The Five Little Ducks Blog

Many of you would know that a few months ago my husband and I made the decision to relinquish care of Miss A and Miss L at the end of this year. This was a choice made after several months of agonising soul-searching and thoughtful consideration. We informed Community Services of our decision, making clear two things; firstly, Miss A and Miss L could stay until the end of the year so that they could finish their school term and have Christmas with us, and secondly, we still want to be involved in their lives as Aunty and Uncle and as respite carers. We were blessed to have Miss A and Miss L’s maternal grandparents step forward to be assessed to become their long term carers. They have a strong connection with the girls, have experience of caring for them, and Miss A has frequently expressed the desire to live with them so they seemed like the perfect solution.

After months of not knowing what was going to happen, I learned at the beginning of school holidays that Miss A and Miss L would be going into a fortnight of respite care three days after Christmas. So overwhelmed was I by the fighting and tension in the home I wondered, how will I last another ten days?! Yet I was determined to persevere as planned, for the thought of quitting prematurely and Miss A and Miss L spending Christmas in crisis care, receiving generic foster kid presents filled me with sadness. Somehow we filled the days, with play dates and catch ups, playing in the yard, Christmas baking, Christmas movies, shopping trips, an art class with friends, chores and Minecraft. Our nieces had known for some time that I had asked the caseworkers if there was a chance for them to move in with their grandparents next year. Miss A was happy with this news and would often ask if the caseworkers had given an answer yet, while Miss L hoped that the caseworkers would say that she would be able to stay with us. Neither of them seemed overly fussed with this situation and mostly talked about the year to come as if the status quo would remain the same.

Two days before Christmas, a decision was made that Miss A and Miss L would transition from their respite carers’ place to their grandparents’ to spend the rest of the holidays and hopefully the coming year. A caseworker came to our home to inform our nieces. She sat on the floor in the girls’ room and handed each of them a wrapped Christmas gift. For Miss A, a journal decorating kit, and for Miss L, a box of Lego. The caseworker chatted jovially with the girls before turning to the matter at hand. Miss A looked deflated as she heard the news. The caseworker repeatedly asked her about her feelings, mostly Miss A complained that she was jealous of Miss L for getting Lego. This is typical of Miss A who has always hyper-focused on a minor source of irritation to mask her true feelings. Eventually she admitted, “I will miss my Mum.” “Which Mum?”, the caseworker asked. “Mummy H,” she replied, as if it were obvious. Meanwhile Miss L bounced and wriggled and giggled and chittered, skipping from one topic to the next, occasionally slamming her head into my lap as I scratched her back. Then she took off to play.

Over the next few days, Miss A and Miss L followed me endlessly, telling me I Love You Mummy I Love You Mummy I Love You Mummy… Miss L swung from this schnooky state, worrying about what lay ahead, to rebelling, storming off, slamming doors, pulling faces, screaming at us and back chatting. Eventually I took her aside and embraced her. “I know why you are acting like this,” I said. “I know that you are really sad.” She nodded, eyes brimming with tears as she tried to grin, tried to be brave.

Besides a few fights and negative moments, Miss A was less rebellious than normal. She was subdued, all of her usual bravado and cockiness leeched out of her. She was more helpful, more affectionate, needing constant hugs. I reassured the girls constantly that we could talk on the phone, see each other every week, have sleepovers each month. We will see each other all the time, I said. Not everyday, they said. I said that because we missed each other we would enjoy our times together more, that we would fight less, have more fun as Aunty and Uncle and cousins. I told them that they would enjoy having space, their own rooms and more attention from their grandparents compared to what I could give them.

Christmas Eve was mostly a happy day followed by a special night. After we got home from our Christmas Eve Church Service and BBQ, our family opened one present each, books, and devoured Lindt chocolates. Knowing the truth about Santa, Mr E and Miss A were allowed out of bed once the other children were asleep to assist me with the Santa illusions. We laughed on the front grass as Christmas lights twinkled around us in the cool night air, chomping on carrots left for the reindeer and spitting orange chunks about. Miss A enjoyed nibbling on the lemon shortbread biscuits left on Santa’s plate, then placed Santa’s gifts for the children in front of the tree and we scattered icing sugar on the carpet to create dust from the North Pole. Lastly she helped me write letters from our elf Ninja and Santa to the children to be read the next morning. Miss A was so happy and contented. “This was the best day of my life,” she said as I sent her to bed after the twentieth hug of the night.

