Yesterday Leo left our family via voicemail.
The social worker's message thanked me for all I do, and told me not to bother picking him up at the appointed time. So I picked up a burger and fries, instead. It's called eating my feelings, and I am not ashamed.
I knew it was going to be a short placement - seeing Leo and his mom together was heartwarming and beautiful. I was sad that we didn't get to say goodbye, but that was quickly over-ridden by the fact that I got 10 hours of uninterrupted sleep last night.
The whole voicemail thing really chapped my ass, though.
I mean, who the hell leaves voicemails these days? What are we, in the stone ages? Why don't you fax me the notification instead? Or maybe morse code is more your thing, you know, for confidentiality? Whatever, I shouldn't be surprised. Being a foster parent is sometimes like being a very poorly compensated on-call employee for a total asshole. I wish the social workers would stop behaving as though foster parents don't have any need for closure. It would be nice to know ahead of time that you will never see your foster child again. It's also nice to know that you don't need to buy another package of diapers, something I did a few hours before I knew he wasn't coming home with me.
Last night I sat in the living room and dismantled all of the baby stuff, packed up the clothes and formula, ate two popsicles and the rest of that container of cookies and cream ice cream the kids were looking for tonight, and passed out at 7:15 with a rim of chocolate around my mouth and a burp cloth on my pillow.
I am over it. And by "it", I mean the last two weeks/ What the actual fuck is going on around here?
Between hosting Lucy's birthday party, hearing about the bombing in our hometown and watching the accompanying press coverage complete with lots of gory images that I don't think I want to look at any more (I mean, did you see the cowboy hat guy holding that man's femoral artery? Jesus H. Christ, that was some fucked up shit right there) and having a newborn dropped in my lap and then just as suddenly having that newborn yanked away, all I can say is THANK GOD I FOUND MY PROZAC PRESCRIPTION.
I had that refill in my hands in a hot fucking minute, let me tell you what. And some Xanax, too. Which totally got me through the shootout and subsequent manhunt on Friday which I followed via online police scanner in-between feedings and diaper changes. If you have to be awake all night long, a horrific incident of terrorism, accompanied by people live-tweeting the chaos from under their bed as it all goes down in their driveway can really help keep you alert. I couldn't have slept if I tried.
The good news is that it won't take much for next week to be better than this one.
In other news, I really, really miss drinking.
6 hours ago