Fostering heartbreak – a judge decides I’m no longer a parent

JUST like that, a judge has decided I’m no longer a parent. I hadn’t done anything wrong, and perhaps that’s the part my Type A personality can’t quite come to terms with. It’s just that I’m a foster parent and the judge decided one day that Mom was now capable of giving the minimum acceptable level of care. With a signature on some paperwork, my services were no longer needed.

My husband and I knew when we decided to become fost-adopt parents that this day could come. But after 16 months of tucking these three sisters in each night, it’s hard not to think of them as ours; it’s hard to comprehend that at 7.30 am, my husband was blissfully combing their hair, and by 5.30 pm, we had put them in Mom’s car and said goodbye. The most disconcerting part was being unable to offer any reassurances; I don’t know if they will see us again; I don’t know if everything will be okay.

Foster parent regulations prevent me from using the children’s names in public ways, so I have come to refer to them by the age they were when they were placed with us: the Toddler, the Infant and the Newborn. Those names are now so wholly inadequate. Sixteen months is a long time, and it’s an especially grand stretch with kids so young. The Toddler is starting to read and write; she talks about studying dinosaurs in college. The Newborn can now walk and speak.

The law prescribes a precise timeline children can stay in foster care before they must be released for adoption. We were approaching that time and I won’t say our hopes were up, but the decision certainly blindsided us even though we knew - and were happy - that Mom was making good progress. The case had stalled in clogged courts and had been continued 12 times. We’d reached a point of equilibrium, a point where we just expected another continuance.

Instead, we got our hearts broken.

In the parlance of the foster world, my husband and I are known as “stranger care” because we’re not related to or previously known by the birth family. It’s an odd term, even in context. Certainly, the girls don’t think of us that way. The Infant routinely slumped against the curve of my body in relief when I picked her up after one of her many nightmares. For the Newborn, who cooed with glee each time she saw us, we were the ones she trusted to clothe and feed her.

As foster parents, time was compressed in ways that are unimaginable to “normal” families. We picked up the Toddler and Infant less than 24 hours after receiving the call that they needed to be placed. A good chunk of that 24 hours was spent trying to get out of the parking lot of a Babies R Us. It was just three days before Christmas and we normally wouldn’t allow ourselves to get stuck in the holiday shopping rush, but we needed a crib and car seats.

We were only certified to have two children in our home, so when Mom gave birth again, we thought the Newborn would be going elsewhere. Instead, less than two hours after the county decided to detain her, we received a waiver to have three children in one bedroom. I frantically ordered supplies on Amazon, making my choices based on what was available for same- day delivery.

Time was equally compressed for the girls’ exit. We received a “heads up” call at 11.15 am that the court was going to do this. The decision was made official at 3.50 pm and we were expected to have the girls at the county office, possessions in hand, by 4.30.

It’s funny the things you think of as something like this unfolds. I was annoyed that I had ordered diapers that morning and was now past the cutoff to cancel. I was frustrated because I’d been sick the past week and had been skipping our nightly ritual of a dance before bedtime. I wondered who would drink all the milk in the fridge. And then there was the guilt. I’d been wishing for a break, for one night of decent sleep. Was this the classic “Be careful what you wish for” scenario?

We’d prepped the girls that this day might come, but when we explained that it was now happening, their emotions were just as mixed as ours. After we told them, we didn’t know how to spend the time waiting for the official call to come. My husband later said it was like breaking up with someone but still being on a train with them. In this respect, the compressed time was merciful. — WP-Bloomberg