Memoirist Idol

A Little Girl Joined Us

And then she left again

A long time ago in another universe, a little girl joined our family. We were not to know she would be a temporary gift.

She joined us as a toddler; her elderly foster mother had a medical emergency and all three children in her care needed to be moved. Lisa was brought to our home with little fanfare and none of the usual processes for shifting a child from one home to another.

We had two birth children at the time who were five and eight and had been waiting for an adoption match which hadn’t yet happened. For certain, we would have adopted Lisa but the social worker said they were working on a plan to place her with an aunt and uncle, family members, always a preference.

Her birth father had passed away and her mother who had serious addiction challenges was in the process of having her parental rights terminated. She was constantly disappearing from the radar of social services and had not been turning up for the supervised visits she was entitled to.

Meanwhile, Lisa worked her way into our hearts. She was indeed a very endearing little one. In all our social circles where she was of course part of our family, folks knew that she was a foster child. Not that we made a point of telling anyone, but when a child arrives in your home abruptly one day and you then go out into your community it is apparent you did not give birth to them at the age of eighteen months.

And there were constantly people who asked if she could be adopted. By them. We were frequently suggesting that if folks wanted to foster or adopt there were lots of kids waiting. She was just not one of them.

Although we had been told that she would be with us for just a couple of months while they did a quick home study on the family members who wanted her to join them, the time flew by.

About seven months later we informed the social worker that we would be moving to another province temporarily so that my husband could go to school there. We were happy to take her with us.

We were told under no circumstances could that happen. They would move her to another foster home since the home study for the waiting family was not done.

A week or so later the receiving foster mother came to visit. We spent time together with Lisa. The social worker came the next day to see how things had gone.

I pointed out to her that the new foster mother seemed nice. Lisa had responded to her as she did to any stranger in our home. Politely but pointedly ignoring her for the most part and turning to me to have her needs met. Lisa thought of me as her mother. That’s what often happens when a very young child lives with a primary caregiver for many months when there has been a complete loss of the former one(s).

I suggested that at the very least maybe it made sense for her to have only one more move. From our home to the one that would probably be where she would grow up. I explained how hard it was going to be for Lisa to leave us. A place where for all these months she had come to feel loved by our immediate family, grandparents, aunts and uncles, and friends. It would be a difficult move.

The social worker seemed shocked. Maybe what I told her was an epiphany. Moving kids is hard on them. Duh. I wouldn’t have thought this was rocket science. Perhaps she was new. Maybe she had little experience. Maybe Lisa was just a cog in her system.

But my words had an effect.

A week later I got a call. The move to the new foster home was off. The waiting adoptive mother, the sister of Lisa’s birth mother was going to fly from her home in the north of my province. She would come for a week and stay at a hotel nearby. We would do a transition that would be Lisa’s last.

Carla arrived on a Monday morning. The social worker picked her up from the airport and brought her over. We chatted for a while and Lisa watched us. Carla was a quick study. She knew that she needed to give Lisa time.

Every day that she came over she interacted a little more. One day I handed her the food I was preparing. Lisa watched her serving up lunch. Put it in Lisa’s dish and placed it on the high chair table. Sat next to her. I handed Carla a toddler spoon and she held out a mouthful for Lisa who watched my reaction. For every action that Carla took to care for Lisa, I expressed my support. That this new person was more than OK, and that I trusted her.

I stood beside Carla while she changed Lisa’s diaper. Later we played together, rolling a ball between us. At dinner time Carla interacted with the other children. We created laughter and after we ate sat together in the living room while Lisa ambled between us.

With me beside her, Carla put Lisa down for a nap, then did the bedtime routine. The first time she gave her a bath we did it together. The next time Carla did it herself.

We put a t-shirt of Carla’s in the crib with Lisa. One that smelled like the soap Carla used. By the end of the week, Carla was doing everything with Lisa who still sometimes eyed me with suspicion. As if she was wondering why all of this was happening. But at the end of our shared time, Lisa was comfortable with Carla. Often going to her first to read a story, or to show her a toy.

When I took Lisa and Carla for our last trip together to the airport it was all I could do to hold it together. Even though I knew this was a good outcome: that Lisa would live with her aunt and uncle and would not have to move ever again it was still heartbreaking.

All of us sat around that evening in a state of grief and loss. This little girl who had formed part of our days for eight months was gone.

Carla sent us photos of Lisa in her new room in her house. She had a big brother and she looked happy. It was good to see.

We knew then that foster parenting was not a road we wanted to travel. I admire people who do so, but for us, it was not the way.

I will always be able to picture Lisa’s lively face. For only a short time I was her mother, and that is a memory I will always carry. Somewhere inside her, I think she holds a little of me too.

“The love we give away is the only love we keep.” – Elbert Hubbard

If you would like to read another memoir, here you go. I love this story below so much partly because I adore the food Terry Barr describes so eloquently and the memories they stir. Read on: