The ups and downs of foster care and adoption

“I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.”  John 16:33

 Recently, I got two of my essay's put into a book.  The lady who put the book together told me that a man in the writing class she attends approached her and her sister and asked them if they would put together a book by adoptive moms about the trials of adoption.  He wanted this because so many people who want to adopt but haven't yet only focus on the sweetness of the new baby, without ever comprehending the trials that often go along with adoption of any sort: domestic, international or foster.
Then I began to notice that several blogs I follow and links on facebook were about the trials of foster care and adoption.
I love facebook.  I have renewed a lot of old friendships on there, have kept up with my grandkids and even my own children I don't see often and have made new friends.  One of my missions on facebook is to help other moms realize that children are truly kind of fun.  Sometimes when we are in the midst of it all, we don't realize that.  But I am older and have raised several children to adulthood and watched them move off away from me, and I realize how terribly quickly it all goes by.  I don't want anyone to miss just enjoying their children before they aren't children anymore.

Another mission is to encourage people to foster and adopt children in the foster care system.  In doing that, I am afraid most of the time I only write about the funny and sweet stuff.  And maybe that's not fair, because along with the sweetness, it can be HARD!  It can be scary, and it can make you cry a lot.
So, with fairness in mind, I thought I would write a blog, exploring both the pros and cons, so that in encouraging you to consider this mighty work with God, I won't leave you with the impression that it's all - as the song goes and I age myself - "sunshine, lollipops and rainbows."  It's a hard, messy, tear stained, hurtful, scary, wonderful, happy, awe inspiring, loving and fulfilling experience.

So I am going to list some things, both good and bad, that have happened to me in doing foster care and foster adoptions.  I have actually had it pretty good, considering what some of my friends, both in real life and online have gone through.  I don't regret it one bit, although there are many things I will be just glad NOT to do over again.  And other things that still make me tear up because they were so beautiful.  Some of these things are experiences with children I have gone on to adopt, others are experiences with children who went on to be reunited with their families, or adopted by someone else. 

I will start with the cons.  These are only a small handful of things that I have actually gone through on this journey:

falling in love with a sibling group, only to watch two of them go back to their mother, a situation that no one but the main worker thought was a good idea and, years later, that fear was an actuality.

desperately wanting to adopt the baby of that sibling group, a baby who we were attached too and who was attached to us, only to have one social worker who should NOT have had anything to do with it fight us every step of the way.

and after that child was awarded to us by a judge, and we were going through the six month period before we could finalize his adoption, having that social worker tell me, "I can still remove this child if there is a serious incident."  And realizing she was watching, and had the power to decide what the serious incident could be.

fallling in love with a little boy I cared for from birth to seven months of age so desperately in the days when foster parents were not allowed to adopt their foster children, and watching him leave for an adoptive home.  And never knowing again what happened to him.

and many years later, falling in love with another foster baby I had from six months to twenty six months of age, and wondering if I would EVER be whole again when she was reunited with her extended family in another state.  The grief I felt had to be akin to a death.

standing in a court room while the father of the above baby accused me of sexually abusing her.  Sitting there in my long dress and headcovering, not allowed to say a word, just having to sit and listen and be ordered to take her to the doctor to have it checked out.  And she wasn't abused, the doctor determined, but by the time the exam was over, I almost felt like she had been...

having the same daddy scream and scream right in my face over a bruise on the baby until the social worker who tried to keep Luke from us hotlined me herself, and I had to be investigated.  Again, I was cleared.  But that was hard!

having a social worker call me and warn me NOT to bring baby to visits because daddy has gone crazy and they don't know what's going to happen.

having a social worker call me on a different day and tell me to meet them several blocks away and they will bring baby to me because daddy has gone crazy and they are afraid for my safety if I come to pick the child up.

having my 15 year old son tell me he doesn't care what I say as I am parked a few blocks away waiting for the social worker to bring baby, he will NOT lay down in the back seat if daddy shows up, but instead will fight to the death to protect me.

having a four year old I am in the process of adopting stand at my feet and declare "you will NEVER be my mommy!!"  "I will NEVER love you!"  "I only love my other mommy!"

trying to explain to a two year old that he's going back home to "mommy", who he has rarely seen in the past seven months, and doesn't really remember and only knew "me" has mommy. And watching him walk out the door with a social worker, then suddenly turn back and run to me, and I cupped his little face in my hands and assured him "it's okay" even though I wasn't sure it was, before he went on down the walk.

