Sometimes We Fail

Last Thursday, the puppy who lived with us for nearly 4 weeks, left in the arms of her new, ecstatic, human family. The rollercoaster that led to this decision leaves us now feeling both hugely relieved and utterly heartbroken. We feel sure that it was the right decision to make, though loving and losing is never easy.

We now know that I am apparently allergic even to hypo-allergenic dogs. And, as I suppose was predictable, we know that our children do not enjoy any chores that must be done on someone else's--namely a puppy's--time table. We have come to realize that there is a point at which even we--lovers of excitement and constant chaos--reach our limit. Sometimes too much is too much. Sometimes our hands really are too full. Sometimes we fail.

When Luke and Jaz were newly 2, Lena and I decided to become foster parents. Our dear friends had at that point adopted 3 children (they have now adopted four) through the state foster care system, and the stories they told us about some of the homes their children had lived in before coming to them were truly horrifying. Having been a stay-at-home mom for two years, I was itching to do something that would make me feel like I was making a difference in the lives of people outside our family. Our goal in becoming foster parents was to foster newborn babies who would only be in care temporarily before being reunited with their birth families, believing that even a few months--or weeks--of attachment and love would impact them indefinitely.

The process of getting licensed was lengthy and involved Lena and I taking evening classes, social workers making many visits to our house for interviews and home inspections, and collecting letters of recommendations from people who knew us well. While we were going through it, the vast majority of our friends and family members were trying to talk us out of it. My mother was so opposed to the idea that I didn't even tell her when we actually started the training. Everyone thought our hands were full enough with our twin toddlers and couldn't possibly understand why we'd want to add foster babies to our chaos. But I had a vision. And I had to try it out.

After nearly 6 months, we were finally approved. I got the call at about 10:00 a.m., saying that our license had come in to the local office. Two hours later, our social worker called back and asked if we would consider the placement of a 3-day-old baby boy. I first met baby Isaiah two hours later, in the parking lot of Stop & Shop (I remember wondering if Luke and Jaz--who went with me to pick Isaiah up--would be permanently confused about "where babies come from"). He was a teeny tiny thing, weighing only 6 lbs., with a full head of hair, dressed in a stretch suit that was much too big for him. The social worker who delivered him to me simply handed me the baby, along with a small, half-drunk bottle, and drove off, leaving me standing in a daze. I went inside the grocery store to buy some formula, and then drove to Lena's work so that she could meet the baby.

That night--our first night with Isaiah--I bathed him and studied every part of his perfect little body. I could hardly sleep all night, every time the baby would wake to eat, I felt I needed to examine him further. It reminded me of the night after Luke and Jaz were born. I wept for Isaiah's mother and wondered where she was and what she was doing, imagining her breasts overflowing with milk for her absent baby. Over the coming week I struggled between feeling like I needed to fall in love with Isaiah, so that he would feel real parental love, and feeling like I needed to protect my own heart. Caring for him was much harder than I thought it would be, the sleep deprivation from having to feed him bottles in the night was like nothing I had experienced breastfeeding twins, and the lack of postpartum hormones or opportunity to nap with him during the day (due to Luke and Jaz) soon made me feel like a zombie. It was also hard to keep sight of our original goals, hard to justify prioritizing this baby who would not be a member of our family forever. Luke and Jaz's needs always took a back seat to the baby's needs, and while this is easy to justify when adding a baby to your family permanently (in which case the boys would be gaining a brother), it was more difficult when the reality was that they were missing out on our attention and gaining very little in the long-term.

The social worker had told us that Isaiah would likely be with us for 3 to 4 months while his mom got herself back on her feet. But in actuality, Isaiah was with us for only 2 weeks, after which point the social workers had determined that reunification was no longer the goal, and Isaiah moved on to a pre-adoptive home. Heartbroken, but also relieved to get to sleep through the night and give my full attention to Luke and Jaz, we probably should have determined right then and there that fostering was not going to work out. Instead, not ready to admit failure, we welcomed a second baby into our home just a week or so later.

Bree was 10 months old at the time, and as sweet as can be. Her mom had voluntarily placed her in care while seeking medical treatment for mental health issues, and we were her second foster home in a week. In some ways caring for Bree was easier than caring for Isaiah, because she did sleep through the night, and readily drank her bottles (feeding Isaiah often took upward of 30 minutes), but it was also harder because her presence made more of an impact on Luke and Jaz (she could crawl and get into their toys, and required that anything "tiny" be put away). Luke and Jaz had thought Isaiah was adorable, but they did not like Bree. Everywhere I went with three little ones under age 3, I'd get the "wow--your hands are FULL!" comments (which, honestly, have been a constant throughout my mothering career), but at this moment, it felt really true. After a couple of weeks with Bree, I felt like it was honestly more than I could handle. We called the social worker and told her we were done, and sweet little Bree moved on once again.

As difficult as it was to admit our failure as foster parents, the calm that followed made our life seem exceptionally peaceful and easy. The tension I had been holding inside me was released and I felt myself relaxing for the first time in a month. I enjoyed my children in a way that I hadn't been able to in a long time and felt grateful for our family being just as it was. The experience of having--and then letting go of--Tula has felt remarkably similar. The fantasy both times was so wonderful, and the reality so much harder. And failing was so painful. Who gives away their kids' puppy? Who sends a baby on to yet another foster home? How can we justify these decisions? Announcing that we were wrong, that we had failed, was not easy. But ultimately, we had to realize that it is better to recognize our mistakes and rectify things than to go on living in an extremely stressful situation. Our home was not a good home for a puppy, who largely needed to be segregated from the kids lest she chew them up. And it was not a good home for a foster baby, who needed a family who could prioritize the baby's needs without guilt. Realizing that I am not capable of things that I WANT to be capable of is probably the hardest part for me. I want so badly to be able to take these kinds of challenges in stride.

So, we're back to being "just the six of us" and life feels doable and sunny again. We all miss Tula from time to time, but her absence is largely a good thing. The kids realize that she was more than they could handle, and Lena and I do as well. Jaz is saving his money for a pet lizard. Tula's new family--some friends of ours who live off the grid in a neighboring town--is so happy to have her and it seems that everything worked out as it was meant to, heartbreak and all.

The other day Lukas realized when we were half-way to school that he had forgotten to bring along his library book, which was due that day. I could sense the panic rising within him, and he and Jaz began theorizing about what his fate would be when he arrived at school empty-handed. I anticipated that he might flat out refuse to enter the building--Lukas is the definition of a perfectionist and prides himself on following every single school rule--but when we arrived, he surprised me by saying, "you know, everyone makes mistakes, mom. It will be OK."

And it was.