Our boy fought and flopped his way to sleep last night. Then, the moment he slept, the dog made herself sick. After another walk around the block to help her get it out of her system, the house finally fell still and my husband and I sat beside one another for a short, sweet while, the white whoosh of the vaporizer in our son’s room the only accompaniment to our quiet conversation, and that same confession fell from my lips, as it’s prone to do every so often:
“I want to foster again.”
“Did you read about the 4-year-old today?”
“I don’t read those stories,” he said.
I get it. Those stories are nightmares. Really, does anyone read them?
“That’s why I want to foster again,” I said.
When I was a foster mom, sometimes all I did to help was pour cereal. Or fill up a water bottle. Or chauffeur a child from school to agency to house. Sometimes all I did was give a kid a safe space and nourishment for another day. Sometimes I did more than that. Either way, I think I helped a little bit, for a little while, at least some of the time. For a lot of kids who come into foster care, that’s better than the alternative. For some, it’s the difference between life and death.
I want to help again.