realizing my newly adopted two year old has a serious problem with rages so bad even my big 16 year old son can't control him.

having an adoption agency call me and ask me to adopt that same little girl I wanted to adopt seven years ago, the sister of my first adopted child and to take her little sister along with her, and I say yes and go through all the classes and spend the money I need to spend in order to get re licensed, and get accepted by the adoption agency, only to have the rug jerked out from under me when it was taken to CPS, who decided I couldn't have the girls after all because I am "too religious."

to have a child lay cuddled in my arms in bed while she describes the things that have been done to her.  And to later tell me things that she has seen.

to have people who don't understand what this is all about get mad and say things to me that hurt deeply, and make me cry.

to have to leave the church I love and moved to be with because they don't understand what I am doing and won't accept it.


Those are a few on the cons.  Now on to the happier pros!!

watching over the years as God gave me six sons to replace that foster baby twenty years ago that I loved and had to give back.

hearing a judge say "I move that the Raley's be allowed to adopt the minor child" when I went to a court parental termination hearing (after the social worker who was fighting us went on leave for a short time) praying only for hope that the baby won't be given to someone else.

leaving that same court hearing and looking up to see a church sign that declares "My peace I give you.  John 14:27" and feeling like God had just reached down and patted me on the head and said, "See?  I told you he was yours all along!"

seeing the children from that first sibling group I wanted to adopt seven years before, and watching the older girl sob as she hugged the little brother she had forgotten she had.

to have the child who stood at my feet and declared she would never love me, put her arms around me and tell me she DOES love me after all.  And she just didn't understand back then.  And I am her ONLY mommy.

to watch the little boy with rages come under control with diet and turn into the sweetest, most beautiful child who only has problems very rarely.

to have the mommy of the foster baby whose daddy was such a nightmare to work with friend me on facebook because "you were always so good" to her daughter.

to watch later as that same mommy regains custody of her daughter and see in pictures that the little girl looks happier than she has ever looked in the pictures I've seen of her over the years.  Her eyes no longer look so sad.

to have the adoption agency call me when the adoption of my sons sisters fails, and tell me "we try not to drop the ball, but we really did in this case.  Your family is the only stable influence in these girls lives.  Are you still interested in adopting them?"

hearing that my little daughter, on her last day of public school before she was adopted, when asked by her teacher to tell the class what "adoption" means, replied, "Adoption means you stay, and you never have to leave again."

hearing the little sister of this sibling group ask me over and over after her adoption, "I'm just one of your regular kids now, right?"  and "You won't forget I'm adopted tomorrow, will you?"  yes, you are, and no I won't!

To have the 16 year old tell her sister this is the first place she has ever lived where she felt safe.

There's so much more I could write on both pros and cons.  This is just a little bit.  I have learned that anything worth having is usually hard.  Pregnancy is hard.  Giving birth is terribly hard.  Fostering is hard.  Adoption is hard.  But in the end, the things you work the hardest on are usually the best things in life.  You don't appreciate something you don't put effort into getting near as much as you appreciate things you brought forth in blood, sweat, tears and anguish.   Like the Bible says in Psalms 126:5, I have sown in tears with all my children and still do, but I am reaping with songs of joy.

And sometimes, I even think of the oldies songs of my youth when I think about my life!!


My life is sunshine, lollipops and rainbows
That's how this refrain goes.
So come on Join In. Everybody.
Sunshine, lollipops and rainbows
Everything that's wonderful is sure to come your way
When your in love to stay.

All but two of my children and all of my grandchildren on Easter 2013

On being a foster parent: when accusations come

I wrote this article on June 26,2010, I thought I would reprint it on my blog today:

