Daffodil goes to a ball: If I wear a long gown, do I have to shave my legs

I got invited to a ball in a few weeks time.

I have never been to a ball before, but I have watched Cinderella a million times, so I am going to the pet store for some nice mice and birds who could help a girl out. It seems like the easiest way to deal with what is otherwise a kind of overwhelming process.

Here are some reasons why I might need some help:

-I shaved the back of my head a few months ago. This grow-out period is a bitch.
-95% of my makeup is on the floor of my linen closet, and came free with purchase of a moisturizer.
-I have one "formal" dress - which is more than most people, I know, but leaves a lot to be desired in terms of choosing a dress. I own a dress. I am wearing it.
-I am wearing the aforementioned dress with a pair of sandals I just found in a bag under my bed. This post is really helping to keep me on track.
-I have a 6 week old. If you have kids that you have raised since birth, you may understand what I am saying when I tell you I am barely coherent some days, rarely showered, and usually in sweatpants. I haven't brushed my hair since February.

I could go on, but you get the picture. I am the last person on the planet that should be going to a ball, and it will take every ounce of strength I have to stay awake past 9pm. Since the after party starts at 10, I will begin drinking caffeine-laden beverages at noon.

There is a really good reason for all of this:
The ball benefits Imua Family Services.

Imua has been a part of our lives for years - they have worked with several of our foster children and the results of their comprehensive approach to therapy - mostly through play and exploration - is a wonder to behold. Dude, in particular, benefitted from their services and for that I am forever grateful. When we brought Dude home from the hospital he had a lot of odds stacked against him, from low birth weight to drug exposure in utero. He made incredible progress working with Imua, and Imua worked long and hard on his behalf, partnering with his mother and father to be sure he was making the progress he needed to make before entering preschool.

this is Dude in an infant carseat, which was clearly too big for a Dude-sized infant

But Imua provides more than just services for our foster children - they provide peace of mind. So many people ask me how I can bear to give these foster children back, and the honest truth is that it would be impossible if I didn't know that the team - the doctors and nurses and therapists and social workers and lawyers that I have gotten to know and trust over the years from case to case - would be following the baby for months or even years to come. Because I know that they will be getting to know the family, and supporting them through the child's early years, sometimes even doing the visits in the family home, I am able to have some peace of mind when I hand these babies over for the last time and say goodbye.

They do good work at Imua Family Services, and I was proud to be asked to support their fundraiser this year. But then I realized it would mean actually pulling myself together for a fancy evening event.

This will be interesting.

To hold myself accountable, and also to make sure I get some feedback, I will be undergoing my makeover in public. Right here. Hair will be dyed, skin will be waxed, wrinkles will be blasted, dresses will be tried on to see if I can find one I like better then the one I have, and then of course, the grand finale:

The updo.

I might even wear a corsage.

Good lord, it's like 1993 Senior Prom all over again. But this time I won't be driving a turquoise Cadillac with a white leather interior (sadly, because that car was amazing) and I'm pretty sure I won't have a perm, either.

I'm not ruling it out, though. The thrill of the reveal, coming soon!

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.

And I am telling you, she's not going

Update from the front lines: Evie is still here. I still have no idea for how long. I am still totally, utterly in love.

I have absolutely abandoned all common sense and reason, and broke every single rule of mine - and of the system in general - when it comes to foster parenting. I made it personal. And I am afraid that I may have passed the point of no return.

I love all of the children we have cared for, each in their own way. I care for them and nurture them and love them, and then I give them back to their mothers and I get on with life. But so help me, I cannot imagine this little girl with anyone else as her mother.

This is very, very bad. For many reasons. The biggest reason is that she is not mine. She has a mother. And other relatives. And the state will try to reunify the biological family, because that is absolutely the guiding principle of foster care: to provide parents and relatives with resources and support and education, in the hope that they will be able to raise the child. The foster system is not set up as an adoption agency - adoptions of infants in particular are extremely rare, and everyone involved in foster care knows that reunification is the goal. Social workers spend long, hard hours trying to assist parents while keeping children safe.

I have always been very supportive of this goal. I have encouraged parents time and again as they have tried to get their lives together. I truly believe that a baby is the very best reason to get your life back on track.

But not this time. Every time they mention a visitation with relatives, my jaw tightens and my heart pounds. And finally, after 5 days of this torture I had to say it out loud: I don't support reunification in this case. As a foster parent, this is terrible. This is a huge conflict of interest. This is absolutely inappropriate. This is way, way out of line.

I know it, and I feel sick about it. I have heard that line "the heart wants what the heart wants" and I always thought it was a big bunch of bullshit - an excuse for doing whatever the hell you felt like doing without concern for other people, for consequences, for right and wrong. And yet, here I am.

I have been caring for other people's children, in one way or another, since I was 9 years old. I am very good at keeping it professional, at remembering who the mother is, at not getting attached. And now I find myself at odds with everything I have ever known, everything I have ever believed about myself.

I used to be good at this. Even as recently as last month I was good at this. Something has changed.

I went so far as to suggest that they take me off this case entirely, and transfer her out of my home. But of course I don't want them to do that.

I have put on a brave face and tried to sound cheerful and rational.

I have also cried.

I have cried on the phone, I have cried in the rocking chair late at night, I have cried in the car driving her to visitations. I have cried because I can't imagine keeping her any longer and because I don't want to see her go. I have cried because I can only imagine the life she might have - and there are two very different paths her life might take. I have cried for her mother, I have cried for the women who want to be mothers.

I have cried at poop on the couch and puke in the car seat.

I have cried because her bellybutton stump hasn't come off and she really needs a bath (see poop and puke, above).

Is it possible to have postpartum mood swings when I am not only postpartum, but post-menopausal?
(The answer to that is no.)
I feel like I am losing my mind.

I don't know what to do. I am at a loss at the prospect of losing her.
And yet she was never mine to begin with.

Babies are dropping out of the damn SKY.

Hi. I am still here, and in a very strange case of deja vu, on Saturday we brought home a baby.

No, not that one.

Another one. The girl kind. Words cannot begin to describe the heights of Lucy's joy. Break out the pink and frilly, we have a sister.

When Leo was returned to his mother last week, I felt as though the rug had been pulled out from under me - which is bizarre considering that I knew he would only be with us for a short while. I could not figure out why I felt so bereft. There was this nagging, keening feeling. A nameless wordless thing tapping me on the shoulder. On Friday, Sam and I were making the bed and I stopped, and looked over at him.

"I'm not done."

"What?" he said absentmindedly, as he shook a pillow into the case.

"There's another baby. I'm telling you, that wasn't it. Leo was NOT it. There's something else going on."

