The Five Little Ducks Blog

I see it a few times a week. An article popping up on the Facebook newsfeed from a Fostering page I follow. The articles are about foster carers, ex-foster kids, adoption, government processes…and in each blurb, the hashtag “openyourheart”.

Each time I see this hashtag, my heart withers a little. Because I opened my heart. And now it feels bashed and bruised. My heart is a mess. My heart has motion sickness. It is tired of the roller coaster. One moment we are making amazing progress, the next we have major regression. Every day I wake up hopeful; within the hour I am weeping and screaming internally (and sometimes externally…) due to the constant bickering, nastiness and talking back.

My husband and I are hoping that it is just end of year madness that has made the last month so challenging. Challenges include regular morning tantrums from Miss A about the tightness (or looseness) of her underwear, shorts, socks and shoes. Miss A and Miss L have taken sibling fighting to a disturbing level, where it is not uncommon to hear Miss A say something like “you don’t look pretty L” or “everybody don’t play with L!” Trying to investigate the cause of their arguments and physical fights is like trying to untangle a matted ball of yarn where you can’t find the end piece. Except that with a stupid ball of yarn you can just throw it in the bin.

Miss A’s moral compass continues to point her in the wrong direction. Lying occurs more than daily, and now we have theft to worry about. M&Ms from Woolworths. Coins from her teacher’s desk. Money from her friends. I feel ill-equipped and do not know how to handle this situation. I feel a little sick when I see that Miss A has been eating strange foods again, like dry cat food or frozen fish fingers. Miss L’s (lack of) impulse control continues to land her in trouble with all sorts of bizarre incidents and outbursts. A couple of weeks ago we were crossing the street when I realised that she had separated from the group and was veering towards traffic. I called her over and on the footpath reminded her how dangerous it was to walk off on the road like she had, and I asked her to hold onto the pram for the rest of the journey. She slumped down to the ground and refused to get up. I could not get her to listen. Each time I made a move towards her, she moved back. She was screaming so loudly and either stayed on the ground or would sprint ahead of me. I was so stressed that I picked up my phone, my arms shaking, as I seriously considered calling Community Services and telling them that I had given up on being a carer. Asking Miss L to do the simplest things at the moment can take her from level 1 to 10 in an instant and result in screaming, defiance and aggression. With an active construction site next door I have been scared on a few occasions that the builders would call the police upon hearing her prolonged blood-curdling screams. I never know where I stand with this girl. One minute she worships me, actually bowing down before me, constantly telling me that she loves me and I am her best friend, trying to kiss me, her hands always wandering where they shouldn’t. The moment I set some kind of limit, like asking her to stop kissing my necklace or to move her hand, she moves away and glares, gritting her teeth, grimacing and frowning, puffing out of her flared nostrils like an angry bull.

Several times lately I have heard the girls say things like “I hate this stupid family, I want a new family!”

At those times, I wonder if they would be better off if I let go of them. I feel like I am a terrible carer. I get too cranky, fixated on the small things. I am not as nice as I thought I was. They deserve someone who can love them harder. Someone who can delight in them and not get offended when they don’t like her rules or cooking. I care about these girls so much. Their triumphs are my triumphs. I love seeing them dance and have fun. Their birthdays excite me as much as my biological children’s birthdays. Miss A has thrived in her first year at school and is reading and writing well. As I watch her growing up, I am planning for the conversations that will need to take place about her changing body. I want to be there for all of the major milestones. I want to see these girls use their talents, finish high-school, to lead purposeful, meaningful lives.

Perhaps my love for them is too conditional. Too outcomes based. I have a tendency to catastrophise every incident. My anxious mind jumps to the conclusions that sibling squabbling will one day equal assault. That the boundary pushing will become a drug addiction. That the thefts will one day land her in gaol. When I imagine a future where Miss A and Miss L completely rebel against us and choose to follow the paths their parents have taken, I worry, will my sacrifice have been worth it? Will the daily stress, the domination of my time, the chaotic atmosphere of our home, depriving Mr E and Miss R of a normal upbringing with calmer, happier parents; all be worthwhile?

However, this is not fair to Miss A and Miss L. My love for them is lacking grace. It is human nature to rebel. When Mr E tells me he hates me, my feelings are hurt, but I do not actually consider that he would permanently leave home at 13 and end up on the street. When Miss R speaks rudely to me and pouts, it never crosses my mind that she will be a grumpy, unproductive member of society. Should my own biological children one day make choices that disappoint or distress me, I might question how I could have raised them better, but I doubt that I would say I had wasted my life caring for them, or resent their existence within my family.

We all sin. We all fall short.

We do not come as infants (or foster children) into a family and sign a behaviour contract where we promise to follow the beliefs of our parents and to somehow become perfect individuals with better grades, better health, simply better in every way than our caregivers could ever hope to be.

As parents, we make a promise to our children that we will always love them, cater for their physical needs, nurture their souls and educate their minds, and then we must release them into adulthood; allowing them to make their own choices. When I look at my mother and other parents of adult children, I see how the job of being a parent never ends. Their children may be grown, able to clothe and feed themselves, perhaps even living away from home, but a piece of the parent’s heart is carried around in the adult child’s body. To be a parent is to have an open heart. And having an open heart hurts. But it also can be wonderful.

My feelings for Miss A and Miss L are like a see-saw, constantly bobbing up and down between elation and depression. We have seasons of hardship. I know that the times of gladness will come again. Followed by more difficulties. Up and down, back and forth. We experience this day to day and through the week.

So I will keep waking up hopeful. My heart will remain (painfully) open and I will pray that God will help me to be a more patient and gracious parent. And I will think of the good moments. Miss A, so eager to learn from me in the kitchen, the fabulous banana cake she made, her desire to help me wrap Christmas presents in the same way I always wanted to help my mother. How excited she was when she came home from respite care to see Mr J and our puppy, and how happy she was to run straight through to our shambolic backyard to play. How Mr E was cranky when she came home, but after he stubbed his toe outside and Miss A helped bring him in, he sobbed and said “I hope A doesn’t hurt her foot”. Miss R so happy to see them come home. Miss L bouncing on the trampoline, always chatting about something. Her giggle. Our pleasant day together last week when I took her to see a specialist in the city, how we held hands for hours and went to Max Brennar for a treat, just the two of us.

Let us hope that this summer, there will be many more wonderful moments.