Being a foster parent is a fulfilling job, but there are risks involved. Separating a parent and child is a serious thing, and most parents react violently to having their child removed. Once the shock wears off, the parents will sometimes come to the realization that they are going to have to work with the state to fix what ever caused the removal, although it's still a volatile thing and parents can be quick to accuse the state of anything they can think of.
As a foster parent, I am usually able to have a good relationship with the parents of the children I care for. They soon realize I had nothing to do with their child being removed; I am just the lady hired to care for the child while they are going through this hard time. I do what I can to give the parents peace of mind. If they seem stable enough, I will usually give them my cell phone number so they can call me and check up on the child, or just talk. I enjoy the mentoring part of my job.
But once in a while there will be parents who are just angry. Usually those are the ones whose anger problem is why they are in this situation. Maybe they abused the child, or maybe they tore their family apart because they abused themselves and each other. Whatever the case may be, these parents are out to get everyone, including the foster parent.
I took care of a lovable little girl for twenty months who had parents like this. We called her MiMi. I loved MiMi immensely, but her father gave me trouble the whole time she was in my care. In fact, I was finally investigated myself because of accusations he made.
It began at court. I always attend the court hearings for my foster children. It gives me the opportunity to talk to the child's caseworkers, CASA workers and attorney. They hand me copies of their reports. I can listen to what is said to the judge by everyone involved. By the time I leave, I know where everything stands in my foster child's case, and what still needs to be done in order for the parents to have their child returned to them.
One hearing, while we waited for the judge, I could see MiMi's father talking angrily to his attorney and hand him a paper. The attorney glanced at me, looked embarrassed, and walked over to the CASA worker, showing her paper. The CASA worker soon came over to me. "Has MiMi had a bad diaper rash recently? Or a yeast infection?" She asked.
"Yes, she has. I showed it to the doctor at our last check up. I suspect it's because she has been taken off formula and put on whole milk, and also, she had some pineapple juice that she hadn't had before." I answered.
"Oh, you've had her at the doctor recently?" She asked.
"Oh, yes, just this month." I replied.
The CASA worker visibly relaxed.
I soon discovered what was up. MiMi's father had a letter from her mother, who was in jail. He had told her about MiMi's bad rash, and she wrote a letter to the court accusing me of abuse. She even had a letter from a "doctor" who had never seen MiMi, who said that the only way a child would develop a yeast infection was if they had been abused. I was horrified that anyone would think I had hurt this precious little girl.
The CASA worker stood up for me, telling the judge I was a good, experienced foster mother. The state's attorney showed the father that I had had MiMi at the doctor just within a day or so of his accusation. The father began to back track and try to change the dates. The judge finally ordered that I take MiMi to the doctor, along with the mother's letter, within the next 48 hours and have her examined.
I called my pediatrician when I got home, and made an appointment for the next day.
Although MiMi had not been abused before, I felt like she was by the time she had been examined. Although the doctor's examine was gentle and careful, I hated that she had to be put through that. The doctor confirmed she had not been abused, and agreed it was probably the milk causing her rash. He said yeast infections were so common in babies; they actually had a medicine for it. He gave me a prescription for the rash and also for the eczema and croup MiMi was prone too. The medicine and advice worked wonders, I was especially careful, and we didn't have problems after that.
But the embarrassment of being accused of such a serious charge made me overly cautious around MiMi's father, and caused me to make a mistake a few months later.
One morning, the day before MiMi had a visit with her father, I noticed a bruise that almost encircled her tiny forearm, and looked just like a grab mark. I knew I had not grabbed MiMi, and because she was always with me, I knew no one else had, either. She did, however, have a terrible sensory disorder, and often threw herself around while having tantrums.
Oh, how I dreaded the next day. If her father would accuse me of abuse over the toddlers diaper rash, what was he going to say about this bruise? My stomach clenched as their visit grew closer. As I dressed her the next day, I decided to cover some mosquito bites with little band aids, and put one over the bruise, too. I couldn't stand the thought of the confrontation he and I would have if he saw the bruise.
As I lifted her from the car at the CPS office, I considered taking the band aids off. I had not hurt MiMi, why did I feel like I had to hide anything? I struggled with indecision, and then decided to leave the band aids where they were. I took her into the office, handed her to her father under the supervisor's watchful eye, and as they went back to the visit room, I asked to see her caseworker. When she came out, I told her about the bruise and the band aids. I was glad I did.
Two hours later, I returned to pick her up and was ushered back to the visit room. Her father was throwing a fit. I saw right away he had taken off the band aids. He threw them at my feet as he screamed at me about covering up the bruise. I told him I was scared of him because of what he had done in court. I said I didn't expect him to be reasonable, and certainly he was not being reasonable. The caseworker nodded her agreement. My own worker quickly took the children into another room. I found out later she had quizzed my ten year old daughter while they were alone.
MiMi's father calmed down some after I talked to him, but he was not happy. After he left, I went to the room where the children were. MiMi ran into my arms, settling her head comfortably on my shoulder with her arms around my neck. I took another child's hand and we started out the door, with a caseworker on each side, studying MiMi's reaction to me. It was one of complete love and trust.
That night I received a call from my worker. She had decided to open an investigation. I could expect a visit very soon.
I was horrified. I had opened my home to these children and now "I" was being investigated? Was I in danger of losing my own children because I was a foster parent? How could the state do this to me? Weren't we supposed to be working together?
I considered telling them to come get the children and close my home. But when I calmed down, I knew I wasn't going to do that. I was committed to seeing these children through this awful time. In fact, the parental rights of our other foster daughter had been terminated, and we were planning on adopting her.
I knew, too, that sending the children away and closing our home wouldn't stop the investigation. Feeling helpless, I would just carry on and wait for the investigator.
The next two days were hard for me. I was so stressed it was hard for me to function. Being on the other end of Child Protective Services was a scary thing.
I settled into prayer, and asked God for peace every time I felt overwhelmed. And suddenly, it came. I had not hurt MiMi and I knew God would be faithful to keep us all safe. I calmed down enough that I began to almost forget what was coming.
It must have been a low priority, because was six days before the investigator came out.
But finally, there was a knock on my door, and I could see the shadow of a woman with a clipboard in her hand. She was nice and friendly and put me right at ease. She opened her notebook and began to ask me questions. She looked MiMi over. We talked.
Then, MiMi got mad. She wanted the rocking chair my son was in. When he wouldn't get up, she went into a full blown melt down. She screamed and thrashed and wouldn't be comforted. The investigator watched as I tried to talk to MiMi, who wasn't responding.
"Does she do this often?" The investigator asked.
"Well, she has a sensory disorder." I replied.
"Yes, that's in her records." The investigator said, looking at her notes.
"But she's really a sweet child when she's calm." I said, defending her. "She is a wonderful little girl and she doesn't always do this."
The investigator smiled at me. "I'm trying to establish another way she may have gotten the bruise." She said
."Yes," I said, feeling foolish. "She is prone to tantrums just like this."
The investigator soon closed her notebook, thanked me for my time, and got up to leave. Nervously, I asked her, "Did you find anything that concerns you?"
"No," She replied. "This case is closed. You will be getting a letter in a week or so. I am satisfied that everything is alright."
I closed the door, feeling a bit weak. God had been faithful and gotten us through this. I was so glad I hadn't done anything rash when my emotions were running so high.
We had MiMi for another five months after the investigation. Her parents lost their rights, and another relative did a homestudy and got custody of her. I miss her so much. I learned a lot from my experience with her family, and I hope I did them some good.
And I still love being a foster mother.

