The Little Girl has returned to her mother. The system worked: she was removed from a potentially unsafe situation, placed in a loving home while things were being investigated, then returned post-haste.
We are sad that she's gone (sad for us) but happy (for her) as well.
I'm not sure that we will be short-term fostering again anytime soon, but I don't regret saying yes one little bit. I feel in my heart that the Lord is pleased with our willingness to be His hands.
A perfectly mundane, perfectly miraculous moment:
Oliver-- soft baby flesh naked but for a diaper--in my arms as I approached the top of the stairs. I'd just been at work on his horrendously chopped, beautiful hair, trying to begin the process of putting to rights what will someday be a head full of brown locks. The fly-away strands tickled my nose as he bobbed from side to side in my arms, trying to get a better view of the massive dog that is somehow always underfoot these days. I glanced down to get a glimpse of his delight at seeing the dog. Just then, he flicked his eyes up at me. And there we were, grinning at each other. A long second and then ... a huge grin spread across his face, and he began his manic happy baby dance. Arms flailing, feet kicking, knees bump-bumping my sides. His hands grabbed around my neck and he burrowed his face into my collarbone, still wiggling ecstatically.
My heart almost burst. It was the almost-painful moment I can clearly remember with each of my bio kids--the absolute second that I felt like this baby was mine, and that to be without him or her in my life would be like deciding to try to live without air.
I am head over heels in love.
School? What school?
I am probably certifiably crazy. Either that, or I really am finally listening to the small, still voice that tells me I can do a lot more in the name of Christ.
It looks about the same to the outside world.
Anyway, I woke up this morning with absolutely no intention of doing anything outside of the status quo. You know--a social worker visit, some school work, a little Baby Signing with Oliver, watching a movie with my kiddos. My husband is out of town this week, so we're on a relaxed version of the normal routine, which is a relaxed version of a routine to start with.
Then the phone rang, and there was nothing I could do but say yes. Say yes to what? To a little three year old girl who had just witnessed an INS raid that left all the adults in her world in handcuffs and on their way to the US/Mexico border. She arrived in the CPS office at 9 a.m. this morning, speaking not a word of English. She's probably a short-term foster--not the foster-adopt we signed on for. Just a little one in need--dire need--for a few days or weeks. Could we help?
Could we help? I have an empty bed sitting in Jo's room, know enough Spanish to get by, and have cupboards full of food. Can I do something to make this terrible time a little better for a child?
As if I could say no.
Today in our Sonlight read-aloud, I choked up. This happens fairly often, but the topic today hit my heart like a hammer. A little girl in the Great Depression is told by a young hobo that her house bears a mark labeling it drifter-friendly. Go here, the mark says, if you want some food or need a little help. The girl finds the mark--written in chalk--on the side of her house. She points it out to her father and tells him what it means.
Keep in mind that this was during desperate economic times. And that these were transients coming to the door, passing through with no ties. Could be good guys, could be bad. The father in this story could have gone around and gotten his garden house and sprayed the chalk off of his house. He could have told his wife to quit giving sandwiches to every beggar that came to the back door. He could have put up a no trespassing sign.
But this man got a bucket of white paint, and he made sure that the mark on his house was permanent.
That brought tears to my eyes. This man opened his eyes to the needs around him, and he said yes. Use me, Lord. Use the gifts you've given me, use the resources you've put at my disposal. Yes.
I got the phone call about the little girl about four hours after reading that passage. It was still fresh in my mind. The minute I heard the situation, I pictured a wiry, Italian father scraping by as best he could hefting a bucket of paint and heading for the side of his modest house in a not-so-great neighborhood. If he could say yes to a dirty, ragged drifter at his back door, how can I say no to a skinny, brown-skinned little one sitting alone in a CPS office?
So tonight, five children are sleeping under this roof. Three have known nothing but love and comfort from the moment of their birth, and even before. One was severely neglected and is learning what it is to be smiled at just because. And another is an absolute unknown.
She needed a place to be safe, and we can at the very least give her that. I am thanking God tonight for the riches of macaroni and cheese and beds and pillows and a glut of teddy bears that can make wide-eyed little ones smile. Our Father has given us so much.
I may be crazy, but I don't think so. I think what I really am is blessed.
Whoever welcomes one of these little children in my name welcomes me; and whoever welcomes me does not welcome me but the one who sent me. Mark 9:37
Life here has taken on a fairly consistent rhythm that it seems we can all dance to. Granted, the steps are nowhere near as smooth as they were prior to adding Oliver to the mix, but the overall effect is definitely more fun when you're trying not to step on a 15 month-old's chubby baby fingers.
Mornings--never my strongest suit when it comes to staying on task--revolve around trying to get everyone up and running. Dh is out the door before we're all awake most days. Oliver wants breakfast about two seconds after he rolls out of his crib, so that pretty much puts the squash on any kind of full-court breakfast press. The days of omelets and from-scratch pancakes are hereby suspended on weekdays until further notice. I've gotten a bit more on the ball since I began to feel more like myself physically and am now remembering to double and triple batches of baked goods and such to stick in the freezer for easy morning meals. This is a very good thing, Jo tells me, because if she has to eat anymore organic instant oatmeal
she will turn into a rolled oat. And probably not an organic one, much to my dismay.
After breakfast, we switch gears and turn our attention to getting the house running. Jo and Atticus work together to empty the dishwasher while Logan clears the table and then feeds the massive wondermutt that is our dog. Oliver clings to my hip like a monkey while I start the morning's laundry and sweep the downstairs to make it fit for his little pink hands and knees. That's where my handy-dandy ergo baby carrier comes in, uh ... handy.
