Archive for March, 2014

Published by PaintingChef on 31 Mar 2014

On popping my cherry and why mother isn’t currently speaking to me…

Today I am a mother. I don’t know for how long. But today I am a mother to an amazing little girl. She is smart and strong. She is funny and stubborn and she is oh so wise beyond her years. That part breaks my heart every day but every now and then it will produce a moment that kick me in the ass and the gut at the same time.

I was helping her get dressed for the bed the other night and she reached down and stroked my hip and said “I love these bumps mama. You’re so pretty and you give such good hugs.”

Oof. Gut. Kick. Heart. Bursting.

She loves those bumps. The ones that I spend way too much time trying to camouflage with just the right clothing and shapewear. They are pretty and they help me give good hugs.

That’s when I realized that, for now, it’s up to me. I am her female role model right now and what am I teaching her if I can’t show her that I love myself and think I’m pretty too? Just the way I am. I can’t wait to love myself, to embrace my body. This is me, today. Curves, bumps and all.

If DCS has their way, I may be the only positive female role model she ever gets. Yes, she is only four years old but SURELY I can instill something in her that will last. If I’m going to do that though, I have to first love the woman that I am right now. Inside AND out. It feels like a new beginning that I hadn’t expected. I want so desperately for her to blossom with confidence in herself. Her intelligence. Her kindness and the gentleness that she is capable of when she’s not trying to destroy the world… because she has that side too… She needs to know that she is worthy of a good life, of happiness and respect and fulfillment and love. I learned those things from the women in my life. My mother, sister, grandmother, great grandmother, aunts, cousins and friends. But somewhere along the way I think I forgot about it.

Until now. And I don’t want to ever forget it again nor do I ever want to forget who reminded me and how much she needs me. That’s where this comes in…

Tattoo

Published by PaintingChef on 07 Mar 2014

Today was a bad day.

Unsupervised Visitation. That phrase was in my email this morning and now I can’t breathe. I can’t look away from it. I cannot wrap my head around it.

I look into that girl’s big blue eyes (oh how I want to show them to you all. She has the biggest, bluest eves I’ve ever seen) and I know, in a place in my heart that I didn’t even know existed, that she is supposed to be mine. It took me some time to get here, to realize that I could carve out a spot for her. But I want her to be mine so desperately.

She is not mine. It doesn’t look like she will be mine. And it feels like someone has kicked me in the gut with steel toes boots. But my anger and frustration isn’t at her parents… I think that on some level they are trying. Maybe…?

Patrick and I felt like we went into this with our eyes as opened as they could be. We were under the impression that we understood the challenges of foster parenting. What we were completely misled on was the absolute pain in the ass and waste of government money (and I’m a tree hugging, universal healthcare supporting, recycled paper card carrying liberal) that DCS would turn out to be. Broken doesn’t even begin to describe the child welfare system.

Her social worker has admitted that she prioritizes reunification above A’s well being and comfort level with this whole situation. In my eyes, that is unforgiveable. It is heartbreaking. And it is completely fucking backwards. Patrick and I are treated as the villains on a nearly daily basis. Never had anyone made me feel as… marginal? Irrelevant? Unwelcome? As A’s social worker. We are the ones who are trying to help her. I’m not trying to toot my own horn here but I’m pretty sure we are the best thing that’s ever happened to her (In all honesty though, I imagine that was a pretty low bar) and we really do want nothing but the best for her.

But what I can’t understand is why nobody seems to even be willing to consider that what is best for her might be NOT being sent back to her birth parents. I am yelling so hard that I am going hoarse and nobody is listening.

People keep telling me that they don’t know how we are doing this. But the truth is this… we have chosen this. I keep telling myself that. When we were doing all those fertility treatments, I became ridiculously adept at compartmentalizing. Step, by step, left foot, right foot, this is what we are doing today. Take a deep breath; get through it and we can cry later. My entire psyche was rewired. I don’t know that that is a good thing. But it is me. The last 8 years have been a war and these are my scars.