All Fall Down - saying good bye to baby, home and dignity

As I lay sprawled on the floor of the subway car, my rapidly bruising knees straddling one suitcase as I desperately grabbed for another, I looked up and saw the faces of my fellow passengers. Startled. Pitying. Unfazed. No one reached to help, of course. This is New York City and as an adult I was expected to be able to ride a subway without falling down, for chrissakes. Even the drunk and staggering homeless guy who had recently struck up his pitch for donations in the middle of the car was still upright.
"Ah." I thought. "It's come to this."
It was the perfect euphemism for my life last week. Try as I might to hold it together, to act like a grownup, to care for my children and get on with things, I find myself, still, with the wind knocked out of me on occasion.
Evie, of course, was the hardest hit. Taken to a new foster home, all while I received a heart-wrenching series of emails telling me alternately that they were "sooo sorry" to do it and then putting more responsibilities for communicating her needs to her future caregivers on my shoulders. And then, in the very next missive, informing me that I shouldn't be upset. Shouldn't care so much. That I was all wrong in my approach to fostering. That I should be wrapping her in my blessings instead of wrapping my arms around myself and rocking silently on the sofa.
And then I found myself in the after hours clinic, with my pants around my ankles getting injections in my, well, let's say hip, because the hours of sobbing and rocking on top of the lingering cough from last week's cold had led to a migraine of soul-crushing proportions, just when I thought my soul had taken all it could bear.
The next morning dawned with just a shadow of the migraine, and a few hours to pack for a two month sojourn to the mainland. I had timed it this way on purpose, thinking that after Evie was taken I would busy myself with packing and readying the house. I had not anticipated the emails and the heartwrenching and the consequences of such. So I worked in a flurry of bed sheets and laundry and scrub brushes and toothbrushes and counting pairs of underwear and socks, trying to fit everything in - into the time and space I had available, neither of which seemed sufficient.
And through all of it was Sam and the kids. Sam took us to the airport early, bidding us an enthusiastic farewell as we shuffled into the agriculture inspection line, waving weakly as he drove away. The kids stayed by my side, as we made out way through, ag and security, the Starbucks line and the Pinkberry line, the line to get on the plane and off, and back on. The ten hour flight from Honolulu to JFK was uneventful. I sniffled and coughed and drank codeine laced cough syrup straight from the bottle and patted Lucy clumsily on the head while Max fetched me endless cups of tea and our seatmate watched nervously.
In New York, we climbed into a cab fresh off the red-eye, with little sleep and even less energy. My brother met us on the sidewalk, also sleepless and bleary. We ate, and then we lay down, all three of us sprawled across the futon in the deep sleep of the terribly sleep deprived. I can tell you with certainty that I slept with the hope that I would awake feeling refreshed and less in need of my cough syrup, because if I kept drinking that shit I was going to give people the wrong impression.
And now here I was two days later, lying on the floor of a subway car with my skirt around my hips and my children looking on in horror. So much for fresh starts and good impressions.
But really. It was fine. I climbed up, brushed myself off, and carried on.
It's what I do best, after all.
And when we got off the train in Connecticut, and began to settle in, I thought that maybe, just maybe, everything would settle down. My health, my emotional state, my sleeping habits.
Which is why it was so startling to find myself on the side of the road at 11pm, an empty solo cup in my cup holder, and a half empty solo cup in my hand, explaining to the police office that I had not been drinking anything - not even cough syrup - as I squinted in the flashing red and blue lights that were blinding me in the rear view mirror.
I pleaded my case, explained that I was sober - had been for 6 months now - and the cups held nothing but club soda. I clarified that I was shaking because I was freezing cold and scared shitless, that I had not been pulled over in at least 20 years. That I had paid that parking ticket I got last summer.
Crowds of people who had also been at the gala walked by. Tux jackets flung over shoulders, high heels in hand, they padded by barefoot - quieting as they neared us, watching me sympathetically in the glow of their neon necklaces.
"Ah," I thought to myself. "It's come to this."