Sam shook his head and rolled his eyes. I decided to leave the crib up in the living room.

And the next day, the very next day, my phone rang. There was an infant in the maternity ward needing placement, was I interested? No other information, just "could I take a newborn". Right away. In an hour or two. I said yes, and then walked inside to tell Sam I had manifested another baby.

He put his face in his hands, and rubbed his cheeks hard, and then grinned. "How the hell do you do that?"

"I don't know, I just know."

"It's incredible. I wish you could do that in Vegas."

I drove to the hospital and called upstairs. The social worker sounded almost giddy "Seven pounds, eight ounces, she is beautiful and I'm just filling out the paperwork."

When they arrived downstairs a while later, I peeked through the bundle of pink. "Beautiful" was a reach, but as I peered down at her she stretched a small, delicate hand with impossibly long fingers out of the sea of flannel, as if to say "How do you do?"

I fell very, very hard for that little hand with it's peeling skin and translucent nails.

Evie and I understand one another. We spend long hours lying on the bed facing each other, staring into each other's eyes. Sam and Max are equally enamored, and Lucy is strutting around in the role of big sister that she has long hoped for. And while of course, I know that this is foster care, that I am caring for someone else's baby, and that she is only here for a while, the timeline seemed........fuzzy. The situation was different than past cases, there was no plan for rehab, no father identified, no clear idea of where this little one would land.

And so I did the very worst thing I could do. I put all of that out of my mind and focused on this odd, pink, squalling creature with long legs and thick brown hair. I held her and crooned to her that she was going to be just fine. I told her that we loved her, that I loved her, that this diaper change was going to be fast and the baby wipe wouldn't be so cold. That last one was a total lie, and she called me on it. She suffers no fools, this little one.

We went through the first 24 hours of sleepy sweetness, and then the next 3 days of endless crying and projectile vomiting and diarrhea (hers, not mine, but thanks for your concern) purging herself of all that she had been exposed to in utero. And then last night, after one final Exorcist-worthy puke-fest, she fell asleep with her head tucked under my chin. She has been peaceful ever since.

Which is ironic, because just as soon as we made it out of the dark woods of withdrawal, her mother turned up.

They had a visit today, and I felt almost sick to my stomach when I dropped her off with the social worker. I called feeding instructions after them weakly as they walked away, and then I got back in the car and took a deep breath.

This is not your baby. This is not your baby. This baby is someone else's baby. This baby is going to see her mother. You are not her mother.

Silently, I repeated this to myself as I drove across town. I was close, dangerously close, to crying. I went to my happy place, searching for solace in the only way I knew how without a Target or TJ Maxx nearby: Goodwill.

I walked through Goodwill, and stopped at the bin of baby clothes. There, right on top, was a pair of jeggings.

It was a sign. It had to be a sign. How the hell could a brand new pair of newborn jeggings be sitting there in Goodwill for any other reason? WHAT OTHER REASON COULD THERE POSSIBLY BE FOR THIS?

Spoiler alert: I bought the fucking jeggings. And a dozen other things. And then the visit was over and I went back and stood outside and tried not to snatch her back from the worker who brought her out to me. I tried to be chipper and friendly, tried to walk slowly back to the car instead of sprinting like I wanted to. I kissed her sweet head, and her impossibly soft cheek, and looked at those beloved little fingers.

I know. I know this is not how I should be handling this. I know that I am supposed to maintain an air of professionalism, but oh. Oh.

It is impossible. This one? She is going to break my heart. This may be all I can bear. Giving her back may be the very last thing I can do, the very hardest thing. In the meantime, Lucy has requested a pair of matching jeggings and I assure you that I will find her a pair tomorrow. Because by tomorrow night, Evie could very well be gone.

I am trying to remain clear: for the record, this is not how foster care works. You cannot forget - not for a moment - that this is someone else's child. But at 3am when you are cleaning vomit off the wall while whispering sweet nothings to the creature snoring in the Baby Bjorn on your chest, sometimes you forget......

Carpe Diem. 'Tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all.

Other words of inspiration welcome as I attempt to reset my emotional state, and get my thighs into a pair of jeggings tomorrow.

....and just like that, he was gone

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.

Another child, not my own.

Last week Thursday was Lucy's birthday, and on the same day that we were celebrating her birth, another baby was being born at the very same hospital she had been, under very different circumstances. On Friday, as we were loading up Lucy's friends in the car for a sleepover, my phone rang. 

Because my phone battery is always almost dead by dinnertime, it was plugged into the car charger, and I keep that charger's cord coiled and secured with Velcro so it doesn't get wrapped around the gear shift, or jammed in the tracks of the seat so that I can't move the seat closer to the steering wheel. (It is critically important that I be able to move the seat as close as physically possible to the steering wheel - so close that I can barely fit my knees under the dash - because when I drive at night I need to be able to clutch the steering wheel and peer over it through the dashboard like my 98 year old great grandmother Mabel who drove a Dodge Dart with 3 pillows and phone book under her ass so she could see where she was going. I am not 98, and I don't need the pillows - but I do have a tendency to get real close to the wheel and peer over it, because I never remember to bring my glasses with me in the car.

MY POINT IS, my phone was connected to the console by a short cord, and so to answer it Sam needed to bend forward with his forehead practically touching the dashboard. And because he is not 100% sure how to use my phone (because it is not a clamshell-style flip phone from 1998) he tends to press the touch screen a few times and then just sort of shout at it. 

So there he was, bent double in the front seat, shouting into a phone that was attached to the console by a wire about 6" long. Luckily he had managed to turn on the speakerphone during the course of his attempt to answer the call, so I could hear everything that was going on as I drove.

It was our social worker, and he was calling to make sure we were home, because he had a baby for us.

Now, in our family we get these calls on a semi-regular basis. We have been foster parents for the state for over 10 years, and that's how this happens - you get a call, and if you are lucky about 24 hours notice to get your life in order. Because at that moment we were about to host a sleepover, I didn't have a lot of time to chat. 

Sam, meanwhile, was trying to convince the worker that they didn't want us to take the baby because I was too busy. I put a stop to that nonsense. 

Yes, we would take the baby. Yes, we knew the social worker who would be calling us over the weekend. Yes, of course. Yes, no problem. Yes, absolutely. The worker hung up and without even looking at Sam, I said "It's fine. Hang up the phone."

He looked at me from between the seats, where he was still holding the phone to his head - even though it was on speaker phone. He sat up and looked over his shoulder at the six girls shrieking and giggling in the back of the Suburban we had rented for the occasion. And he shook his head and sighed, and started pressing on the touch screen trying to hang up the call.

