The call came. Thirty-six days. April 2nd. Not April Fools, not “some time in April”, but an honest to goodness return date. Thirty-six days; eight hundred, sixty-four hours, fifty-one thousand, eight hundred and forty minutes. Thirty-six days.
I know there are those of you who will be unable to comprehend what a bitter-sweet feeling this is for me. After all, I’ve done nothing but whimper, whine, and complain since May 4th (the wee blondie girls arrived May 3rd). We’ve been jerked around by the court system, lied to by the case worker, and discovered that being a foster parent, isn’t necessarily all guns and roses, er, I mean a walk in the desert, um, that’s not right either. I think what I’m trying to say it hasn’t been all arsenic and old-lace.
It’s been hard work.
Frankly, I’m glad that this level of hell is nearly over (taken from Dante’ of course). Hell hath no fury like a tired mother. If I’d known then what I know now…would I have taken them? Would I have put my life on hold, gained weight, lost more brain cells than if I’d smoked pot every day, and forgotten what’s it’s like to sleep past 6:15 every morning, including weekends?
In a single word: Yes
It hasn’t been easy, sometimes it wasn’t even a little bit fun, but ahhh, the good times! The funny times! The huggy times!
In thirty-six days there will be no more of The Destroyer hugging me while saying, “Wuv you!” No more of The Monster’s bright observations, not more endless chatter, no more play dough, Donut Man, or Dr. Seuss. No more cutie little dresses or matching outfits. Gone will be the days of McDonalds play area and happy meals. Thirty-six days.
In thirty-six days they’ll live with their mother. They’ll watch TV all day. They’ll fight with their older brother. The Monster will eat junk food till she can’t eat any more. The Destroyer will be wearing a pull-up in stead of big girl undies. They won’t nap. I’m sure the honeymoon period will be glorious…but later…
Will the Monster wonder if she’ll get to eat the next day? Will the Destroyer wonder where we’ve gone. She thinks we’re mama and daddy . Has their mom learned to be firm and not let them get away with murder? Does she mean what she says and say what she means? Is big brother still a threat? If so, how much of a threat is he? Physical? Sexual? Will the boyfriend that is sure to appear be a nice guy?
I do know that they’ll smell of cigarette smoke all the time, even though Mom isn’t supposed to smoke around her asthmatic youngest daughter. I know they’ll be dirty, because that’s the way they always come home, er, I mean back after a visit.
In thirty-six days I’ll go back to bed after Beloved leaves for work. I’ll exercise and spend some quality time with Miss C. I won’t feel the need to stop by the bakery at the store, so wee blondie girls can get their free cookie. I’ll drink coffee with my coffee pal.
In thirty-six days my house will be clean. My cupboards will be empty of Dora the Explorer fruit snacks. There will be no tiny undies to wash, no Hello Kitty socks, no green froggy rain boots to stumble over. I won’t watch the Donut Man 300 times each day or wonder what time Strawberry Shortcake is on Saturday morning.
I won't yell. I promise. I won't feel as if my blood pressure is going through the roof. I will not be stressed. I will not say, "Get away from your sister," or "If you do that one more time..."
It will be quiet in thirty-six days.
I will write
I will read
In thirty-six days.
Miss C and I took the girls to the Oregon Coast Aquarium and Nye Beach. It's just one more thing we wanted to do with them before they leave.
The Destroyer's old nickname was "Crabby Claw" since she came to us in a full arm cast, leaving her left hand looking more claw like than hand. Thus a picture with the Japanese Spider Crab was a top priority.
The Monster in the fish tunnel. If you haven't been, you really should go.