fostering

Nostalgia

~ savouringmydays ~ Leave a comment

It was five years ago this week that I had that phone call. It had been a very long four months of having no foster placement, the longest gap we’d had since we first opened our home four years before. Those quiet months brought so many emotions – of course we were delighted to not be needed. Who could complain that there weren’t many little ones in need of foster families? It was respite from the busyness of fostering life, and gave us precious family time with Megan, Maisie and Toby, who had ridden the wild roller coaster of the previous four years with us.

But I never cope particularly well without plans, and it was the uncertainty that was the challenge. Not just the uncertainty of when a child might come, but the frequent phone calls asking if we could take one, only to have another call a few hours later with a change of plan. We had even got to the point of having a time of day one that one little one would be arriving, with freshly washed baby clothes in the cupboard, only for an hour before she arrived to be told there was another change of plan and she’d be going elsewhere, a decision that, to me, seemed to have no real logic behind it.

Then there was the financial aspect. We didn’t foster for the money, but at the same time, it was my job for those years, and it was difficult to know how to handle that uncertainty for that length of time. I reluctantly made enquiries and booked onto a child minding course, but my heart wasn’t in it. My heart was always to offer a home and family to those in the most need. It just seemed that it was the responsible thing to do to be proactive in doing something in the waiting, just in case.

And of course the quietness gave time to ponder on the little ones we’d said goodbye to, the lives we’d been privileged to be a part of for a time. To celebrate their stories and also to grieve the loss we feel too. To remember why we chose to do it, and to pray for the ones who’d left and the ones who would come.

And then that week came. With Liam’s birthday cake still half eaten, the children home on half term, and a few more days of uncertainty with numerous phone calls about these little ones. They came, they left again. I was phoned and asked to take another placement, but as I sat in the car park of the shopping centre, something in my gut told me to say no. To wait for these two.

It seemed ridiculous after all those months, to hold off despite having only a vague idea of what might happen with them, and absolutely no certainties that we’d be asked to have them. But it was one of those few times where I know the strength of that feeling was no coincidence or fanciful hoping. It was more than a gut feeling, it was a prompting from heaven. There was a bigger plan going on here than I could have imagined.

And after a couple more days of uncertainty, of phone calls, of changes of plans, they arrived.

And they never left.

Our lives are a small piece in the enormous worldwide history-spanning jigsaw of stories, all connecting, separate yet intertwined. And when I face the nostalgia on these anniversaries, I am acutely aware that there were other pieces going on elsewhere that surrounded those moments we were living in. And the different stories that were happening in different homes over those months that led to that day. As we grieved foster babies that had left, and waited quietly for the cot to fill again, adoptive families were opening their hearts and arms to their forever babies, years of hopes and dreams coming true. And at the same time, birth families were grieving and wrestling the finality of decisions made, the lifelong consequences to face of hard stories and choices that filtered through generations and left a legacy of pain.

And for these two, in a parallel story until our lives entwined, those months tell a story that isn’t easy to know, let alone imagine them living through. Our gain was part of much loss. Loss for their birth family, a just and right decision for their safety, but the mother in me cannot fathom the depths of heartache, or shame, or anger that come from stories like these. Loss for them, the life they knew was all they knew. The blood connection was their flesh and blood. The voices, the smells, the sounds, no matter how broken, were the only ones they knew. The loss of the start to life they should have had, and the innocence and safety that should be part of their childhood, the security and acceptance of their future that should be unquestionable.

And yet. Yes, so much loss. But yes, so much hope.

I don’t think it was coincidence that none of the placements we were offered in those months didn’t pan out.

I don’t think it was coincidence my gut said no – we’ll wait – on that wet Wednesday.

I don’t think it was coincidence that they fit so beautifully from the start.

I don’t think it was coincidence that they are here and they are together and they are ours.

And as I was thinking about it all this week it encouraged me that surrounding all the uncertainty of the world and the life we’re living, whatever that looks or feels like, there’s a bigger picture than the one I see. The story doesn’t go the way I expect, but that doesn’t mean it’s unwritten. Even the hard things along the way can have a purpose beyond what my eyes can – or may ever – see.

Of course I wish from the bottom of my heart that their lives had begun differently. That they didn’t have to live with loss. That the impact of that didn’t follow them – and now us – through life. But I am also so grateful that we get to be part of their future. That in the chaos and disorder and brokenness of the world we live in, God shows care and mercy and orchestrates good. ‘He sets the lonely in families.’ (Psalm 68:6)

It provokes me two ways – to remember that outside of my comfortable home and loving family are so many other stories going on – so many thousands of people, lonely, hurting, afraid. How can I look outward and love, to share what I’ve been given? To be family to those who feel lost? To care, and to raise children that care?