Friday night passed in a whirlwind of top 40 singalongs, ice cream sundaes and late night whispers. In the morning the girls were collected by their parents, and headed home exhausted and strung out on bacon and red velvet tea. Saturday afternoon we took Lucy to lunch and bought the elusive bath bomb, and I had pretty much forgotten that we were waiting for a phone call. But as we headed home the phone rang. The social worker was heading to the hospital, were we ready? All I wanted to know was if I had time to go to Costco. Because chances were very good I wasn't going to get there again for a while.

Guys, meet Leo.

I'll write more when I have the chance, but just know that with all of the craziness in the world this past week, my craziness quotient was once again dialed up to an 11.

You are one crazy mother

It's 12:01 am - Mother's Day. Dude's bassinet is next to the bed, empty, and I have mixed emotions about it. It definitely feels like something is missing, like he should be here - but of course he shouldn't. He should be right where he is. With his mother.

So even though I am missing him, and feeling his absence, and wishing I could give him a cuddle, I am excited to spend Mother's Day sleeping uninterrupted for as long as I want,excited to spend it with Max and Lucy who are my finest accomplishments in life by far, and shining examples of why people have kids in the first place.

But I need to take a minute to remind everyone that you don't need to be a mother to celebrate Mother's Day.

I mean, the number of guys (from boyfriends to employers to house mates) who have acted like I was their mother should have earned me the right to celebrate this holiday long before I actually had a kid. And I had a puppy, you know. Back when I was 20 I had a puppy named Zora, and I loved her and raised her and dammit that should have counted for something, because the amount of time I spent cleaning up after that dog far surpasses any cleanup I have experienced with a real live baby.

Mother's Day is, in my opinion, a day to express gratitude for every woman who has every nurtured a living soul. It has absolutely nothing to do with your uterus - those things are totally over rated. After my trial run at mothering man and beast, I had a child of my own - and it felt less like a miracle and more like a science project. I was not glowing, and it didn't come naturally. Then we were foster parents, which is when I really learned that the hard work of being a mother has nothing to do with biology. And when we adopted a child, I realized that Nature vs Nurture is a Real Thing.

Turns out, I am one hard core mother.

Which is why I can say with confidence: Ladies, if you have ever loved someone, been invested in their future, stayed awake at night worrying about them, taken care of them when they needed you, lifted them up at their lowest point, fed and clothed them, cleaned them or cleaned up after them, taught them and listened to them and encouraged them and kept them safe and watched them grow and kicked their ass when it needed it, then Ma'am, this day is for you.

So here's to the teachers and coaches, the doctors and nurses, the day care providers, the animal lovers, the kindly neighbors, the officers and firefighters, the aunties and tutus, the kumus and grandmas, and anyone else who has given a damn, inconvenienced themselves, put someone else first, been the last phone call from jail or the first phone call to get the good news -

I salute you.

This one is for the Mother in all of us, because damned if we aren't all in this together. All of us are mothers of some sort. In fact, I challenge you to find a woman who does not have a shred of maternal instinct. Because even the most stone cold bitch has held someone's hair while they puked, or cheered someone up when they were blue, or given a tampon to the stranger in the next stall. Women are sisters are mothers and this world would be a filthy miserable lonely hungry desperate boring place without us and our magical vaginas (which according to spell check should actually be "vaginae" but whatever, we only have one and I think I know what I am talking about SPELL CHECK).

So like it or not Mama, Happy Mother's Day. Give your vag a high-five and take a nap. You earned it.

So......he's really leaving.

This weekend we are having Dude's going away party.

The party is really more for all of our friends than for Dude - we want to say "thank you" for all of the gifts and support and flexibility everyone has shown us since December 19th, when he arrived.

All (almost) 5 pounds of him.

It has been a difficult few months. Our entire life was put on hold to take care of this very unexpected holiday delivery.

First, he slept all the time and I had to strip him naked and rub his feet to keep him awake long enough to eat.

Then he cried for 6 weeks, pretty much every time I put him down.

So I held him. All the time. I held him while I cooked, I held him while I worked, I held him while I tried to sleep sitting up on the couch. I typed one-handed for over a month.

And then he started to blossom into his own cute little self.

And he got bigger.

And became an important part of our family.

We are all sad to say goodbye. And we planned the party this weekend to both say thank you to everyone, and to give everyone the chance to say "So long, pal" to Dude.

This afternoon when the social worker called to tell me that they were accelerating the reunification plan, I was sad, but really thrilled for his mom and dad. I know they are anxious to have him with them full time, and they have worked very hard to regain custody. They are sober, healthy, and attending classes together. And as a result of getting clean, and bonding with this amazing baby they have created, I feel confident that their priorities are in the right order. It is yet another thing that we are celebrating - his parents, and their accomplishments.

So it was great news to hear he would be one step closer to being with his mom full time.

And then they told me that this was going to start on Friday.
This Friday.
The day of the party.
The party for Dude.

I almost burst into tears.

For six months, my life has been in someone else's hands, and lived according to someone else's schedule. It was not convenient. It was not easy. But we managed to make it work. Dude was the priority.

Hearing that he would not be at his own going away party was just......it was too much. This is not about me, or the party, or the end of our custody. And it wasn't about Dude, I know that. He doesn't care about saying goodbye to everyone. He doesn't need a party.

This was about trying to have some closure for our family - and our community - and having that opportunity squashed. And how could I say "He can't be with his mom Friday night - we're having a party for him." That would be ridiculous, I know. It would be selfish. But it seemed so wrong, to have everything end so abruptly, with n notice. To not let everyone give him a hug goodbye and whisper their blessings in his ear, take a picture with him, smell his sweet baby head one last time...... that seemed selfish too.

So I took a deep breath and said, "Here's the thing."

And the worker understood, and was very kind, and said it could start Saturday morning instead.So beginning Saturday at 9am, I will drop him off with his mom, and he will only be at our house 3 nights a week. He will officially be spending more time with his mom than with us.
And from there it will be just a few more weeks until he is with her full time.

And the baby stuff will go back in the attic.
And I guess everything will go back to normal.
Whatever the hell "normal" is.

Bye, little Dude. We're sure going to miss you around here.

Today someone thought I was a grandma. I did not punch her. I'm just as surprised as you are.

Dude and I have been feeling poorly.

I, of course, have the mange on my face.
Dude has a respiratory infection.

We've been to the clinics and the ER a few times, and neither of us has slept or eaten much. I ended up getting so dehydrated that I brought on a migraine. Dude, meanwhile, has developed a cough that went from old man smoker cough, to a sound akin to breathing through a wet sponge. When I brought him to the ER for the second time in as many days, a very sweet intake nurse was filling out paperwork and assessing his vitals.