The Baby I'm Leaving Behind

This is the last night that Evie will curl up in my arms, her head nestled in the crook of my left elbow, her right hand clutching the underside of my left breast and pressing it to her cheek for dear life, while her left hand tugs at my right bra strap.

If I remember to put on a bra, that is.

As she burps loudly, she falls into a deeper sleep, and I begin to worry.

Will they read the letter I tuck in the diaper bag with all the little details about this precious baby?
Will they remember that she sleeps on her side due to her unfortunate habit of projectile vomiting?
Will they care that she prefers the "forest" setting of the sound machine?
Will they buy Huggies because the other diapers gave her a terrible rash?
Will they use the all-natural cornstarch baby powder I pack for her?
Will they dress her in ugly clothes or will they use the cute things I carefully washed and folded in her bag yesterday?
Will they let her sleep on her favorite blanket, with her stuffed toy that smells like me because I've had it on my pillow for 3 days?

Where will she sleep? Where will she be? Will it be calm and peaceful? Will they love her like I do? How long will she be there?
WHAT IS GOING TO HAPPEN?

All of these thoughts race around in my mind, jostling for space with the other more rational thoughts like "this isn't your baby" and "you didn't really want to be on a 10 hour plane ride with a teething 7 week old who has a stuffy nose and poops her diaper all day long".

She looks delicate, but her poop explosions are legendary.

Because she's not my baby, and I look forward to taking a Tylenol PM and sleeping for at least 9 hours of that 10 hour flight. I do.

My conflict at this point is not about "caring too much" or "getting attached" because as I have mentioned, foster parents HAVE to care and children need to feel attached.

My conflict is that I feel guilty. Sarah tells me that she will not have this conversation with me - that my feeling guilty is absolutely ridiculous and that I have done nothing wrong. She worries too, says that I cannot continue to foster if it is going to crush me to part with these babies. And she is right. If I felt this way every time, if I felt helpless and powerless, if I felt like I was a part of something that was detrimental to a child, I wouldn't foster. But I have never felt like this before. I have been all manner of annoyed, angry, frustrated, tired, fed up, disgusted horrified and bewildered. But I have never once felt that I was doing less than the very best for the child in my care.

I don't feel that now. I feel as though I am abandoning Evie. I feel as though I am not following through on my commitment as her parent - the only custodial parent she has at the moment.

I am leaving, flying to New York with Max and Lucy for the summer, as we do every year. And I am not taking Evie with me.

I wanted to.
I asked, and then I pleaded.
I wrote emails and made phone calls, all for naught.

She is going to go live with a new foster family - strangers - for some unknown period of time, and then she will be moved to live with other strangers - ones to whom she has a biological connection but has only spent 3 or 4 hours with in an office downtown a month ago. She may stay with them forever, or not. She may eventually have a relationship with her biological mother, or not. They may eventually figure out who her father is, or not. The only thing that I know for sure is that she won't be with us.

This doesn't feel right, to me. I feel like children should be offered as much continuity as possible. Infants operate almost entirely on the most basic senses - the smell, the touch, the sound of their parent is what bonds them together. So tomorrow night, when someone else is tucking her in, I worry that her very little soul will wonder where her mother is. Who her mother is.

And if she is ever going home.

This is the first time we have found ourselves in our current situation - having a baby moved from our home to a new foster home - and I do not like it one little bit. I have thought a lot about the particulars, about how I came to be in this place at this time, and why it hurts so much. And it is because Evie is not going to her mother, or even her family, or a forever home. She is being shuffled around to another foster home because I am leaving. That is the bottom line. And I can't live with it. So. How do I make sure it never happens again, this terrible thing that feels so painfully wrong?

After a lot of contemplation, I have decided that if I am ever asked to take a case and if I know that I cannot make a long term commitment, then I will not accept the placement. Period. I cannot do it. I have found my line. I have to see each case through to the end.

I cannot do this to another child.
I cannot do this to my family.
I cannot do this to my heart.

Sleep well, my sweet Evie. Stay safe, my little one. Be loved, my darling girl.