Once Christmas Day was over (all of the kids thrilled with their gifts), I was able to devote myself to being present, playful, patient and available to the girls. It took a great deal of energy to be so switched on, being at the cost of basically neglecting the other four children in the house. Those times when the wheels fell off and negative incidents occurred were a reminder to me of how little it took to push Miss A and Miss L’s behaviour over the edge, even when I was attentive and affectionate.

Yesterday after a few hours at the beach, I took Miss A shopping for new socks shoes and “rainy day activities” to take to respite care, followed by an emergency grocery shop. Shopping with Miss A has never been easy, she struggles to make up her mind about what she wants yet wants everything, her hand always trailing across each object of her desire, one after the other. Her need for new things is insatiable. At the end I had to remind her of the several new things (socks, shoes, playsuit, activity book, craft kit, baking kit and a Kinder Surprise) I had already purchased for her, in addition to all of her Christmas presents, and say, enough. Yet, as I passed through the Woolworths checkout, a wave of emotion washed over me, and as I made small talk with the cashier, tears began to prick my eyes. My mind was assaulted by a barrage of memories of small talk made with cashiers. Upon seeing my ever-full trolleys they would often ask about my number of children. Six kids, I would usually reply, bracing myself for the questions and comments which would inevitably follow. I have six kids.

What would I say the next time I passed through a checkout?

Last night I sat on the trampoline reading picture books and playing with the kids until the mosquitos drove us inside. While Miss L couldn’t stop bouncing and performing front flips, cartwheels and forward rolls, Miss A stayed by my side, nestling in. For all of the times where she argued with me, hurled abuse at me and my kids, told me she hated me and didn’t want to live with me, now that it has been taken out of her hands and the reality has set in, even she seems surprised by how sad she is. A scared little girl snuggled me.

This morning we had a couple of friends over for a pancake breakfast, a fun little send off before respite. At 9.30, a transport worker was due to arrive at our home to deliver Miss A and Miss L to the carers’ home on a rural property about an hour away. The girls waited intently for the worker, their excitement about their farm holiday at war with their anxiety about the changes that would follow afterwards. I myself was filled with jitters and nerves as we waited. After ten o’clock a phone call from our case manager revealed that a transport worker had not been properly booked and we would need to drive the girls ourselves. As much as this threw out our plans for the day, I was secretly glad that we could do this one last thing for our nieces today, to spend this last snatch of time with them, and meet their carers. There were many hugs and assurances made as we were shown about the farm and chatted with the girls’ carers. Even they, having had her over twice before, were a touch surprised by how subdued Miss A’s mood was. As we drove away from Miss A and Miss L, looking a little forlorn and holding the hands of their respite family, I saw two little girls with big brown eyes aged 2 and 4, their hair pulled back into tight pony tails and wearing matching grey jackets, holding the hands of a caseworker, walking towards us to meet us for the “first time”, over five years ago. They called us Mum and Dad on the first day. They called every new adult Mum and Dad back then. That stopped when they moved in. The drive home was long, doubled in time by an accident on the road. Our kids were pacified during the journey by a bag of freshly picked plums given to us by the respite carers.

As we passed our kids’ school, the school that Miss A and Miss L will be unable to attend next year due to distance, a tear escaped and rolled down my cheek. As we drove along the familiar street on the way home, I saw myself pushing a pram, wearing my floppy, faded red hat, kids in uniforms and backpacks walking beside me, behind me, in front of me. My children. My six children. As we went by the jacaranda tree, our oasis on hot afternoons where we often stopped before the final sunny push home, our playground in November when the ground beneath was covered in a blanket of purple flowers… I saw Miss L sitting underneath that tree. I love this tree, she said.

And I lost it.

By the time I entered the house, I was sobbing. And they were everywhere. Their shoes, their drawings, their photos, their toys, their mess. Stupid thoughts popped in as I hastily spread peanut butter onto sandwiches for hungry children; who will eat all the eggs now? Who will eat all the cheese? My children were confused to see me cry so much, I explained to them why I was sad. Cheer up, Mummy, Mr J said. It’s ok, I replied. It’s ok to cry when you are sad. A while later, I heard Miss R call out their names in the hallway, a question. Then the sound of her bawling in the bedroom. We hugged and cried together. She confessed that she would miss chatting to them at bedtime. They were so annoying and she wanted them to leave, but she wasn’t ready for them to leave yet.