"Any health conditions?" she asked as she filled out the form with Dude's name.

"Well, he had significant prenatal crystal meth exposure, and a low birth weight." I volunteered.

"Okay. And you were here yesterday?"

"Yep, but I had to bring him back. I can't use my best judgement - he's not my kid, so whenever I have a concern, I need to have a professional make the call."

She stopped writing for a second. "What do you mean, he's not yours?"

"He's my foster child." I explained.

"Oh. You're not mom?"

I looked down at the very round, very Asian baby in my lap. "Uh, no. I also didn't do crystal meth when I was pregnant." I was horrified.

"It's more common than you think." she replied, as though I was being incredibly naive and narrow-minded.

She went back to writing, and I sat there, with my mouth agape. I mean, I know I haven't slept much lately, and maybe I'm not as sharp as usual, but if I was working intake and a woman showed up at the hospital holding a baby of a completely different race, explaining that the baby was exposed to crystal meth in utero, I would not draw the automatic conclusion that she was the biological mother. At the very least, I would ask a few more questions. But that is very narrow-minded of me, I guess.

But regardless of our relationship, and my alleged drug abuse, Dude and I were a team. We paced back and forth in the room they put us in - a private room with a real door instead of a privacy curtain, and a toilet and sink. We had ourselves a suite! Dude fussed and cried and then slept, only to wake up and go back to fussing and crying again. Every so often we did a breathing treatment, got a shot, or talked to one of the ER staff. They admitted Dude sometime around midnight. He and I spent a glorious night few hours sleeping in the ER's palatial isolation room suite - until 2am when they woke us up, got us out of bed, made us walk to the pediatrics unit, stripped Dude naked and changed him into a diaper that was too small, forgot to secure both diaper tabs, and then lay him down - whereupon he immediately had a huge blowout and poop ended up everywhere. I paged the nurse, we changed Dude and the bed, and I started bagging up the last of his clothes. I had nothing else for him to wear. The kid was going to have to go home naked.

It was now 3am, I was cold and tired and hungry, Dude was pissed, and both of us wanted to be left alone. Alas it was not to be - time after time, a staff member's arrival was signaled by turning on the overhead light. This was made worse by the fact that 50% of the time, they were looking for the patient that had been moved out of the room overnight. So not only did they wake us up by turning on the light, they then called out the wrong name, and looked confused when they pulled back the curtain and found the two of us blinking sleepily.

As dawn rose and light began to glow through the blinds, Dude and I were wide awake, watching a marathon presentation of a show about realtors with million dollar listings in LA. We were entranced. The estates! The cars! The cat fights!

Suddenly, the door swung open and another of the countless tiny Filipino nurses on the floor came in. Side note: I am not being racist - We were seen by 6 or 7 nurses on the pediatric floor - one of them was not Filipino. I don't know why so many of the nurses are Filipino, I don't do the hiring at our hospital - all I can tell you is that a lot of the staff is made up of tiny Filipino ladies. It is very strange, and sometimes I feel like I am actually in a hospital in another country. At 5'8" I tower over much of the staff, and only understand about 3/4 of what they say to me. Unless I am coming out of anesthesia, or they are wearing a mask, in which case I understand practically nothing.

"Oooooh, goood marning!" she said cheerfully. "Are you grandma?"

Please god, tell me I am not understanding what she just said. Because it sounded an awful lot like- "............uh. No. Not grandma."

"Oooooooh, okay. So, when you give bath?"

"When do I what?" I was so stunned by the grandma bit, I wasn't really paying attention to anything that came after that.

"What time you give baby bath?" She repeated herself slowly and loudly, because clearly I was an idiot. And a grandparent. Us old people get confused a lot. You have to talk real slow and loud for us to understand.

"I didn't give him a-"

"Noooooooo." She gave me a big fake smile. Because I was so stupid. And she was humoring me, you see.
"At home. What time you usually give bath at home?"

"Oh, um, it depends. Sometimes at night, but lately it's been in the morning before we leave." I left out the "for his visitations because otherwise his father sniffs him and then reports me for not cleaning his neck well enough" part because, frankly, I didn't want to get into it. Did she just call me grandma?

"Ooooooh. That's good! No bath at night, don't get head wet. That when baby get sick!"

"That when.... what?"

"Give bath at night, it too cold, baby get sick then."

I sat there with my mouth hanging open. What the hell was going on? I reached over to the bedtable, trying to find my glasses so I could examine her ID more closely. This was a nurse? What kind of nurse? What kind of school teaches nurses to avoiding bathing children at night so they don't get sick? Was I in the twilight zone? Or Candid Camera? Did a medical professional just come in my hospital room, call me grandma and then tell me not to get my baby's head wet at night? DID THIS REALLY JUST HAPPEN?

Or maybe it's just the crystal meth talking. Gosh, it's hard to keep these things straight.

(We did get released later that morning, and continue our recovery at home with a nebulizer. And hair dye. These gray hairs are obviously confusing people.)

When a carton of milk brings you to your knees

Wednesday was a good day. I had reliable childcare, I got a lot done, my hair looked all right, and Dude pooped. Twice.

A Red Letter Day, I tell you.

But then I got home, and it went from red letter to scarlet letter - and I didn't even get laid.

One minute everything was cool, and the next minute.....well, the next minute things were surreal. As though I had been operating in a bubble and the bubble burst. Life was coming at me loud and fast and bright. How was I going to manage it all? What had I been thinking? Had I been charging forward blythely signing up for every damn thing in my path? Did I have no concept of limits? DID I EVEN KNOW WHAT DAY IT WAS?

Interesting question, that.

Did you know this weekend was a holiday weekend?

I didn't. I remembered at about 5pm, and the shock of it threw me for a loop. I love me some long holiday weekends. I keep close tabs on these sorts of things. How could I have forgotten?

I have my suspicions.

Dude cries every day from about 3 until about 8 - inconsolable sadness. We walk and bounce and switch shoulders and sing and talk and yet.
But still.
Oh, he is sad.

And in the midst of the sadness and the pacing yesterday, I was running through our plans for the weekend in my head to distract myself from the utter misery in my arms - misery which makes my heart ache - and suddenly it all just started sliding into place click click click and I realized something at that very moment.

I had only *thought* I had a handle on things. In truth, I have no idea what is going on.

Holiday weekend. Off on Monday. Five days off in a row. No school on Monday, either. Huh. How could I have missed that?

And if I only just now realized that I had a 5 day weekend and the kids had vacation, what else was I not remembering?

