The girls’ long-term foster parent had an emergency and had to go to be with her family.  She did not know how long she would be gone.  The girls, elementary school students, had developed a strong bond with Foster Mama and felt safe with her.  They suddenly felt scared.  Where were they going to go?  Were they going to see her again?  We cobbled together a respite plan and moved them within hours.  It wasn’t

Dear Ms. 6,

            You arrived in a storm.

            It’s okay, I whispered, sliding under the kitchen table next to you. I’m scared of storms, too.

            I didn’t sleep the first night week month ever again, slipping into your room to make sure you’re still there.  “If you get sick, or scared, or hurt,” I reminded you endlessly, “you just come into my room and wake me up, or call my name, and

Stoic.

That is an appropriate description of him.  Mr. Stoic.

When the big sad thing happened, his face remained still and guarded.  He blinked hard a few times, but in the moment, he kept every muscle under the tightest control.

At the park when other kids were whooping on swings and careening down the slide, limbs flailing, he followed their paths, but there was a firm concentration on his brow.  He pumped his legs in

At age 91, Nana decided it was time to retire.  She turned 90 last year during the early days of the pandemic.  We couldn’t celebrate her in the way we’d wanted.  Nana called us early on.  “I don’t think I should take any children right now.  It just doesn’t seem safe.”  We agreed. 

Nana was in her 60’s when she started fostering.  She’d always wanted to, but hadn’t had the time.  Her children were grown

The goodbye was a hard one.  As soon as the kids learned that they were going to live with their relatives, behaviors that had long since stopped began cropping up again.  The cuddly children who once snuggled in for stories and movies, who danced in the living room to music, who were joyful turned angry and closed off.  Hurtful words were flung about, tantrums were common, and fists were even raised at Mama T.  “You’re

“I’m her seventeenth.”

Foster mom’s voice was full of emotion.  My eyes widened, my skin prickled. “Seventeenth?  Home?”

“Yes, she’s seven, her sister is four, and I’m their seventeenth.”

A is seven years old and has lived in seventeen homes.  D is four years old and has lived in nearly as many.  For the seven year old, that means a new home roughly every four months.  For the four year old, that means a new

Mrs. M was gone for two weeks.  She cried for the first two days, then checked in with the respite parents regularly.  “Is she doing okay?  Is she eating?  How is she sleeping?”

Mrs. A, respite parent for Mrs. M's 13 month old miracle baby (born substance exposed at 26 weeks gestation, in the hospital for nearly three months before her release to our foster parent, Mrs. M) carried Little Miracle into the office, beaming with delight.