What are YOU looking at, PUNK?

So began one of my first conversations with one of our new foster daughters. Noooo, I didn’t say it, thank you very much. The four-year old did. I promise. From her car seat as I looked over my shoulder at her before driving off to find a daycare.

60404-haxtongustnadoIn case you were wondering where I’ve been, I have to say I think it was in the midst of a gustnado, literally and figuratively. Summer storm season is here, and so is, thankfully, some rain. But we’ve had plenty of rainbows, too, and that’s what I’m focusing on.

Last month, we received a call from CPS, asking us if we’d take a one-year-old girl. We were excited. This was it. What we’d been working for all this time! We made all the calls to our parents, friends, and whoever else should know, only to be disappointed the next morning when we got the call that we wouldn’t be fostering that child at all,  because of some snafu. Yes, Situation Normal, All Fouled Up.  (Okay, military guys, I know that’s not exactly the way it goes, but I’m a mommy now, and have to clean up my act.)

But the very next afternoon, we got a call from CPS asking us if we’d take a three, nearly four, year old girl THAT NIGHT, for an emergency placement. Wow. Talk about a tailspin. Of course we would.

At that point, the storm front came through.

I was already behind at work, but I overcame that and joined Mr. Man at home, where we waited. And waited. Finally, up the sidewalk, came our little girl. Hair a-tangle, dirty, with only the clothes on her back, and miserable. Evidently, the removal  had been quite a scene. We don’t have a complete picture, only what we can form from bits and pieces. I have a feeling getting a whole story will be difficult, and will probably never happen. Suffice to say, the child was in desperate need, and we were desperately ready to start giving her any help we could.

The caseworker stayed quite awhile, trying to smooth the way in the introductions, but really, how  can anything make it any better? Girlchild (as she will henceforth be known) had been plucked away from her Mommy and Daddy and didn’t understand why, but had some ideas in her head about it already.

The caseworker had to leave, and, already crying, Girlchild’s heart-rendering sobs shattered the tentative silence of the room that had been laying in wait, ready for a child to come live there. Her heart was broken. Mr. Man and I tried to soothe her, but nothing we said made  a difference. I held her sweaty little body as she bawled, red-faced and snotty, and clung to my neck. I felt  at a loss, while at the same time,  God forgive me for the fleeting thought, hoping the lice in her hair didn’t jump into my own. But I was incapable of hesitating, parasites or no. Her need outweighed my concern ten-thousand fold.

After awhile, she drew back, and took several hiccuping breaths.

“It’s my fault,” she said,  her voice matter-of-fact.

“What?” I asked,  not wanting to believe she’d said it.

“It’s my fault. Every time my mommy gets in trouble it’s because of me.” Hiccup.

“No, baby. It’s NOT your fault.”

“It is too.”


More crying.

“My mommy doesn’t love  me.” Sob.

“Yes, she does. She loves you so much.”

“No, she doesn’t.”

“Why do you  think that?”

“Because she told me.”

THUD went my stomach. What could I  say?  “No, darlin’ your mommy does love you. I know  it.”  I hope I’m not lying.

Another thing her mommy said to her, according to Girlchild, came to light while she was with my mom the next day.

“My Mommy says I’m stupid. She doesn’t like me.”

“Why do you think that?” Mom asks.

“She told me.”

Ouch. Mom did her best to deflect this train of thought, and reassure  Girlchild.

A few days later, we get a call, asking if we will take Girlchild’s sister, Ladybug (so called because of a recent face-painting experience.) Ladybug is five.  All over the place. She’d been staying at a local assessment center with the two older siblings. Why she didn’t get placed with us at the beginning, I don’t know. (Get a running theme here? ‘I don’t know’ is a recurring phrase in dealing with this foster parenting thing, or so I am learning.) So the drama  was less when Ladybug joined our household. But it’s still a sad situation, for reasons I’m not at liberty to discuss.

I have so many things that I CAN share with you though. And I will. But over time. Time…such a precious thing.

So now, we have two little girls.

And the same week, we signed a contract to build a house. Yes, it looks like we are finally going to move. The builder, nee his assistant,  assures me that if we don’t sell our house by August, there will be an investor that will buy it. I just hope it all works out. I am afraid to get my hopes up, but BOOM there they are.

Oh, and did I mention the plague sinus infection/cold/whatever I’ve been fighting this past month? *COUGH*

AND our car club hosted a fundraiser for Relay for Life with PT Cruisers from 8  different states attending.

AND I still have both  jobs.

Not that I’m a whiner or anything, it is what it is.

I’m thankful for the girls, for however long we are blessed with them.

I’m thankful for the opportunity for a new home.

I’m thankful that I have work, to give me money which I’ve already spent.

I’m thankful  for Mr. Man, who has taken to this Daddy thing like a duck to water. What a guy.

I’m thankful for the new friends that we made, and the money that we raised to help battle cancer.

God is Great.

And with that, I am going to bed, y’all.


2 Comments on “What are YOU looking at, PUNK?”

  1. Travis Erwin says:

    Hang in there. It’s bound to get easier.

    By the way I have an interview with Linda Castillo up over at my blog.

  2. Selma says:

    God bless you for taking in those little girls. I can imagine that their stories must be heartbreaking. This post made me feel good because for the moment, they are safe!

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