At that point, my previously fantastic afternoon turned into me pacing the living room with Dude in the carrier, trying to figure out my schedule and take note of everything that I had committed to recently. Field trips, shows, work, more work, oh fuck the mortgage is due, oh fuck we're overdrawn again, cancel appointments for everything that costs money, and then WHAT DO YOU MEAN I AM IN A PARADE ON SATURDAY hit me like a ton of bricks. I sat down on the floor and rocked back and forth (to soothe the baby, not for my mental health THANKYOUVERYMUCH) trying to decide if our parade costumes - which consist of kitchen towels and bathrobes - would offend anyone.

Because it was absolutely too late to do anything at all about it.

I reassured myself with the knowledge that at that very moment, everything was fine. No panic attack required, thanks. Max was writing a report. Lucy had a friend over to play, I had the fixings for dinner and the laundry was drying on the line - we were just rolling right along.  I had this.

Everything is cool, man.

And then, an innocent question: "Mom, can I have some milk?"

Of course. OF COURSE YOU CAN. So I open the fridge and stand there staring and realize we are out of milk.

Now on any other day, that would not be a problem.
But on this particular day, it was an INSURMOUNTABLE PROBLEM.
It was a symptom of a much bigger problem that was just coming to the surface.

In five minutes I went from the mom who was large and in charge, kicking ass and taking names and working outside the home while still putting a home cooked meal on the table each night........to a mom who doesn't know when her kids have vacation, and cannot manage to keep basic staples in the house.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

While we are home enjoying our surprise (for some of us) holiday weekend, or working and hopefully earning overtime, please keep Dude and his mom in your thoughts.

Dude is right here with me, cooing and gurgling and chubby and smiley.
Dude's mom is in detox.

She is doing this for him. She is doing this for herself. She is doing this. And I am sending her all of the love and positive thoughts I have in my heart.

Suddenly, forgetting to buy milk seems totally unimportant. As it should be.

Why I should not be responsible for getting your son circumcised

This blog is, as you know, my version of a journal. I have avoided posting for a few days because I am worked up about something that is very controversial, and as a rule, I don't like to get people all riled up about something I post.

But.

I have a hot button issue flashing in front of me, and it is hard to think about anything else.

One of the biggest challenges of foster parenting is not having any say over the babies' future, or much control over the babies' schedule. Foster parenting is a job. A job with terrible pay, where you do not get time off. And that is okay - it is rewarding and important work. But my time is not my own, and decisions are made that I do not necessarily agree with. I have to be at appointments when I am told to be at appointments - and appointments are not necessarily scheduled at my convenience. His parents have visitation with him twice a week, I have to be at WIC appointments once a month, and  - because Dude is a newborn - we have pediatrician and early-intervention type appointments to make sure he's thriving, and to provide continuity of care when he leaves my custody. Translation: up to 4 days a week, we have somewhere to be at a specific time.

Doctor's appointments are the worst - the waits are long, and the visits are especially fraught with tension - mostly because Dude's mom is there, and she wants him to be circumcised, and it hasn't happened yet.

And this is where it gets tricky. We chose not to circumcise our son. Just thinking about the actual procedure makes me queasy. Listen, I get that it is the parent's choice, and in this situation Dude's parent is choosing to have her son circumcised. But I am struggling with it. As a foster parent, I am proud to care for each child as if they were my own. To use my judgement, to do my best for each of them. And in this particular case, I can't.

And it really makes me uncomfortable.

I did try to be supportive of her choice. I called the clinic for days on end trying to get someone to agree to circumcise him, to no avail. At our next appointment I asked the doctor directly. I knew it was important to the mom, and my job is to support her parenting efforts, and encourage her interest in Dude's well-being. So I did my job. I asked the doctor if Dude could be circumcised. And then I tried not to pass out at the thought of having it done right then and there.

"Getting circumcised" the doctor said sternly, looking at me over her glasses, "is the least of his problems."

I had to disagree. If someone suggested cutting off part of MY genitals, that would be a serious problem.
Just ask this guy: He stands on Venice Beach. Or at least, he did. We met him in 1998, and Sam had his picture taken with him. Right now, I kind of want to call him and ask for some back-up.

I see the doctor's point. Dude has bigger issues (more on that later). And honestly, the issue is not circumcision in and of itself. The issue is that I cannot use my best judgement, because in this case my best judgement is irrelevent, and to some people very controversial.

But what is hardest for me to accept is the idea that I am doing wrong by any of my children - the ones who aren't circumcised, and the ones who will be.

In the pursuit of awesome, the road can get bumpy

12 days until awesome.

I have given myself until the end of this year to indulge in my fantasy of being a writer.

After that, the real world with it's real bills and real deadlines is going to kick in, and I am going to have a massive reality check.

But of course, the real world doesn't operate on my timeline. Fate doesn't adhere to a calendar year.

Which is why my two weeks were cut short so abruptly by the arrival of the Dude.

This is how my life has unfolded, and how it continues to unfold. I can't believe it happened again, now, at this moment. Fate literally reached out and said "Are you high? You must be high. You must have lost your Ever Loving Mind to think that this...... that all of this was going to just happen without my say so."

"I'll always have Camp Mighty" I consoled myself. "I snuck that one in there. This whole year has been amazing. I have traveled and spread my wings and spent time as I saw fit. I quit the awful job, and I spent the summer in my childhood home, and I traveled with the team, and I wrote and wrote and wrote. It was a good run."

It was. It was a good run.

But now I am at the end of the line. I have a 3 day old baby staying with me indefinitely. I have two kids in private school and I have run up quite a tab this year, trying to experience some of the things I was sorry I missed when I was younger. I may not have been allowed to experience dating Eddie Vedder, and Sam refuses to live in Manhattan so I guess that'll never happen - but I crossed some stuff off that list I had in my head of "shit I happily sacrificed to have a family, but kind of wish I could try anyway."

And the last thing on the list - attending a real writer's workshop, and having my writing critiqued and maybe even getting some writing together that I could send to a publisher - was supposed to happen this week.

The workshop starts tomorrow.
Dude arrived yesterday.
The kids are on Christmas break.
And I can't justify spending money on a writing workshop - it is ludicrous.

I have to stop now. I have to stop, and accept the wonderful things that I have been given, that I have experienced, that I continue to enjoy. My friends, my family, my Dude.

I sat down last night and held the baby and realized that. That it was a sign. That I was getting greedy. That I had been given enough - more than most. That I didn't need a book deal or a fancy job or an apartment in the city. That I was not brave enough or strong enough or good enough for that. I was a mom, and a wife, and a friend, and a sister and a daughter.

