Am I enough for her?
I have been awaken from a sound sleep by tiny hands on my cheeks, with a little face whispering, "are you awake, mommy?" I find myself filled with guilt, why was she awake before me, why did I not hear her, why was I not there when she opened her eyes? Who cares if it's 2 AM, I should have known she needed me.
Am I who she needs?
There's moments when I say something so profound, that I become so inwardly proud of myself for the way I worded things in a way a child can understand, only to be met with a "But why, mommy?" that sends me back into a world of doubt.
Am I enough for her?
I watch in wonder as a tiny little person dances and runs and shouts and plays just minutes before bedtime while my feet drag up the steps and my body collapses into my bed at the end of the day.
Am I who she needs?
I listen on the other side of her bedroom door as she serves her dolls tea and cookies. Somedays I sit beside her dolls and am served the same pretend tea. But sometimes, the sometimes I wish to never admit, I sit on the other side of the door, exhausted and in need of a break.
Am I enough for her?
I watch her and stare in wonder as she lays on the bed next to the puppy and drifts off to sleep while petting her nose. Her goodness is unmatchable and makes me question my own.
Am I who she needs?
I watched in shock as she figured out how to open a bottle of apple juice in just under 3 seconds that I struggled with for nearly 20 minutes.
Am I enough for her?
I have watched her learn to brush her own teeth, wash her own hair, and buckle herself into her carseat. I have listened as she proclaims in a voice higher than my ears can handle "I did it, mommy, I did it!"
Am I who she needs?
I have seen masterpieces drawn on my walls, stickers permanently adhered to the side of my brand new car, and every time I think a tantrum cannot possibly get any louder, she proves me wrong.
Am I enough for her?
I have watched her regress in behaviors, only to excel days later, as if she has always known and mastered all the skills that come with being 3 years old.
Am I who she needs?
I have prayed and cried and given my soul away to help her learn her ABC's and how to count to 10. I have dragged her week after week to speech and celebrated each new sound she learns, only to forget to practice her words with her at the end of the day before bedtime each and every night.
Am I enough for her?
I just don't know.
Foster care is hard.
Today marks 120 days of life together and we celebrated with a picnic on the living room floor, ice cream and cookies, way too many cartoons, and letters to each other. She colors me pictures, while I write my 3 year old letters that she will never read. I do this every now and then when I find my heart overwhelmed and filled with doubt.
Am I enough for you?
I really, truly, just don't know. But I will continue loving you anyways. I pray and trust and hope that you never remember the days that I do. I hope you don't remember the day you moved in with me. I hope you don't remember today, even though it was a fun one where we laughed and got ice cream on our noses. I hope you don't remember day 30, day 60, day 90, or any of the days in between. I hope you don't remember the late nights, the shrieks you screamed as you relived nightmares, or the times when your feelings just became so big that you had no other option than to melt down. I hope you don't remember one of our first days together when I had no idea how to comfort you so we stayed awake all night crying together. I hope you don't remember fear or hurt or abandonment. I just hope you remember how much you are loved, and how much of my heart you occupy. I hope you remember that I would have fought off bullets and swam across oceans to make you happy and to see you safe, and have your little body healthy. I hope you remember the times when I let you stay up late, the nights I gave you extra cuddles, or the times I said yes to chocolate milk before bed. I hope you remember the day we yelled and screamed and smiled when you learned to skate all by yourself, completely unassisted. I hope you remember the day you ran into my room, jumped on my bed, and sang "Happy birthday to me!" seven months before your actual day. I hope you remember the love behind every thing I do for you.
I hope above everything else, all you remember is that you are loved and that you have always been home.
If I haven't said it before, foster care is hard.
It is just so hard.
It is hard loving with your entire heart, knowing there's a very real possibility that this little person calling you mama might go back to her first home or another home or anywhere else and she may forget all about you, while you know your life would never be the same. It is hard for me to live every day under the weight of guilt that I have been given the gift of this child, while the mother who gave birth to her struggles somewhere unknown. It is hard for me to not be angry. It is hard for me to not wonder, to not question, to not resent her first mother, wondering why I am picking up the pieces she broke and putting the time and effort and love into her flesh and blood, while she does nothing. It is hard for me to think past tomorrow. It is hard for me to think about her future, or mine, knowing it's all up in the air right now. Everything is uncertain, except the depth of my love for a child that is not my own, who calls me mommy... and because of that love, I question, "Am I who she needs? Am I enough for her? Am I what is best for her?" But I love anyways.
I worry about this tiny girl who will one day become a teenager and a woman and maybe one day, a mother. Will she know love? Will she feel love? Will she look back on her childhood and say, "I was loved." Will she raise her kids to know security and happiness and safety and love? Will her children be okay? Will she be okay, today or tomorrow, or in a week or a year or ever?
Will her family, the one now, me, her, the future, will we all be okay?
I just don't know.
But I'll love anyways...