Temporary Motherhood: a foster mother's perspective

My husband, Bill and I have been foster parents to more than fifty children over our 36 year marriage, and have adopted three children from the state foster care system in the last three years, adding to our biological children for a total of ten children. Most of those fifty foster children lived with us while we were foster parents for the state of Oklahoma a little more than twenty years ago. During those years, foster parents could not adopt except under special circumstances, and adoptive parents could not foster. Foster parents were also not allowed to meet the parents of their foster children. Many times I was quickly ushered through a back door to keep it from happening.
Then, after moving back home to Texas, we fostered two newborn babies whose mothers were in prison, meeting one of them through a prison chaplain, and another one through my oldest daughter. I was able to write letters and send pictures to both of those mothers.

Life went on as my own family increased. I gave birth to my seventh child when I was 42 years old. I was content and happy.
About the time I turned fifty, however, my oldest daughter and her husband became a group foster home, and I met a family of children that sparked my interest, and soon my husband and I began the process to become licensed. The state had come to realize it was in the best interest of children to allow foster homes to adopt, so we went for a dual foster/adopt license.
It took a long time to finally become licensed again, right at ten months to be exact. And during this time, we became involved in an emotionally draining time of a social worker trying to keep us from the child we were hoping to adopt. He became our son through a miracle, I believe, but that’s another story.

