.” I think they mean something like: the baby’s lucky to be at our home, to be placed with us, to not be exposed to possible neglect or mistreatment. But, we don’t believe luck factors into the equation, and we also believe the best about parents in SWFL – that they love their children deeply and often experience extenuating circumstances that don’t allow them to parent appropriately. And, we do believe we are deeply blessed to have this baby in our home. We don’t take it for granted, even with fussy witching hours, endless bottle sanitization routines, and sleepless nights. We pray often: “Thank you,” and “Help!”
I mentioned last month the question one friend asked – with honesty and humility: “How can you love a baby that isn’t yours?” He really wanted to know how we could love without condition, without promise of tomorrow, with an uncertain future. Over the last few weeks, I’ve realized that I love that question. It’s a question that truly considers the gravitas of the situation. A tiny bundle of vulnerability lives in our home, depends on us for everything, learns about the world through our rhythms and routines, through our family culture. It’s serious business with long-term consequences. As we navigated infertility, I used to get the question from time to time: “Why don’t you just adopt?” It’s an honest question; one that didn’t offend. But it’s not as easy as that. Adoption requires a significant investment of time, money, and a passionate commitment to the outcome – not to mention the continuous asking of the question: “How will I love a baby that isn’t mine?”
It’s true, we chose this life, this path, this chaos, knowing one thing: We’re responsible for loving, nurturing, teaching, and caring for our babies without knowing or understanding what the outcome of their lives will be, and often prior to knowing their unique needs or struggles. So, we relinquish control, opening our hands, all the while recognizing that most of what they’re learning, they are learning from my husband and me. We demonstrate sacrificial love daily, mostly unconsciously, performing menial tasks and making thousands of decisions while our hearts (our kids) just dance around – exposed and vulnerable – outside our bodies. They scream and cry, they destroy our furniture, they go to school, play with friends, win awards and fail at sports, make mistakes, chew their nails, defend the weak, refuse to eat the food in front of them, and then they grow up before our eyes. It’s inevitable, and yet it shocks us. We rip out our hair and then shed a tear; we (at times) wish it away and simultaneously wish it wouldn’t end so quickly. All that to say, the journey of parenting doesn’t discriminate between bio and foster and adoption; we’re all in this chaos together.
Read the other installments in Anna’s fostering journey here.