“Why do you love us?”
I was not expecting this question, but, as strange as it sounds, I was relieved and grateful it was being asked.
We were tucking the girls in to bed one night during their first week at home. It was late. Probably after 9 p.m. (Since the girls were placed with us, our bedtime routines have become bedtime un-routines. This, too, shall pass.) We had been in their room for awhile, tucking them in, tickling them, laughing, re-tucking them in. our girls have been particularly hungry for connection at bedtime. James is this way, too, and I suspect it’s the same for parents with biological children. But with the girls, their willingness to play, to come out of their shells right at the time we were hoping for calmness and quiet was as frustrating as it was encouraging. These are important bonding moments in the lives of foster-to-adopt children, especially ones as old as our girls (4 and 2, respectively) who have been placed multiple times.
In the first few weeks (or months) of a new placement, even in a situation where the path to adoption is clear and expected, it’s normal to feel like an acquaintance with the kids. You’re a parent, and they’re your children (and will be, legally, at some point), but you’re just feeling each other out. Their brains are on high-alert; they’re in survival mode (to say nothing of yourself). In some ways, it doesn’t matter how thoroughly you roll out the red carpet when they arrive. You can swing all afternoon under the ponderosa in the backyard, you can read books for an hour before bedtime and you’ll still wonder when the attachment will start to deepen. They are vulnerable, tense, trying to cope with another uprooting.
It’s easy to feel like a hero when a child from a hard place—an abusive, neglectful, unsafe home—comes to your home. If in fact you are not abusive/neglectful/high all the time, then everything is an improvement for that child, even if she doesn’t realize it at first. The whole trajectory of that child’s life is now changed; the horizons of the possible now stretch in an entirely different direction. Most foster or adoptive parents don’t see themselves as heroes, and a good foster parent is a humble foster parent. (One of the first things we learned about welcoming a child from a hard place into our home is that for every one thing we ask them to change, we must be willing to change 10 things.) And a good home isn’t a perfect home. Yes, you have something to offer. Yes, the horizon of the possible looks bright and boundless for this new child in your life. Still. I’m a sinner more harsh than I realize. I’m a recovering Older Brother who can be short on grace. These sins manifest themselves in a parenting style that can mess up a child just as surely as the sins that warrant removal from a home.
But what happens when a child comes to you from a good home? When they come to you after being in a safe, loving and faith-filled home?
This is our situation with our girls. In the four months prior to being placed with us, they had been at a wonderful home in Larimer County. It was going to be their forever home. Then the couple got pregnant with twins and decided they couldn’t handle, in good conscience and in good faith, a four-person instant family. (Um, yeah. No judgment here.)
When we were matched with the girls, we saw plenty of similarities between their situation and James’s. Lots of transitions, little stability and some of the trauma/unhealthy coping mechanisms associated with such upheaval so early in life. Lindsey and I felt confident in our ability to make a forever home for these girls based on what we walked through with James.
Lindsey attended one of their play therapy sessions about a week before they transitioned to our home. The therapist made it a point to share with us that the dynamics at play in this situation are very different than in a “classic” placement scenario. It’s hard for the girls to go from good to good, she said. They’ve been in a place where healing can begin and roots can start to push through the topsoil…and suddenly they’re transplanted again. No explanation. The speed of this particular transition made things even more confusing. These girls went from a safe, warm environment with a big backyard to a safe, warm, environment with a big backyard in two weeks. Because…why? They don’t know why their former foster parents couldn’t keep them. Their brains can’t make sense of it. Their hearts can’t understand it. It’s just another transition in a life already too full of them.
So there I was, saying goodnight to our older girl, telling her I love her, when she asked a question I didn’t know 4-year-olds were capable of asking.
Why do you love us?
At that point in time, she had never told me she loved me. One morning at breakfast she started crying because she missed her “home.” In that first week, she was often quiet and made little eye contact. Even at bedtimes, she would be economical with her words—her laughter and giggles almost a shield to protect her from fully engaging with her heart and words. When we introduced her and her sister to Lindsey’s mom—their new Nana—she said how excited she was to “stay forever” at Nana’s house.
Why do you love us?
I told her that we love her because we love her. Because she’s our daughter. Because she’s precious. And this is why I was relieved: actual conversation and engagement was happening; words were coming out. This was healthy. This was progress.
She didn’t say anything. She just looked at me with river-brown eyes. I think maybe her question was one of permanency. My other mom and dad said they loved me. But I don’t see them anymore. Why do you love me if I’m not going to stay here forever?
You can’t earn forever-trust overnight. You can’t bring healing all at once. It requires a slow and steady rain, softening the ground to the point where it’s ready to open itself up to the beauty and risk of sunshine.
One evening, at the end of their first week with us, we were outside at dusk, swinging under our ponderosa. We have three swings: a traditional “big kid” swing, a swing for toddlers with leg holes and a buckle, and a “monkey swing” that’s like a mesh platform that swings from a rope. The kids take turns in each swing, and as it happened, I was pushing our older girl on the normal “big kid” swing. I started telling her a story about a bird looking for a home. (She kept telling me to “read her a story.”) So I’m pushing her gently on the swing, making up this story as I go. She’s smiling, making good eye contact. It’s a moment.
Then, mid-sentence, she interrupts me.
“I love you,” she said.
There’s a brightness in her river-brown eyes. Her inflection is sincere, eager. Her eyebrows are up. She is home.
“I love you so much,” I said, kneeling down at her eye level.
She didn't ask why.