It was enough.
It is enough.

And then I got this text from Sarah:
"If you need baby help so that you can go to your conference, I'm off Tuesday and Wednesday. It's important that you go if possible."

It was a glimmer. It was a brass ring.
And I grabbed it.

In this season of giving that I hate so very much, I have been given something I can't really explain to you, but that has restored my faith. Restored a part of me that has been elusive. The part of me that believes that it is okay to reach for things that seem completely out of the question without looking foolish. It is okay to dream big. Even when you are a middle-aged stay-at-home mom who lives in the middle of nowhere.

I don't think this writing conference is going to be my big break. I've been writing for years, and god knows no one from the publishing world has been in touch. This workshop could just be another thing I use to distract myself from my actual life of running a household - which is decidedly unglamorous and not particularly fulfilling for me intellectually. This workshop is like getting on a merry go round and picking the horse of your dreams and pretending you are galloping through the countryside with Mary Poppins, the wind in your hair. Buy the ticket, take the ride. So why do I bother? Have I forgotten that merry go rounds make me nauseous?

I bother because if you don't keep reaching for the brass ring, what's the point? If you give up, you'll never know how far a little faith can take you.

So for all of you people out there who don't have a job, or hate your job, or feel trapped or left behind, or who are afraid to reach for something that seems unattainable, who believe that it is too late, or too crazy.......close your eyes and reach out your hand. I am right here. And I am cheering you on.

Let's do this.

How to prepare to bring home a newborn baby with 12 hours notice

A few weeks ago I said to Sam "I want another one."

He said "No. Absolutely not."

I said "What if someone just calls up out of the blue and offers me a baby again?"

He said "That isn't going to happen."

"But what if it DID?" I persisted.

He sighed and shook his head sympathetically at his poor, delusional wife. "Sure, honey. If someone calls and offers you a baby, you can have another one."

At 7pm last night, we got a call.

"Hey there." our social worker said. "Want a baby?"

"&%$#" Sam said. "How did you DO that?"

We have been licensed foster parents for the state for eight years. In that time we have taken in several infants, so this phone call didn't faze me in the slightest. But we haven't had a placement in a while, and Sam was caught off-guard. I give him credit: he climbed right into the attic, and started pulling out garbage bags and storage boxes labeled "BABY". We washed, and laundered, and folded, and assembled.

 By 7am, aside from a few mysteriously AWOL items, I was totally ready.
Meet Dude. He's staying with us for a little while. Scrumptious.

Please consider becoming a foster parent. I can assure you, it is the most amazing gift you could give - or receive. Especially one week before Christmas.
And for all of you women out there with baby registries, this is for you:

Don't buy into the hype. The reason second and third and all subsequent children don't get a bunch of new stuff is because all of that stuff that you think you need ends up being totally unnecessary. I have taken care of COUNTLESS newborns, and I can promise that you need very little.

Really.

I know this, because I bought it. All of it. Some of it I bought twice. And I regretted it even more the second time. Newborn babies need the very basic necessities. They do not need the very latest gadgets.

You need one carseat (car owners: with two bases if possible. You can leave one base permanently installed in your car, and have the other for other people's cars, travel, etc.)
You need a stroller frame (one with a cupholder and a place for your phone and keys is great) to hold that carseat.
and/or
You need a carrier - I recommend the Ergo which is heaven on my back - get a newborn insert. (The Baby Bjorn really hurt my neck.)
You need a place for the baby to sleep. Babies can sleep anywhere, including mangers and laundry baskets.
You need burp cloths. We use cotton diapers.
You need diapers. Whatever your pleasure - cloth or disposable, organic or not.
You need wipes and/or washcloths for bath and cleanup.
You need some clothes and some blankets.
And we have a vibrating seat that is great for when I am in the bathroom, doing laundry, cleaning, or trying to type/eat/drink hot beverages. You don't need it, but some sort of seat or swing is nice to have from time to time.

You do not need to buy it all brand new. Except the carseat - you shoudn't buy a used carseat for safety reasons. If a carseat has been in an accident, it's frame may be weakened. Best to buy new, just to be safe.

Stay out of Babies R Us, you will want one of everything. We asked friends, bought off craigslist, watched for sales, and now have everything we need stored in a corner of the attic. About $350 for the whole shebang.

$50 wheeled bassinet for sleeping (optional!)

$20 vibrating chair

$125 stroller/carseat

$100 ergo

$55 clothes, blankets. diapers, bottles

Easy peasy lemon squeezy, as Lucy likes to say.
Don't go crazy. Just go.
(Mmmm babies. Yummy.)

Just call me "Miss Hannigan".

I haven't discussed it much here, but we are licensed by the state to foster parent.

We haven't had a placement in over a year, so it hasn't come up recently. But yesterday was our home visit and license renewal. We had to sign the paperwork for our background checks, the social worker had to inspect the house, and we had to be interviewed about our health, finances, work schedules, etc.

It's similar to a home study done by an adoption agency. It's not a huge deal, but it's important. Anytime you have a social worker in your house and you have kids, it's important. You invite a certain amount of scrutiny and judgement into your home, which you have to be comfortable with.

But I feel confident in my ability to provide a safe and (fairly) clean home to my children, and any other children that come over. There have been times during the renovation of this house when it was difficult to feel that confidence, but these days everything is pretty well under control except my bedroom. And the play room. And the kids rooms. And the yard. (sigh) But we're getting there. Slowly. I had no concerns about this visit.

But the social worker arrived early. And got to our house before we did. There was no chance for alast-minute vacuuming, or a frantic scrub of the toilet, or a chance to make my bed or straighten up the bedrooms. I pulled into the driveway and our worker was waiting on the front steps. I was not pleased - the kids dentist appointment had run (very) long, and I would have liked 10 minutes to get things in order. But it was not to be. We were going to have to do this thing, and just hope that the house wasn't too much of a disaster.

And so it began. As we all walked in the door, the kids said "Hi" and then excused themselves to the TV room to watch a movie quietly (without being asked !) and Max grabbed snacks (without being asked !) and I settled down on the couch for the interview, proud of their well-mannered demeanor during this visit that was, ultimately, judging my parenting skills.

We were chatting away in the quiet living room, that for once (miraculously) wasn't covered in crap, and then it was time for the moment of truth: we needed to do the home inspection.

I cracked open the door to my room so that he could see my unmade bed and the curtains that never seem to get opened, then the bathroom. And then we opened the door to the TV room. Which is when I heard it.

"It's a hard knock life, for us."

Oh. My. God.
No.
Please, just.....no.

"No one cares for you, a bit, when you're in an orphanage."