And it reminds me to remember that when things feel hard and look hopeless, when there seems to be heartbreak everywhere or even just when the news update is disappointing and I want to complain that we are STILL in this bleak situation, to remember that good is still happening. Maybe I can’t see it. Maybe it’s not how I’d expect. Maybe it even involves loss and heartache along the way. But that doesn’t mean it’s not there. There is a bigger picture being formed by the hands that created the world, that were pierced for the world, and that hold the world.

‘Every experience God gives us, every person He puts in our lives is the perfect preparation for the future that only He can see.’ (Corrie Ten Boom)

What about the hard bits?

~ savouringmydays ~ Leave a comment

I didn’t write yesterday. In all honesty I’ve found the last couple of days emotionally charged, and I cried three times during the day, before then shoulder-shaking sobbing my way through an old episode of BGT with Toby, to the point that my not always overly observant or empathetic 10 year old son looked at me in a confused way and said, ‘Mum, do you need a hug?’

I think I’ve just felt a bit overwhelmed by the hard stuff of life – and loss. The news stories. Baby Loss Awareness Week. Burns Awareness Day. Lockdowns and more lockdowns. And in National Adoption Week, when I want to tell people how special adoption is, I know that the truth is there’s no adoption without loss.

I read a post this week by a struggling adopter that talked about the #Youcanadopt campaign, and how, in their opinion, that shouldn’t be the focus. In their experience they felt the more appropriate question is should you adopt?

Now I don’t know their story, but the post made me sad. Maybe there should be more preparation in the training. Maybe people go into it naively. Maybe they had an image of family that was disappointing. It definitely sounds like they need more support.

I know our journey was atypical, but I’m grateful that we went into adoption with our eyes open. There are some questions that I haven’t answered yet, because they head into the harder side of fostering and adoption. Because it’s not all cute photos of smiley toddlers with blonde curls. But in the nature of authenticity, I want to be honest, so here goes.

Q: How did your older 3 find the start of fostering/adopting.

Here’s where the story gets a bit complicated, and certainly where we learned a lot about learning to say no! In a lot of ways I’ve interlinked fostering and adoption in these posts because our journey led from one into the other. But here is where it would be different if you went only into adoption. When we were approved to foster, it was for 0-3 year olds, although at the time, Toby was only 2. Our preference was to have placements younger than he was, and it should have been the fostering departments priority too. If you go into adoption with older siblings, there are much stricter requirements over age gaps between the older and younger adopted sibling. However, at the time, the fostering service was stretched beyond capacity, and we as brand new (naive) carers were asked to take a child older than our age range, ‘as an emergency placement’ (should be 72 hours, then a suitable placement would be found). Unfortunately after the 72 hours there was no-one able to take this little one, and we had him with us for several months.

I absolutely believe everything happens for a reason, and I’m really grateful we’ve got to see that child’s journey over the years. But in all honesty, it wasn’t great for them to be an only child placed in the middle of a birth sibling group, and it wasn’t easy for our children to feel the impact of his trauma. It was definitely a tough few months. The reality of the impact of all he lived through was heartbreaking. The guilt of finding it so difficult was overwhelming. The challenge of trying to support him whilst not letting our children be pushed aside was daunting. And the fear of questioning whether we’d made the wrong choice was humiliating.

But the fascinating part of it is that when we talk to our older children about it now, they don’t remember how hard it was when he was here, but how sad they were when he left. They love the fact we still catch up from time to time.

I read an excellent chapter in Krish Kandiah’s book ‘The Greatest Secret-How Being God’s Adopted Children Changes Everything.’ The book is a brilliant read on the theme of adoption that runs right through the Bible, and how that can impact us and our lives. The chapter that resonated with me was on Suffering. Krish has an adopted daughter, and after her adoption was legalised, his family continued to be foster carers. He talks about the fact that his daughter changed from being a fostered child to being a fostering child in a fostering family.

He says ‘Watching her and my other children suffer for the sake of others in the home has sometimes made my heart ache in pain for them, and sometimes swell with pride in them…watching my children grow in kindness and empathy and generosity not just despite their sacrifices, but because of them has helped me understand something of God’s promise to work all things for good for the sake of those who love him.’

Krish goes on to talk about the fact of suffering in every adoption story, the loss for birth families, the scars on and in children, the historical trauma through generations, and the way that trauma in turn impacts the adoptive family as they feel the effects too-an effect known as secondary trauma.

The truth is, of course our children have been affected by the life we’ve chosen. And there have been days when we’ve questioned whether it was fair to ask them to do it. But when we talk to the older two girls about it, they are able to honestly articulate the hard parts of fostering and adoption, whilst at the same time being adamant they want to do it themselves. (Actually one of them is continually asking us to do it again. Now. I always tell her to ask her father…).

Obviously the significant difference for Megan, Maisie and Toby when we were approved to adopt the younger three was the fact there would be no hard goodbye this time. And for that, they were thrilled. Their request with every little one we fostered was, ‘please can we keep them?!’ To which I’d always point out that that wasn’t my decision.