When we were finally licensed, our social worker at first would not allow us to take a foster child, because we were pursuing the adoption of our son. But after a time, she believed she had found a new home for him, and one day, while I was in the car, I got a call on my cell phone. There was a newborn baby girl who had been removed because of her mother’s drug use. Was I interested in giving her a home for a while?
Of course we were. My eight year old daughter, Mary Susannah and I were excited at the thought of having a baby in the house.
The social worker had mistakenly given placement the wrong phone number, though, so they hadn’t been able to get hold of us, and by the time they got through to us, the investigator had had to take the baby to a shelter in Dallas because there wasn’t another home to put her in. She said rather than drive all the way back out there, she was going to wait until the ‘just cause’ hearing in two days, to make sure the child was not going to be returned home.
Disappointed, but still excited, Mary Susannah and I went shopping. We had so much fun buying baby girl clothes, diapers, bottles, and all the things that went along with new babies. I carefully kept the receipts, just in case the baby didn’t come to our house.
Two days later the placement office called me. The judge had ruled the baby would stay in foster care. She made arrangements with me to have the baby brought to our house. Finishing up, she asked me “Can you take two children?” I hated to say no, but I was saving our other spot for the baby we were hoping to adopt. If I took another child that would ruin any chance we had of having him finally placed with us.
In a couple of hours, a social worker arrived at our house with a newborn baby girl, who I will call Kitten.
Kitten was beautiful. Half Hispanic, half Caucasian, she was a dark haired, dark eyed beauty. Although I had asked Mary Susannah to wait until the investigator left to ask to hold her, the wait was too long for her as I signed paperwork and listened to instruction. I finally placed Kitten in her arms, and she was smitten. Once the worker left, Mary Susannah and I spent the rest of the day admiring this pretty child. We had a lot of fun dressing her up and combing her hair. Mary Susannah enjoyed feeding her, although of course I was the one who got up in the night.

After Kitten was with us a few days, visits with her mother began. I dressed her up and took her to the Child Protective Services office. I walked into a waiting room full of people, and I had no idea which ones were Kitten’s family. She was bundled up, so no one could see her face. I told the receptionist that I was there for Kitten’s visit, and she pointed out two women sitting on the front row. Kitten’s mother heard her child’s name, and she eagerly jumped up. She took in my appearance: I am a conservative Christian, and wear long modest dresses and a head covering. She exclaimed, “You are her foster mother? YOU are her foster mother?” I smiled at her and nodded, and she said, “Oh! I’m so glad! Now I’m not afraid anymore!”
The grandmother was also there, and she said she thought she had met me before. She realized that in her line of work, she had come out to my house a little over a year before. These two things combined to begin a good relationship between Kitten’s mother and grandmother and I.

Kitten was so very beautiful. One time my daughter was asked to speak at a Court Appointed Special Advocate (CASA) training session. I went with her to help her explain the foster parent’s end of foster care, and took Kitten. She slept for most of it, but in a bit she woke for a few minutes. I unwrapped her to place her on my shoulders, and a huge sigh of “AWWWW…” went up all over the room. She was so tiny, so dark, and so pretty!

Time went on, and our family enjoyed taking care of Kitten. Her mother had quite an anger problem though, and I was often caught between listening to CPS’s view of things and the mother’s view. I listened to both and reserved judgment. I knew my job was to care for the baby, mentor the mother in any way I could, and work with CPS towards getting this family reunited.
Because the mother and grandmother were working very hard, I didn’t have a lot of imaginings that I would end up raising this baby. I knew that the grandmother was the back up plan in case the mother couldn’t complete the things CPS had laid out for her in order to get her baby back. Only once did I entertain the thought that I might keep her:

When Kitten was about five months old, the mother told me she had had a positive hepatitis C test. She asked me to have Kitten tested, too, to see if she had passed this scary disease on to her. So at our next doctor visit, I told the physician’s assistant we needed to have this done. She sent me to the lab to have blood work drawn.
I think out of the seven months I had Kitten, this was the only time I was really angry with her mother. The test was horrible. Kitten had such small little arms, and they had to draw five vials of blood from her veins. I was seated in a chair and Kitten’s arm was strapped down. My job was to try and hold the rest of her still as they performed this painful procedure. Kitten screamed and screamed as this seemed to go on and on and on. I was so upset Kitten had to go through all this. The two female lab technicians were being very cold to me, and I could not understand why, until it suddenly occurred to me that they thought that “I” was her mother. They thought, as I sat there in my conservative dress and head covering, that I was a drug user and responsible for all this. I said to them, as they tried not to speak to me “I didn’t do this to her. I’m her foster mother, not her mother!!” They looked up at me, shocked, and one of them went over and took a quick look at her paperwork. The atmosphere cleared, and they were suddenly very friendly and talkative. In later months, as I took in another foster child who used this same doctor’s office, they never failed to remember me when they saw me, and stop me to talk.
A couple of weeks went by, and my father had to have heart surgery. I left Kitten with another foster mother as I spent the day in the hospital with my family. My father came though well, a great relief to us, and I went home very, very drained but pleased. I had barely arrived home before I got the call, Kittens test was positive. The nurse said that sometimes these tests can come back with a false positive because the baby still has the mother’s antibodies in their system. Kitten would have to be tested again in a year.
The other foster mother had taken Kitten to her visit with her mother that day. Knowing the visit was going on at that time, I called the CPS office and gave them the report so that her social worker could go in to them and break the news to her mother.
This was the only time I wondered if I would get to keep Kitten. I thought of a chronically sick baby, and wondered if the family would have her returned if she were sick. This thought was fleeting though. I knew I could not allow my mind to run in that direction.