No.

"Hey kids" said the social worker. "Whatcha watching?"

"Annie!" they replied cheerfully.

"Ah!" he replied.

I refused to make eye contact.

"And right through here are the kid's rooms!" I continued with the tour.

When we returned to the living room, the social worker left the door open to the TV room. And as I filled out the form, the kids continued to watch...........Little Orphan Annie.

"I'm an ordinary wooooman, with feeeelings...........I like a man to nibble on my ear."

Sweet Jesus.

"Why is she acting like that?" Lucy asked Max from the other room.
"She's probably drunk." he opined.

That lucky bitch.

I have no idea what you are talking about

I am sitting very comfortably on my recliner, ignoring the many MANY things I need to do today. Since we have made the decision and sent the notice to remove ourselves from Baby's case, I gotta pack up the baby stuff. Seriously. It's bumming me out.

And the 25 tanks of oxygen on my front porch? Yeah, those have to go too.....
Though I wouldn't see anything wrong with maybe putting on the mask for a few minutes and getting me some pure, medical grade oxygen, I simply don't have the time. I am too busy collecting all of the random medical supplies, and fielding phone calls from the hospital asking me why I stole the baby's food. Because clearly, it is a hot commodity, and I am selling it on the black market. I mean, isn't it obvious? (sigh) Too bad they didn't check the SHOPPING BAGS I brought to the hospital yesterday.

Whatever. I got bigger fish to fry.

There's the laundry.


And the dog, with all of his needs. GDD.

And the haircut I have needed since September.

And we have a situation on our screen porch that is supposed to be preparation for a yard sale that is NEVER GONNA HAPPEN and at some point, seriously, I gotta get rid of that crap.

But what am I doing? Sitting on my ass in my recliner. I did take care of one project: Clearing Off the Top of the Fridge, which had become a virtual candy mountain after two kids brought home bags full of valentines. Now, by "clearing off the top of the fridge", what I mean is I went through all of the cards and candies and school supplies up there in various plastic and paper bags, and pulled out what I wanted to eat, put the school supplies in Max's desk, and threw everything else away. Now I am sipping chai, and methodically eating my loot.

Items that made the breakfast cut:
Chocolate. All of it. Now right now now dammit.
Nerds
SweetTarts

Items that did not even get consideration:
LaffyTaffy
Cheap lollipops that were melty and messy looking

Items that have been stashed for later:
Tootsie Roll Pops
Lik M Aid

To be fair, the kids seem to have totally forgotten any of that was up there, so I don't feel bad at all about eating it. And it's bad for their teeth. And makes them hyper. And then they get headaches afterwards. So, I am actually doing them a FAVOR.

I am the best mom ever.

Who comes first

Well, I think we may have pulled the plug on our foster parenting experiences.

The thing is, you have to set your boundaries in terms of placements, and then, once they are set, you have to stick to them. Which can limit the number of placement possibilities for your family, but can also minimize the stress and drama you are exposed to.

For instance. We take only infants, under a year old.

Period. That's what we are set up for, that is what works with our family dynamic, that is the age range that I feel most comfortable caring for on the spur of the moment...I can usually comfort a crying baby in moments, even one that has been through trauma associated with being taken into CPS custody. Babies are my thing.

When they asked if we would take a medically fragile infant, I asked some questions, thought for a bit, and then said yes. Of course. Of course we would take a medically fragile infant. I understood that the commitment would be much greater. I adjusted my work schedule to be available to care for the baby, and flew to another island for training on the baby's care. But I also thought I understood the extent of the commitment. Which I did not. To be honest, I don't think anyone really did. And the fact is, the level of care required has increased in scope since I have taken custody, and since the baby's most recent hospitalization, and is no longer something I can provide while still caring for my children, and keeping our lives pretty "normal" - whatever that means.

So I threw in the towel. Called the whole thing off. Baby is in hospital again where he will stay, with his family by his side learning how to care for him and bonding with him, while the state finds a better solution. I hope they do their damndest to keep that family together, and keep baby in a very high level of care.

This has been a very hard decision to make. I feel sick about it. But the honest fact is, this is a very medically fragile baby, and it scares me to be responsible for his wellbeing when his prognosis is so uncertain. My children have already been in the middle of some very scary moments when the baby was in crisis. The stress of caring for the baby definitely reduces my ability to be there for them. The time involved took too much time away from them and their needs............it was just not something that could continue indefinitely.

So while I am very enthusiastic about foster parenting, it is with a caveat. Almost every child in the system has been through trauma. These children deserve everything we can provide, above and beyond their basic "needs" of food, clothing and housing. They need to heal, and be whole, and be cherished, and be the priority. They need foster parents who are kind, patient, and willing to learn about each child's special situation, and particular needs. There will be a lot of appointments. There will be a lot of adjustments and last minute changes and red tape and craziness that doesn't exist in our every day lives.

And while the experience has been amazing and enriching and illuminating and rewarding, it has also been emotionally draining. I remain steadfast in my priorities - my own family must come first. And if the chaos of caring for a foster child begins to affect my children negatively, well, I need to remember who my first priority will always be.

My children first, all children second.

Drama in pediatrics

Ugh.

I was going to go into this long-winded post about, well, everything....but you know what?

I'm calling bullshit.

As a foster parent, I really do have to live by someone else's rules. It's about using my best judgement, of course....but when you are using YOUR judgement about someone ELSE'S kid, well - there is risk involved in that. What if (GOD FORBID) something happened. Which is why you always play it safe. Always always always.

Which is why, this afternoon, after having Baby back in my care for about 4 hours, I called the pediatrician and told them that this was definitely not a good idea.

I am not going into details, because at this point, it's all just too ridiculous to recount.

But let's just say that the major chip on my shoulder from yesterday fell off and shattered in the face of such outragous bullshit.

I caused quite a stir in Pediatrics, offended the attending physician, got my social worker all stirred up in my tempest, and then fled the scene, forgetting to leave the baby's medications. Again. God, I suck. Trust me I do. The doctor even said so, when he suggested that maybe I wasn't competent to care for such a medically fragile child. Well, DUH. I am not a nurse, or a doctor, or a physician's assistant. I didn't even take a college level biology class for god's sake. I took SURVEY OF CHEMISTRY AND PHYSICS. IN HIGH SCHOOL. 18 YEARS AGO. So yeah, probably I am totally unqualified. But sadly, I am the most qualified candidate, and I am doing my damndest.

Let's change the subject, I'm getting all riled up again.

