Crazy Little Thing Called Grief

Our family got to go to Disney at the beginning of the month with Adam's parents and one of his sisters. It was a truly delightful time, and the boys had so much fun. They talk about Disney one way or another every single day. This was our second trip to Disney with the Tomberlins. Each time we've gone my mother-in-law takes us into a cute little Christmas shop at the Magic Kingdom to pick out an ornament or two (or three this time around). It's very sweet, and I can imagine the boys will be even more excited to put on our Disney ornaments this year. [As in, I'm sure they'll fight about it] 

As I perused the shop, I found the ornament I wanted that would always remind me of this year's trip. At my mother-in-law's prodding, I looked for another ornament. And I spotted this one.

And I cannot explain why, but I got choked up, feeling the loss of the baby I won't hold this summer. There was something about seeing these three little bears that made me aware that I'm always going to be one bear short. Adam's mom and sister asked me why I wanted this ornament, and I said that I felt like it was a picture of my life for a while, referring to Sammy, not the baby I was thinking of. Because those three little boys really were like these three bear cubs from the movie Brave. But in my heart, I was pondering a different little one. 

This incident happened the Thursday before Mother's Day, so I probably should've anticipated a little heaviness with Mother's Day. But I didn't. Not that there's anything I could've done about it, but despite repeatedly coaching myself to be so thankful for the healthy children I have, my mind kept wondering to the one I don't have growing and rolling around in my belly right now. I typically feel almost embarrassed that I still get upset about this miscarriage, especially in light of so much sadness and heaviness around me. Thankfully, going through this has made me so much more sensitive and aware of others who have experienced loss or long to be Mamas. And I reached out to a couple of them to let them know I was praying for them and knew Mother's Day was probably very complicated for them. 

I think the layering of a miscarriage and Sammy's departure maybe intensified each other. Sometimes the sadness still comes out of nowhere, and I guess that's just grief. I'm assuming next Mother's Day won't sting like this year's did. We might have different chaos in the house with a different foster child that will heavily distract me. But I'm glad I went ahead and got the ornament. Even if this year it reminds me that I've got a bear missing. 

The Part Everyone Dreads

It's May 1st, so we've gone a full month without Sammy.

The first two weeks were very hard for me. I tried and tried to put words to what I was feeling, but I couldn't, still can't. It was the strangest thing to have this noticeable gap of someone missing. My schedule blew wide open without his therapies and appointments. I was feeding one less mouth, buckling one less carseat, and hugging one less little person. Sammy took up much of my mental space for a lot of reasons, so I was left with just gaps all throughout my day. While much of my work load was lightened, I quickly picked up the weight of how this transition would affect him.

Part of what was so strange about him leaving is that he was just 10 minutes away but it felt like he was plain gone. 

When we dropped Sammy off, we immediately left for a Lighthouse retreat, and by the time we got to Florida, I regretted the decision to do this retreat 100%. The heaviness was thick, and I didn't know how I could possibly step into an attitude of service. Two days after we arrived, one of Adam's co-workers casually asked us how it went dropping Sammy off, and I choked out, "I'm not quite ready to talk about it," and then I turned my head as tears quietly made their way down my face. It was a hard week being in retreat mode, and then we had to face our first week at home without Sammy once we returned. 

We got home at 9:30 at night from a very, very long day. We were quickly ushering the boys to bed, and I saw Sammy's room, door wide open, and I had to catch my breath. We're home. He's not. 

But with each passing day, our new rhythm was more firmly established. Life with two little boys instead of three continued to be odd, but I mentally began to make the shift.

In the weeks leading up to this transition and in the weeks after, I cannot count how many times people said to me, "I don't know how you do it. I couldn't. I couldn't let them leave." 

It's a hard thing to hear over and over. Because most of the time you have no choice but to smile and nod and clinch your jaw. 

But the thing is, there's nothing special about us. This is hard. And it should be. But what you realize about fostering in literally no time at all, this whole thing is not about you. It's just plain not about you. The moment Sammy came into our home, our efforts have been towards his wellbeing, his healing, and his growth. He deserves to have people attach to him because it is for HIS good. It's ok that this was hard on us. It's ok that we got attached. Because taking in a child who has no one was never about us. And Sammy was never ours to keep. This broken system of fostering often means someone gets hurt. But the hope is that  these kids who have already experienced trauma are better off because of the pain we experience once they leave. 

We have lived through the part that everyone dreads. We've lived through the loss, and now that I'm on the other side, I'd absolutely do it again. We have every intention of doing it all again. 

We are now a month post transition. Sammy came to our house last week for a few hours because his foster parents needed childcare. And it was the oddest thing. There will always be a special place in my heart for that little boy who wrecked me in ways I needed to be, but there was this confidence in my heart that he no longer belonged with us. I could tell that I was no longer carrying the weight of his wellbeing. Now I get to be on the sidelines cheering his foster family on. 

We made it. We loved. We lost. And we're okay.