Q: Did you always foster with the intention of it leading to adoption?

Short answer – no. We certainly didn’t go into fostering with a hidden agenda, and social services would have been very cross if we had! One of the reasons we were aware of the risks of asking to be considered to adopt the little three was that social services really need to retain their foster carers, and are never that keen on them adopting as that generally signifies the loss of another foster carer.

However, we had a lot of friends who were adopters, so we could see the differences between taking children as foster placements, right at the beginning of the court process, fresh from trauma, and being their safe place until a long term plan is made, and the differing challenges of adoption, in being yet another move, in being there for the long term difficulties, of being the ones to be called Mummy and Daddy, and being able to assure them of this being family forever.

So when it came to the little 3 having a permanent plan being made for them which looked like they would be split up, that was the point when we started to question if we were the ones to offer them a home together, forever.

Q: How do you cope with the grief of letting foster children move on?

The truth is that when we started tentatively asking each other the question of ‘should we ask the question?’, we were still hurting from saying goodbye to other little ones. When people found out we were keeping these ones, they would comment things like, ‘oh did you just fall in love with these ones too much?’

Actually, we fell in love with all of them. Saying goodbye was never, ever easy. And considering them potentially staying but then maybe still having to leave was a far far scarier prospect by that stage.

I think the hardest thing in our early fostering years was the isolation from people’s incorrect assumptions, ignorance, and misunderstanding. And maybe that is why I feel so strongly about sharing our story, and raising awareness. Fostering is not ‘just a job’. Saying goodbye isn’t easy even though you know that’s the plan. To truly care well, you have to genuinely care. You can’t hold back a part of your heart to shield yourself from pain, because that’s the very part of your heart a broken little person needs to start healing.

In other parts of the UK, they offer ‘foster to adopt’, also called ‘concurrent care’, or ‘early permanency’. These are situations where foster carers will also be approved as adopters, and offered a placement which is highly likely to become an adoptive placement. The benefits of this are not primarily in adopters being able to have a baby placement, but in the risk of uncertainty being moved from the child to the adult. The adults have to be aware that, like us during our adoption assessment, they may have to say goodbye to this child. However the huge benefits of the child potentially being able to stay with minimum disruption and moves and further trauma far outweighs the risk. It is one of the things that really bothers me that this system isn’t offered in Wales, because I can see firsthand with Micah the huge benefits to a baby to be placed from birth and never having to move again.

So in terms of the ones we had to say goodbye to, and how we handled that grief? Obviously, we knew it was the likely outcome, and for most of them, seeing them transition to the right home definitely helped the sense of loss. By far the hardest was the one who we questioned the wisdom of the decision, and we ultimately lost touch with.

In practical terms, it helped me towards the end of the placement to create a photo book as a record for them and for us, of the time we’d spent together. It felt like fitting a piece in their jigsaw, to have the time documented, and to be able to see how much we’d invested in them. To feel that we’d done a job well. In the transition stage we tried to fit in a little goodbye tea for the friends and family who’d supported us and who would also be saying goodbye to a little one they’d fallen in love with. And we made some family time once they had moved to just be the five of us. Whether a holiday, or a camping trip, or just a day out, we took the opportunity to do something special together, and to celebrate our three in the role they’d played too.

We have been very lucky in moving several of them on to families who have kept in touch with us, and that is something we never take for granted. And obviously in adopting our younger three, life has got busier, and our commitment is to celebrating our family now.

But there are definitely still times we allow ourselves to grieve those losses. When we moved home, and cleared out boxes of baby girls clothes, it knocked us both sideways. Looking at outfits worn by three little ones we’d moved on, all the memories and love wrapped up in those clothes. There are still moments in church when I remember fondly the baby who would rock back and forth vigorously through every song. Or the little one who would lift her arms up to me and call me Mummy.

How do I cope with the grief? I think I’ve learned to accept it and allow myself to feel it. That in feeling all those feelings, I gave them everything I could to be able to attach well wherever they went. That they needed someone who would love them as their own and cry when they left, to be able to form their own healthy attachments and relationships in the future.

And, ultimately, I keep having to remember that all of the children I’ve opened my arms to are lent to me. They are not mine to objectify and hold on to. They are gifted to me to nurture, to love, to embrace with all I have for the time I have them. From the moment Megan arrived, she was nothing like I expected. She was a whole individual being of her own, whom I get the honour of guiding, of coming alongside, of being there, until she’s ready to fly. And the truth is I don’t know how that will look for any of my children, or how easy or hard or long that road might be. But it’s the biggest privilege I have, to be given the honour of being the one who gets to kiss the bumped knees, make the birthday cakes, write the emails, wipe the tears, listen to the fears, show up when it’s hard and prove that I’ll keep showing up however hard it is. Because they are chosen and precious and beautiful and I am the lucky one.