The Five Little Ducks Blog

It is 5.30 am.

I am writing because I woke from a dream an hour ago and I haven’t been able to coax myself back into sleep. In the dream, we were having a family party, and Miss A and Miss L were there with their grandparents. As it was time for them to say goodbye, Miss L was carried away from me. The force of that moment startled me awake and tears slid down my cheeks. My heart ached, a visceral pang in the centre of my chest. The pounding within my ribcage was almost audible; I felt its erratic tempo thrumming in my veins.

I haven’t seen Miss L in eleven days, and I am longing to give her a cuddle. We have had longer absences from seeing each other since she and her sister left over three months ago, but mostly, we see each other at least weekly. After our nieces left, my husband and I discussed the future of this blog. I suggested that it be best that we shut it down, after all, it is a fostering blog, and I am no longer a foster parent. I feel like their story is no longer mine to tell. But this blog has also documented my family’s story these past several years, so I thought I could share some updates.

Thus far, this next chapter has progressed almost exactly as I had imagined it would. My mental health has stabilised, our home is calmer and more peaceful, and my children are doing well. The best feedback that I heard came from staff at Mr E and Miss R’s school who said that they seemed happier and more confident this year, and that they walked through the gate in the morning with their heads held high. The dynamics between my children have been interesting to observe as the chronic stress that kept them compliant and united has been removed.

I remember chatting with a friend a few years ago, comparing the way my biological children got along, compared to Miss A and Miss L. “My kids are so nice to each other! They stick together,” I said. She remarked that they were this way because there were other children in the house, and if we didn’t have the girls living with us, they would be normal siblings who fight. A few people made jest that once our nieces left that my children would step up and fill the drama void. While I never expected perfection, I mostly blocked out their words. I knew in my heart of hearts that my children would be happier and more peaceful with two less kids in the house. Would this be a Little Ducks blog if I didn’t confess an area of personal naivety which left me unprepared for reality? The thing which has surprised me most is that my children are so annoying! Mr E is obsessed with shaking his bum and wiggling it at us, Miss R can act a little entitled and her shyness embarrasses me when people are just trying to be friendly, Mr J’s speech delays are wearing thin and his whines and squeals are screechy, and Miss M has hit stubborn toddler-going-on-teenager territory (she knows what she wants and has already nailed an embarrassed eyeroll accompanied by “Mu-um- Stop!!”).

At first, being annoyed by my kids was pure novelty; when you are barely staying afloat your biggest concern isn’t the sound of seagulls squawking above but the water filling the boat faster than you can scoop it out. The most annoying thing of all is when my children are fighting, a sound which is like nails on a blackboard. Mostly the arguments occur between my sons due to Mr J wanting to emulate and play with his big brother and Mr E snapping at him. Mr E and Miss R can both be prone to pessimism and declarations of who is the worst sibling in the world. The fighting all seems like normal sibling behaviour however, it is usually easily forgotten or resolved, and by days end Mr E is reading to Mr J, snuggled into bed together. If we are running late to leave the house it is usually because we have been too relaxed to get ready quickly, and the children are rapt in play, whereas in the past the mornings were stressful and angst-ridden, when Miss A was most likely to refuse to get dressed, threatening to run away or enact violence…

Without the pillar of trauma in the home, my husband and I have argued more as we have been forced to confront communication issues that we have swept under the carpet for years. One of our primary sources of stress now is adjusting to living on one source of income (while we were foster parents, we received a regular allowance from Community Services which made it easier to splurge on new clothes and birthday gifts for the kids, plus take-aways, holidays and excursions). We have stopped saving money and have regularly been drawing from our savings accounts to keep up with our expenses and are still learning to cut back. I have returned to study with the hope that someday I can contribute to our family’s financial future; this has been accompanied by its own stress and adjustments. While this shift has been tricky to navigate, I know that we made the right choice. If we had persevered for the sake of keeping our income the same, we would have been raising our nieces for the wrong reason. I remember walking past a cafe last year, before we had chosen to relinquish care, with a sandwich board out front which stated, “If it costs your peace, its too expensive”. You don’t understand! I argued with the sandwich board. It isn’t as simple as that! But by golly, the sandwich board was right. The inner peace I have now, feeling sound of mind and comfortable in my own home, getting to raise my children the way I want to… it is worth everything.

