Whose Children Are These?

Car accidents stink.

Always.

Sometimes, though, even a fairly minor one can stink a little bit more than it should.

Today I was in a car accident with two of my foster children.  First of all, let me say that we are all fine.  Let me say that I had just dropped off two other foster children for a family visit and had four other foster children (respite kiddos) at home with Jon.  I have my beloved B and B, who were also at home with Jon.  It was so fortunate that I only had two children with me instead of the ten I could have had in the van (I cannot even imagine).  The two who were with me did not even cry or show any sign that they had a clue that anything had just happened.

We were so very fortunate!!

And, yet, the experience highlighted something for me that stinks more than a minor car accident.  The first responder looked into my van and almost took my breath away with his question, "whose kids are these?"

I am reminded really, really regularly that I am only a foster parent, and that four of the six kids in my house are not even "sort of" mine.  I have social workers.  I have lawyers.  I have CASAs.  I have parents.  I have visits.  I have paperwork.  I have training requirements.  I have to take babies with no teeth to the dentist.  I have to have written permission to put lotion on three of my kids.  I have restrictions about where I can go (want to go to Grandmother's house?  let's get three documents with six separate signatures first.).  I can only use my own pool under certain conditions.  My cough drops are double locked.  There are alarms on my back doors.

But, somehow, even with all that "abnormal" living, I am able to feel "normal" once in a while.  I do all the day-to-day living and loving and wiping and feeding and hugging and reading and "twinkle, twinkle"-singing and buckling in and mothering of a normal mom.

I think that is why it was such a smack in the face to hear that question, "whose kids are these?"  I knew, way too clearly at that moment, that these were not my kids.  I had no say about whether they had to be transported to the hospital by ambulance even though they were obviously fine.  I had no say about whether I could be deemed an unfit foster parent because of the accident and have each of them taken out of my home to be with a new mother.  I had to worry about their other mothers learning about this accident and what they would think of me.  I had to worry about what the caseworkers and lawyers and CASAs and the supervisors of them all would think of me and my abilities (and worthiness to parent).

Accidents happen.  It stinks, but they do.  I don't know if my van will be quickly and easily fixed.  I don't know what my new insurance premium will be.  I don't know how much the ticket will cost.  I don't know if the lady in the other car is in pain tonight.  I don't know if the insurance will be enough for her to be back in that car or another as quickly as she needs it.  I just don't know.

What I do know is that, today, we were all OK.  I do know that every single social worker I talked to today only cared that we were all OK.  I do know that no social worker knocked on my door, demanding to take these kids to some mom who never makes driving mistakes.  I do know that I tucked 10 children into bed tonight--the luckiest of moms, "normal" or "abnormal."


So, we have another day together.  I will enjoy it and them even more because I know how lucky I am to have them for another day.  


"Whose kids are these?"  Well, you know what?  For the precious moments I have them, they are my kids.

Sort of.