Thanks to a sleuthing social worker, I am in possession of an early photo of my son. Methinks he is three, maybe, two months old. I am grateful to have it, as it is the oldest record I have of his newborn eyes, nose and hands.
Older foster children and those who age out of the system typically are not in possession of baby pictures, report cards or teeth rescued by the tooth fairy. Sometimes the foster parent is too busy with day-to-day stuff or the child’s stay in their home is brief or in the roulette of multiple moves, personal belongings get lost. Either way, the lack of such meaningful items leaves a hole in his or her-story. Pictures, I might add, are proof positive that a child wasn’t born at age 7.
Luckily an adoptive mom and photographer got the memo and sent photo announcements of her newborn 12 year old son. Though he came into her family’s life with nary a picture, she has made sure that going forward, his milestones will be well documented.
“Here’s my sweet not so little newborn! His name is Latrell and weighs 112 lbs.,” his mom Kelli Higgins proudly announced on Facebook, where the boy’s simple wish created an online sensation.
via "But I have promises to keep…" | eyan-j: marfmellow: Adoptive mom’s ‘newborn’….
The phone calls will stop if I return the Resource Family Home Profile.
I don’t know why it is taking me so long to complete less than half a page. I have no desire to be a foster parent. Being a foster parent means remembering that the placement is temporary. Fostering means knowing that in a day or week or month the child(ren) in my care will leave for destinations unknown. Plus, I get attached too easily and don’t know how my son will respond to kids coming in and out of our home. And yet, the calls with tales of the 21-days old African American boy or six-weeks old baby boy in need of immediate shelter are tempting.
Sometimes I dreams about my next child and feel haunted by the calls. Is the universe trying to send me another precious gift to love and possibly adopt? Should I say “yes”, rather than pause before eeking out a pitiful “no”? After disconnecting the call, I feel bad. I think: may be I could put a crib in my room, make arrangements to take the baby to work with me or get an older child and skip the diaper/teething stages altogether. May be.
May be I am in the midst of the mommie jones matrix and my judgment is compromised. Not known for being especially practical, I do have moments of clarity. This is one of those moments, ’cause I don’t have space for another baby, extra money for daycare or additional time to do any more than I already do in the allotted hours of each day. Saved by prudence, I push my reluctance aside, write I do not wish to participate as a foster parent, seal the envelope and personally serve the postman.
Though my hand written explanation feels contrary to my mission of familial expansion, it is a necessary decision.