Oliver is a happy hip rider during this time, which is a very good thing, since I'm pretty certain that with all the commotion that ensues at this hour, he'd be stepped on by a well-meaning but clueless dog or brother or two.
During those pesky hygiene chores (wash up, get dressed, brush teeth, brush hair, make beds, etc.), Oliver entertains himself quite nicely either in his crib or in the playpen that he uses to nap in. This is an entirely new sensation for me--a baby that is content with me out of sight for a full ten minutes? Whoa! None of my bio kids could stand to take their eyes or their hands off of me until they were roughly two years old, and even then, it was hit or miss. By contrast, Oliver seems relieved by the down-time he gets when he plays alone. When I go in to pick him up after I'm fully dressed and sweet-smelling, he greets me with a big, mostly toothless grin and usually offers up whatever toy he has in his hands as a hello. Of course, I usually have to wait in line to get near him, because the bigger kids are faster than I am at throwing on clothes and grooming, and they use their free time to cluster around the baby and giggle and goo at him.
Then it's time for school. This has been a bit of a challenge to coordinate, but I think we're getting the hang of it. Oliver is sometimes thrilled to be given free reign of the downstairs toys while we work at the kitchen table. Other times, he wants a playmate, and we alternate the older children with him while I work with the other two kids. And occasionally, he wants to sit in his booster chair and feel like part of the action by eating crayons and slamming them on paper from time to time.
Our school schedule has been dramatically reduced these past few weeks. I am admittedly bare bones-ing it while we acclimate to having a baby around. So far, I think I'm still covering all the bases. I do feel a bit like I'm selling the older kids short, but they are not complaining. I've fallen down on the job of gathering additional resources, and I know that I am going to have to carve time out of my day for that. I just don't know when yet.
Lunch is next on the agenda. Jo helps out with that a lot, if she's done with her work. Logan usually plays with Oliver while we're preparing food, and Atticus sets the table. I'm eyeing a Costco-sized batch of paper plates to cut down on this job and the clean-up duties, though. I know it's terrible for the environment. I know it. But ... how many times a day can I run my dishwasher??? And: is that any better for the planet, I ask you?
Oliver gets a bottle just after lunch. I rock him and read a Sonlight read-aloud to the older kids while they color. This is a really nice, quiet time. I find myself looking forward to it each day. A baby in my arms, a book in hand, and children splayed on the rug around me ... it's almost painfully perfect. I feel so full and happy in that hour or so of time that I find myself reading just one more chapter, then another. It's an absolute blessing balm to my day.
Nap/rest time is still immediately following lunch and reading. Oliver naps until about 2:30 p.m. The big kids read until about that same time, and I sneak in some writing time. Again, a blessing in my day that I am so grateful to have.
After nap, Oliver needs a snack, and the older kids need some wide-open play time. They have been retreating to their rooms, or to the game room where they have set up a massive Lego structure based on The Great Wheel. They don't have enough curved pieces to build a full wheel, though, so I have a feeling that the Empire State Building might be on its way soon.
We come back together around four or so. On sunny days, we've taken walks. Atticus' baseball practice is two nights a week, and AWANA is one other evening, so occasionally we need an early dinner. The kids--all four of them--play and listen to a book on CD while I cook. Sometimes Jo joins me in the kitchen, but often she's enjoying the role of Little Mommy so much that she can't be pulled away.
After dinner, it's bath and stories and bed and ...
quiet.
Life is so good.
The ten million dollar question--
What's been going on with me?
I debated about how much to share, and decided in the end that God gets absolutely no glory out of my silence, so here goes:
A few days before Oliver arrived home for good, I found out that I was pregnant. Long-time readers know that a) that was a totally random, yet very wished-for blessing and b) that opens the door to a whole lot of roller-coaster emotions due to my history of m/c. Because of that history, I immediately went for a blood draw to have my hcG levels checked and sure enough, they were in the low range. I had my second blood draw (to see if they were doubling) the day Jo had her tonsils out. How convenient, as I just so happened to be at the hospital that day. 
The results of those numbers were not good, either. Low range of normal, but still rising. Not doubling, though.
Last Monday, I began spotting. I had an u/s and saw a healthy, but small, sac and no baby, despite the fact that I was supposed to be around 7-8 weeks. That began a rough week where I would spot, then stop, cramp, then stop, spot some more ... and all the while, the numbers seem to still be creeping up. So there was still hope, in other words.
Finally, late Saturday night, I started to miscarry in earnest. I am going to be brutally honest and say that in a strange way it was almost a relief--I was praying fervently for something ... for the bleeding to stop and the baby to be o.k., or for it to all be over. I think I was nearing the end of my rope emotionally, and God answered in His perfect timing.
My husband has gone above and beyond over the course of these past 10 days. My precious Jo--who was never let in on what was going on as a way of sparing her further hurt--has been such a helper, such a blessing that it brings tears to my eyes. I am honored to be her mother. And of course, being able to lay my eyes on the four children the Lord has given me here on earth was immense comfort as I waited for another one to be received by Jesus.
God has been so good to us throughout this whole sad process. I have felt His hand in the tiny details (like a random opening for an u/s, and a meal delivered "just because" by an acquaintance) and the big ones, too. While anyone who has BTDT can attest that miscarrying is never anything short of a painful loss that brings you to your knees, I am awed to say that not only was the Lord there the whole time, but He made sure that I felt His strong arms at every moment.
I may or may not be up to normal blogging as I return to the world of the living. Thank you for your prayers and patience.
Due to personal health issues, I'm taking a short hiatus. Feel free to email me at this blog's name at gmail