All afternoon and evening, fresh triggers have brought on more tears. Thinking about how to rearrange the girls’ room so that Miss M can move out of our bedroom and realising that for all their homes, they don’t remember living in another house. Thinking about Miss A and Miss L’s sad eyes and defeated expressions, so different to the tantrums and tears that no longer move me. Seeing Miss A’s water bottle in the pantry. Reading their Christmas cards to me. Seeing Miss L’s meerkat plushie “Minny” abandoned on the floor of the car, knowing its backstory of being a preschool “pet” which was lost in our home for so long that they let Miss L keep it.

For all this heartache, you might think that I regret my decision to relinquish care of Miss A and Miss L. I don’t.

Tonight, for the first time in years, I don’t regret taking them in in the first place.

I can’t say how I will feel about this in the future, but right now, I am thankful for this pain, this pain that reveals that perhaps those girls, those crazy, impulsive, lively girls that I have resented for so long, perhaps they left more of an imprint on my heart than I realised. This pain whispers to me that perhaps I l made an impact on theirs. If it can hurt so much to let go of them then maybe, somewhere along the line, I succeeded in making them feel loved.

We could have kept persevering, kept surviving day to day, kept counting down the moments until we got our next break from them. But it wouldn’t have been fair to them. As the children were all growing older going through the motions simply wasn’t cutting it anymore. They knew when we were faking, they knew when we were being unfair. It was becoming harder to divide up the love and attention equally. I was losing control of Miss A’s behaviour, and holding on just because you want to stay in control isn’t a good enough reason. I could see that I was falling short of meeting their needs. My husband and I were lacking patience, wisdom and maturity. I was suffering with depression, feeling like I was being whittled away from the inside by their constant needs. I was chronically stressed and unhappy. My body was screaming at me to let go. My heart rate elevated, and my stomach churned around them. Then there were my biological children, my four. My eldest kids had had to put their feelings on the back burner for years, they had held it all together for me so as not to add to my stress. Mr E became so angry and aggressive. Miss R had been the buffer between Miss A and Miss L for five years, the glue between them, the kid who taught them how to play. She was buckling under the weight of that pressure, her shell becoming increasingly fragile.

Six kids, two adults, a cat, a dog and three chickens jostling about. Their needs only growing in stature. I was caught in the centre. Juggling it all. I was trying to keep them all in the air, one after the other, trying not to lose my balance. Some weights were only growing heavier. Others felt eternally out of reach. Two kids on a pedestal, two others in the naughty corner, two little ones scraping by, still cute. It wasn’t healthy for any of them.

I could see where this placement was heading. It wasn’t anywhere good.

Choosing to let go of Miss A and Miss L was not an act of fear. It was an act of faith. It was an act of hope. To admit that I am not enough, that they were not thriving here and would be better placed with grandparents who can be more patient and loving with them, who can be more attentive to their needs and give them more space- this was an act of courage.

I haven’t chosen to send them to a different household to dissolve my relationship with them, I have chosen this path to save my relationship with them. I truly believe that in this different capacity, I will be a far more loving and attentive Aunty for the short bursts of focused attention (where I don’t have to feel so guilty about neglecting my birth children for a few hours or a weekend because they have me to themselves for the rest of the week). I look forward to enjoying time with them, and when my patience is all worn out, being able to send them back to a safe, loving environment. I feel excited about seeing them enjoy a cousin relationship with my children, where they can enjoy each others’ company and have fun together, without having to share a bedroom/house/car/mother seven days a week.

Perhaps I am being a little naïve about all of this going forwards, but I have lived without hope for so long, that to return to my optimistic, dreamy former self feels beautiful. Only time will tell how it will all play out, but I have a lot to look forward to. I have not finished crying for Miss A and Miss L yet, although my puffy eyes are aching from the tears that I have shed, nor have I overcome my grief for the loss of our dreams together as a family unit.

This year, two words have entered my mind time and time again. Let go. Letting go is scary, but it feels right. I am letting go of my identity as a foster parent, letting go of the financial support that comes with being a carer, letting go of resentment and obligation being the foundation of my relationship with my nieces, letting go of the fear that comes with the territory, letting go of my addiction to their drama and new material for my blog, letting go of guilt, and what remains when I have finished letting go…

Is Hope.

“Some of us think holding on makes us strong. But sometimes it is letting go.” -Herman Hesse

“Sometimes letting things go is an act of far greater power than defending or hanging on.” – Eckhart Tolle