Kitten’s family continued to make good progress. Her lawyers soon had gotten a lot of visitation time for Kitten, including long weekends at her grandmother’s house.

A few weeks into Kitten’s stay with us, we went to court for the termination of parental rights for the little boy we had been hoping to adopt. In a very, very surprising turn of events, the judge ruled that our family would be allowed to be his adoptive family. He was soon made our adoption placement, and when he was eighteen months old, and Kitten was seven months old, we went to court to finalize his adoption.
The night before, I took Kitten to the department store and bought her a beautiful purple dress and little headband to wear to the adoption. The next morning, our large family and many of our grandchildren arrived at the courthouse, and Luke Allan was made our official son. I don’t know that there have been many times in my life that I have felt such immense relief and happiness. At picture taking time, I decided against having Kitten in the pictures, because I wanted to be able to send the pictures to some of my internet groups. We were not allowed to post pictures of a foster child’s face, so I asked if someone would hold her for me. Two ladies, I’m not sure if they were lawyers, but they were some kind of court workers, both jumped up and nearly bumped into each other, eager to hold the beautiful baby.
When the adoption proceedings were over, the judge pointed us towards a door to exit from. She said there was a chest in there full of stuffed animals, and each child was welcome to take one. We took several pictures in that room, and Kitten was in some of them, one I especially remember of her sitting on a table with her stuffed animal. I did not realize it would be the last picture we took of her.
We came home and had a huge party to celebrate the adoption we had agonized and worked so long over. The morning had worn Kitten out, and she slept through the whole thing. When most of the guests, except for my daughter who had been Luke’s foster mother, had gone home, I got a phone call. It was Kitten’s social worker. “Something happened that upset me.” He began. I waited, wondering if I had done something wrong. I knew they had a hearing that morning, but I did not expect this news: Kitten’s attorneys had fought hard, and the judge ruled that Kitten must be returned to her mother by five o’clock that afternoon. It was now four o’clock. “I have to come get her right now.” He said, “I’m sorry you don’t have more time to say goodbye.”
I was so shocked. I handed Kitten to my heartbroken daughter to hold while I tried to pack all her things. I knew that if I missed something I could drop it off later, but I hoped to get most of it. I worked feverishly, trying not to think. My daughter rocked Kitten as I looked on, wishing I could be the one rocking her. I was not going to have time to tell her goodbye.
The worker was soon at our door. He was in a hurry. We packed the car with boxes, and then I buckled Kitten in her car seat and kissed her goodbye. My daughter and I waved until the car was out of sight.

That night I held my daughter as she cried for Kitten. I told her, “We have to look at it this way. Today we got Luke forever and always, and today Kitten’s mother got her back forever and always, too.”
My little girl was comforted with that thought, and so was I. We knew Kitten would not stay with us forever, we just didn’t know her leaving would be so abrupt.

And I wish that the forever part had worked out for Kitten, but seven months later, when she was fourteen months old, I got another call from CPS. Did I have an opening? the investigator wanted to know. “I’m going to have to go pick Kitten up again.”
My heart broke for her. Our home was full, but I told her please, we would take Kitten if they would let us. The investigator said she would see what she could do to have her placed with us. But our worker said no. Our home was full, according to state guidelines, and of the children in our home, we had three children ages three and under, and she did not feel like she could safely place another very young child in a home that was already at the state’s limit. One of my foster children had a visit that afternoon, and while I was at the CPS office, I asked to see Kitten. She was still waiting there because the over burdened foster care system had not been able to find a home to take her yet. At fourteen months, she was much bigger than the seven month old I had last seen. She didn’t remember me, but I sure remembered her. She was just as beautiful as she had always been. I would have given a lot to have been able to take her home with me right then.

Kitten didn’t stay in the system long this time. A relative in another state soon took her in. I assume that’s where she still is.

We have adopted two more children from the state since Luke’s adoption was final and Kitten went home. We also fostered another little girl who went back to family too. Our home is now as full as the state will allow until some of our other children get older. The state has closed our home for the time being. Who will take our place and care for the Kitten’s of the world? Will you?