As much as I feel that we are all moving in the right direction, this journey has not been devoid of guilt, regret, concern or sadness. While I do not feel that it is my place to share about Miss A and Miss L, I will acknowledge that this period of adjustment has not been easy for them and their carers. They are safe and loved, living with their grandparents. I hope that as time progresses it will get easier for them all. While we have been seeing them regularly enough, we have not been allowed to have them for sleep overs as initially hoped and contact has been somewhat limited, as their caseworkers feel that they need to settle into their placement and understand where their forever home is. When we do see one another, I am glad to be able to dote on them and mostly be the patient, loving Aunty that I had hoped to be. Miss A and Miss L need a lot of cuddles when we are together, and I am happy to oblige knowing that all the hugs of a week need to be squeezed into one short interaction. Even when we are not together, they are never far from my mind. Their photos and drawings are still displayed around the house. When I come across a piece of their handwriting scrawled in a card or on the fridge, even the wall outside; my heart tugs. There is something so personal about an individual’s handwriting; a moment captured in time, an invisible line from their mind to their hand to your heart.

Facebook memories regularly serve to remind me of happier times in our placement, when things were chaotic and complicated, but the weight of juggling my family’s needs hadn’t yet overwhelmed me and I still had hope. Each photograph is charged with emotion; I can remember how I felt when it was taken, what interactions had led to that outing or moment, both good and bad. And I know that it wasn’t always so bad. Everyone knows that I struggled to manage Miss A’s behaviour, but there were seasons when I managed fine with her, when she was happier, more cooperative and enjoyed attending school, and I was having greater difficulty with Miss L’s hyperactive, impulsive actions and defiance. It took a couple of years to develop a strong bond and positive relationship with Miss L. When I see those photos I wonder when that pivotal moment was where we could have changed the trajectory of our placement and supported Miss A better. How could I have made her feel more loved? How could I have supported her relationship with Mr E so that it didn’t become so hostile? Should I have pushed harder for more therapies, more respite, a bigger house? Could I have fought more for keeping Miss L? I tried, I did. I know they are both hurting now, and they probably feel rejected and confused. I persevered for so long because I wanted to provide stability for them; in the absence of their biological parents I hoped that belonging to a family would be enough.

Grief does not progress in a straight line. It halters forward, doubles back, endlessly creating loops in my head. It knocks you sideways when you least expect it. When we were finally allowed back onto school premises at collection time a couple of weeks ago, I half expected to see Miss A bolt towards me as she had done when she was younger yelling “Muuuu-mmy!” or Miss L impishly grinning as she walked past with her class, cheekily stepping out of line to give me a hug or call “Hi Mum!”. I stood in the quad with tears pricking, sad for the family that no longer was. I especially felt their absence at the Easter Hat Parade, wishing I could see them pass. Memories are triggered by all sorts of places and events. As we played in the massive puddles near Mr J’s preschool after recent heavy rainfall, we all remarked about what Miss L would be doing if she were there- I lost count of the times last year when she soaked through her school shoes and covered her uniform in mud by playing in puddles in that same spot. While that is a happy memory, I remember the stress too as Miss A kept splashing and upsetting the other children, so we had to designate one puddle the “calm puddle” and the other the “crazy puddle”, but as Miss A kept changing her mind about which puddle should be calm and deliberately splashed the others, we had to leave. I feel her there with me as I am walking or driving and I can recall the times she yelled, screamed and reacted as we pass certain locations. Going camping these holidays, I remembered the stress of our last camping trip as Miss A repeatedly became unreasonable and aggressive. While I might wake up crying from one dream, I awaken with pure relief from others where I am ensconced in stress, and I am lightened by the knowledge that I am no longer the responsible adult in their lives.

A couple of hours have now passed since I started writing this blog entry. My children all got up, haven’t even asked for breakfast and have been busy playing (mostly peacefully). Occasionally I can hear their laughter. There is less angst in our home now, and there is more balance. There are times when I must pause to mourn for what was and what could have been, and others when I am simply grateful for what is. My heart feels heavy. My heart feels full.

I need to get on with my day, as a mother, a wife, a student, a friend. And I look forward to my next chance to see two special nieces, and be their loving Aunty H.