Here's what I know: I am a foster mother. The whole idea that we are a flexible family is just a marketing myth propagated by Washoe County to make me their bitch. What I am is a foster parent. That is, until I am not.
A is currently making bad pretense at napping, and I am fretting. We have another visit planned with her bio-dad today, and I am dreading the fallout. After the visit on Tuesday, the first thing she did when she walked back into our house was walk right up to Tony and hit him with her tiny fist. Nice.
Her caseworker admits that the visits are not doing her any good, but even bio parents who don't work their case plans at all have rights. More rights than kids who are horribly confused by the contact. These visits are turning her world topsy turvy. She's mad, she's sad, and she doesn't have the cognitive or language skills to process it. So she cries, she screams, and she rages at any little thing that would normally roll off her back.
All I can do is watch in frustration, and accept the fact that she sometimes wants me to hold her, and sometimes doesn't want me to touch her at all, and has no way of telling me which it is. So I try to comfort her, and sometimes she curls in a ball against my body. Other times she scowls in indignation at the very idea of being offered a hug.
My tender, tender heart. Holy smokes. I already love this little girl. I'm a goner. But I am not her mother, really. She calls me mommy, and I take care of her, but I have to know my place. And right now that place is at the bottom of a legal totem pole.
Pardon me for being morose. Sleep deprivation, etc.
Maybe when she is having her visit today, I'll walk down the street and ogle my cute skater baristo and have a latte. That might cheer me up.
Image: http://www.gearfetch.com/shop/index.php?cPath=125
No comments:
Post a Comment