Do you know what it’s like to have a social worker tell you that the child you have loved and raised is leaving almost immediately?
Now I share this experience with his mother. She was told this when he was a newborn before he came to me. Now I am being told this while he is a toddler headed back to her.
We knew this day was coming. We knew. We are foster parents, and the goal of foster care is reunification. He was only ever supposed to be here temporarily. But time kept going, and dates kept getting pushed, until next thing you know, reunification seems far away, because it’s always been far away. And then you sit down for what you think is a totally benign meeting with the social worker and you’re told “he’s leaving. Presently.”
I’ve read about these situations. Going from 1 hour visits to reunification, but that happened to other people. In less progressive states. We would certainly be doing half days, full days, overnights, weekends… you know, the normal protocol.
The child whose open wounded skin you cleaned and soothed, the child you fed at 3am, the child you rocked for hours on end while staring at his beautiful face, the child you fed his first bite of food to, the child who called you mama first, the child who took his first steps to you, the child you advocated for, the child you loved as much as your own flesh and blood… that child is leaving. In two days.
My heart shattered. My stomach lurched. My voice sprung out of my body involuntarily like an animal wounded. My tears so thick I could not see. My hands shook. My face flushed. My head spun. This is the same feeling I felt when I saw my still baby with no heartbeat on the ultrasound. This is the first part of mourning.
I broke the news to my two oldest children as soon as I walked in the door. Captain held me tightly and said what I have drilled into their heads for months: “We knew this day was coming, mama.”
And so we did. And so he will leave. And so we will weep. And so we will mourn. And so we will worry. And after I deliver this baby who kicks so fiercely in my womb— we will open our home again. We will say yes again. We will love intensely once again… only to say goodbye, yet again. Because this is foster care.
Editing to add:
While I usually try to individually reply to each comment, I currently don’t have the emotional capacity to do so right now. Know that I have read every comment and appreciate each of you, your support, and your prayers.
To those who have walked this road already: I feel what you have felt. There is a comfort in knowing I am not alone.
To those asking why this happens: nothing illegal has happened, it’s more common than we think. I don’t make the decisions, because I’m just a foster parent. I may not always like the decisions others make, but I have to trust that this is just how the system works, and I will not let this sour me— just yet. Our work as a foster family hasn’t finished. (Though it will be on pause til the new baby is born).
We are hurting, we are grieving, but most of all we are praying for this little family that is going to be intact again, for peace, wisdom, strength, and safety. As sad and as broken as I am right now, can you imagine how over the moon his Mommy must be? I dare say as I am packing his things up with tears, she must be preparing with the world’s biggest smile!
We take the bitter with the sweet. Because that’s just what foster care is. Bittersweet.
Thank you again for all the love and encouragement! It has helped tremendously.