In other news......it's still cold and rainy. I wanted to go to Seattle next week, but frankly I got plenty of Seattle going on RIGHT HERE BABY. I just need to get me some funky black plastic frames for my glasses, and some Doc Martens, and I'll be ready to roll. So the fact that the aforementioned drama has limited my ability to buy planefare is less frustrating - I can close my eyes and pretend. Well, sort of. If only I had AnthropologieTargetTraderJoesandIkea my life would be semi-complete.

Oh, how I miss AnthropologieTargetTraderJoesandIkea. (sigh)

The true story of living the system

Last night, I slept. That sleep was rudely interrupted by having to wake up and go to work. What the hell ? Why can't I just put the entire world on "pause" so I can get some fucking SLEEP for once. Whatever (muttering to herself).

So I went to work, OKAY? I went, and I worked. But not without (and I counted) SEVENTEEN phone calls about Baby. Because anything involving the state is such a damned disorganized clusterfuck that seriously, I don't know how anyone can handle working in such an environment - windowless offices, with those horrible flourescent lights and gross wall to wall carpet and peeling paint and mismatched furniture. So depressing. (Think Joe v.s. the Volcano - a movie I have referenced more then once over the past few days in conversation, sadly - because my LIFE is starting to resemble parts of that movie.)

And here's another thing. You know, I am not a brainiac. But I can recognize stupid. And unqualified. And disorganized. And it just takes one or two people who have these tendencies, to completely screw up everyone else. I speak from experience, trust me. And today, well, fuckitall I was dealing with waaaay too much of that sort of shit. Which caused me to curse almost continuously in the walk-in cooler at the restuarant for 10 minutes this morning, and I continue to curse even now when I discuss it. As you shall see in just a moment.

I will give you a prime example of the ridiculousness, and the reason for the SEVENTEEN phone calls, which isn't really a valid reason at all:

The hospital couldn't provide baby with his medications, and wanted me to bring them to the hospital.
I shit you not, the hospital called, the social worker called, the nurse from the doctors office called, another social worker called, a third social worker called, another nurse called, and finally, I just stopped answering the fucking phone. Why enable that bullshit? Let's break it down - then maybe I'll feel better about this.

First - you are a GODDAMNED HOSPITAL. How can you call yourself a hospital (and the only hospital on the ISLAND) and not be able to make up any prescription ordered ? I have never in my LIFE been expected to bring medicine from home when I was admitted into a hospital. In fact, I belive it was strongly discouraged to take your own meds. Second, the baby had been in the hospital for about 18 hours before I was called about this. And of course, the calls came while I was at work and unable to BRING the medicine down - and so the calls just kept coming and coming and coming. They were even asking me to bring meds that the baby DOESN'T TAKE. Maybe that was for the kid in the next fucking bed because they aren't going to provide HIS meds either? Who knows. But here's the clincher. I wasn't called for 18 hours, because the only number they had was the number provided to them by the baby's social worker in the emergency room. So, after calling in the bio family (who showed up to stay with baby) and leaving all of *that* drama in his wake, he didn't give the staff his cellphone number in case of emergency (with baby or bio family) so they couldn't reach him after 5pm. Or maybe he just chose not to answer his phone, also a distinct possibility. And the nurses were not given any 24 hour hotline number to try to get in touch with someone else for assitance. They had to wait. And wait. And wait. All they knew was baby was in state custody - and the parent who had custody taken away was the one at bedside. Which seemed odd (understandably). This morning, when it was critical that baby have his meds, and the extended bio family was arriving and taking turns sleeping in baby's bed, the nursing staff was getting a bit anxious. What the hell was going on with this kid - And who the hell was the responsible party? And that is when the calls started coming in. Over and over and over.

(shaking head)

The lack of common sense in this world is alarming. And for the record, I do not feel better about this after dissecting the events of today. Now I am really pissed. If the social worker had simply given them a 24 hour contact number, the hospital could have called me - LAST NIGHT - and I could have brought down the meds LAST NIGHT, and everything would have been way less ridiculous today. But that is obviously expecting too much. Oh no, we needed to involve as many fucking people as possible. And since, apparently, I am the only one who answers their cellphone, I had to just suck it.

OK seriously I am going to be back later, with a nice, happy post about sunshine and cuddles and rainbows and fucking butterflies or some shit. Even if I have to make it up.

The Eagle has Landed

Baby has come home.

I am sleep deprived, emotional, and enthralled by this miraculous being, who weighed less then a pound at birth and managed to survive despite some incredible obstacles. I am a very proud foster mama.

We have spent the past few days getting into a routine of sorts. I wake up early, but instead of getting on line, I run the nebulizer while a bottle warms on the counter. Then, just before feeding (which, due to a few of the many medical complications is a process in and of itelf) I measure and dispense 5 different medications to address more of the medical complications. And then, after the feeding, we run the nebulizer again, with a different medication in it. Then change the diaper before I run around like a lunatic trying to get everyone to school.

This "getting to school" is suddenly a lot more complicated. I have to switch baby to portable oxygen, get everyone in the car - with oxygen tank, carseat, diaper bag and baby - and get out the door by 7:30-ish. Hah. Needless to say, I am still in my pajamas.

Once I get back home, baby is sleeping, and I have time to check email and make a few calls for one if my OTHER jobs. Then we run the neb, feed, change, and maybe try to run an errand, or get to a doctor's appointment.

Around lunchtime we feed, medicate, change, nebulize and run some laundry. If I am very lucky, I get a nap in.

Mid afternoon it's time for another neb, and we pick up the big kids. Then it's time for a feeding, and homework, and a neb.

By 5pm, I am mixing a new batch of formula (which has to be thickened and has very specific measurements of formula powder, thickener and water) I am also pulling out the meds for the dinner time dose, and basically I run an exact repeat of the morning - 5 meds, 2 treatments, bottle of formula, clean pants. By 5:45pm I am out the door to the restaurant, where I have started working nights so that I can be home with baby during the day. I leave baby pretty much ready for bed, dinner on the stove (or at least read to be cooked in the fridge) and I get back home in time for hte next neb treatment, before I crawl into bed.

It makes for a full day, but not just full of responsibility - full of love and joy and the feeling that we are making a difference in one small life. The kids take turns holding bottles and nebulizer wands, and the baby sleeps a lot which makes it easier to keep up with everything else. I managed to get the house somewhat under control this morning, it was very messy, with piles of clothes and medical supplies everywhere. Some supplies ave been safely stored in a suitcase in the corner of the living room - out of site but easy to access when needed. The laundry is almost caught up, and luckily I had the foresight to thoroughly clean the bathrooms before baby came home, so I can sort of "surface clean" until i get caught up on my precious sleep.

Speaking of which - it's nap time !