I know there have been so many questions and words being spread around the last month or so, and I have tried to come up with words that would summarize the last 30 days of my life, or something that would give it justice and would put all the questions to ease... but I tend to come up short every time I try. Please don't think I was intentionally trying to keep anyone in the dark. That was never my intention. I just struggled to keep privacy for her, settle in to a routine, and figure out exactly how life was going to work, first, before I let everyone in on the last 30 days.
I answered a phone call in the beginning of January and before I could even think or ask a ton of questions, a tiny little familiar face was plopped down in the middle of my life who immediately started calling me “mommy” on day 1. Day 1.
Life changed quickly after that.
It's been 30 days.
Thirty days of laughter, changes, love, discipline, healing, and hope. Thirty days of learning how to live life together. Me, a 27 year old, single, hot mess of a girl, who still eats cereal for dinner and Her, a 3-year old, innocent victim of trauma, who still shows love in every twinkle in her eye, foster child.
My schedule of doing whatever I wanted whenever I wanted turned into appointments and visits with doctors, therapists, family members, social workers, and caseworkers. My nightly ritual of watching TV until I fell asleep while multitasking to finish work turned into reading “three little bears” and kissing a little sweaty forehead multiple times after chasing her back to bed. I started shopping for bandaids, fruit snacks, and sippy cups. I started listening to Disney radio, learned the lyrics to “baby shark,” and memorized the little tickle spot on the back of her leg that would send her into a little ball of giggles.
It’s been 30 days.
I have laughed harder than I imagined... mostly while trying to find the balance between redirecting bad behavior and explaining that my job is to make sure she is safe and that she grows up understanding right from wrong, all while the 27 year old child inside of me finds everything she does absolutely hilarious. I have found my “mom” voice that tells her I mean business... only to laugh in her face while I explain why it is not okay to take an older man’s cane and run away.
I have redirected her as she pinches the cheeks of a toddler friend at daycare and says, "Oh, she so cute!" while this small friend is sent into a whirl wind of anger and pain.
I have watched her repeat every inappropriate thing I say when I think she isn't paying attention, watched her intentionally do the opposite of what I say with a grin on her face, and have listened as she teaches the dogs to be nice.
I have listened as I have told her to stop doing a certain behavior, only to have it met with her saying, "No talk, mommy. No talk." I have choked back laughter and forced a smile away as she watches me brush the knots out of my hair as she says, "Be strong, mommy!" I have listened to her greet me nearly every morning by saying, "Where's your smile, mommy? There it is!"
It’s been 30 days.
I have seen hope flourish under the most difficult situations. I have seen hope change the entire world for this child, who trusts easier than she did 30 days ago, who talks more, who thinks clearer, who throws tantrums more, and who embodies healing after nearly a lifetime of trauma.
Hope has this way of changing everything, and while I have spent a lifetime knowing this phrase, for the first time in my life, I have seen it. Never in my life did I ever think I would have tears of joy and my heart would burst wide open over a tantrum. But it does. It does every single time because she finally feels safe to let it all go and show vulnerability in a world that is completely out of her control. She feels safe to express how she really feels. She feels safe to be three years old. Finally.
It’s been 30 days.
My friends have become “aunts,” in ways I could never express gratitude for, my parents added another “grandchild,” and my employees, have without hesitation, stepped up to the plate and carried the slack I couldn’t, they have all watched over and have volunteered without asking to play for endless hours with a little girl that considers Tiger Bounce her stomping grounds and her own personal buffet. My employees are her family and she adores each and every one of them, just like I adore them. She prays for my best friend every night and asks for her kitty cat, and at least once every night, she climbs out of bed to ask for reassurance that she’ll see my best friend and her cat soon. She asks daily for my friends little girl, who has become her best playmate and biggest cheerleader.
This is her village. My community has become hers. My supports are now hers. My family is now hers. She knows love from the people who love me, for how ever long she needs.
It’s been 30 days.
I spent half the day that first day trying to help her say “Tedi,” while showing her a stuffed teddy bear and doing everything in my power to get her to say my name. I tucked her into bed, read 10 books that night, made 4 trips to the bathroom with her so she didn’t wet the bed, and then finally after she was under the covers and falling asleep, she sat up, put her arms around my neck, and she said “night mommy,” before rolling over and closing her eyes.
I was never Tedi to her. I was her mommy from the first day she fell asleep in my home.
I went in the next morning, at the crack of dawn and the earliest I’ve ever been awake in a decade (9 AM), and I sat in her therapists office and said, “She called me “mommy,” and it’s not even been 24 hours yet. What did I do wrong?”
She sat across from me. She explained foster care. She explained 3 year old brains. She explained my role. She explained my job. She explained, in the simplest terms, that right now, in her brain and in her life full of unknowns, I was the “known.” I was the caregiver. I was the one she felt safe with. I was the one she trusted. I was the one, when needed, she knew would respond. I was never Tedi to her, the hot mess of a girl who eats cereal for dinner and forgets to put on pants before answering the door. I was never “Tedi,” but rather “mommy” from day 1, because 3- year olds struggle with everything around them, they don't know much, and they get confused easily, but they all know they should have a caregiver.
It’s been 30 days.
Thirty days of upholding promises, of learning, of making mistakes, of advocating for her wellbeing, of sleepless nights of worry, of lots and lots of kid shows with cartoons that all look the same, of redirecting, of reading the same book over and over and over again, of finding hope in small moments, of watching the toddler & the puppy create a bond that is out of this world, of figuring out each other and of living life together.
I left the therapist’s office just barely 24 hours after she first walked in my home, fully understanding for the first time the weight of the absolute heartbreak it is for another woman’s child to call me, “mommy,” and the privilege it is to keep her safe, and happy, and healthy for as long as she needs.
All wrapped up, foster care is a desperate need, a devastating reality for way too many children, and a second chance for hundreds of families.
This is her second chance.
For me, I vowed that day, that I would uphold the commitment I made to this child when I answered that call, for as long as the state allows, so that she never truly knows an identity as a “foster child,” and is able to know and have a family, to feel care and love, and to finally see hope. For as long as she needs, whether a week or a month or a year or forever, I am this little precious girl’s "mommy," and I will never stop advocating for her, her biological family, and her future.
And the awe of that will forever bring tears to my eyes.
This little girl is worth it.
