It's Friday. Friday is a favorite day of mine, not because it's the end of the week--for me it's not--but because of the kids I get to see today. You know, I am fully aware that getting attached only means more risk of problematic issues, oversights, heartbreak. But how can you not love the little girl who busts a move like Michael Jackson or the boy who likes school so much he's actually disappointed when the weekend rolls around? How is it possible to close your heart to the siblings who sing along to every song and the ones who throw themselves onto each other in huge hugs every weekend? I've learned that it's not possible, that in fact I'm going to love many of these kids fiercely, and unexpectedly. With all my kids, I hold out hope that the family will be able to regroup stronger and more stable than ever before. And with all my kids, I keep the reality that that may not happen in the back of my mind. Equal chances for both to occur.
He is little. He looks like a character from a Pixar movie, like a younger version of another one of our kids, like chances. He loves to blow kisses from the backseat and grins widely every time I catch his eye in the rearview mirror. He knows I take him to Daddy and he reaches his arms up to me with all the trust in the world. Daddy hasn't shown for a few weeks now and, unfortunately, today is no exception. I like him. I believe he is doing his best and I really want to give him all the chances in the world. He's on thin ice though. Office policy doesn't always line up with my own philosophies but they are not mine to change. We get to the office and go in to find a tearful message from his father; he can't make it. Little one hangs out with a few coworkers while I call his foster mom; they fall in love with him as fast as I did. Once I've reached foster mom, we head out. He walks on little feet, grinning up at me as I take big steps alongside him just to make him laugh.
On the ride home he is fussy and upset. The foster mom warned me that he was tired and having a hard time napping; the trick for us when kids are inconsolable, especially the under 5 crowd, is to crank the heat way up and play NPR quietly. Works like a charm, every time. I look back to see his head tilted back, mouth slightly open, small fingers clutching the sides of the car seat. Angels have landed on his eyelids, he breathes even and raspy. When we get to his foster home, I slip one arm out of the strap, then the other. I lean my shoulder in and rest his head against it, then move us both awkwardly until we are upright. He hasn't transferred well in the past but today I am able to keep him asleep with a gentle shh, love, it's ok.
The foster mom opens the door quietly; her small son has been watching from the front window and smiles shyly at me. I whisper I managed to keep him out for you and she smiles. We lean our bodies close together, two women who are not his mother or his aunt or or his sister, but for the time being are playing those parts. Not a replacement, but a substitution. We make the move slowly and smoothly, his head tipping back a bit in her embrace and one arm hanging loose and dangling. I'm sure it has been said many times over that to move a small child from one loving adult to another is to transfer the most important of currencies, is to perform a most sacred of rituals. Today we are this small child's village, his foster mom and I, and it's my honor to be one of those people.
I'm not a parent, not yet. There are days when I don't know that I want to be one. There is so much hurting in this world, raw and bruised skin and souls and earth; seeing what people are capable of doing to each other makes me want to run away. How could I bring a kid into this? Perhaps it's not for me. But then there are so many moments like this one, minute and impressive, making me joyous and optimistic; I would love to see what little soul comes into my life. But those are questions for another day, for future me. I am not a parent. But I have parented. I have dried tears and set down limits and gotten excited over the perfect spelling test. I have zipped up jackets, sung along with songs, made up stories, bandaged owies, changed diapers, carried backpacks, talked about grades, and signed kids in and out of the principal's office. I have been a stable presence week in and week out. I have worried and hoped, chosen my words carefully, and stood in front of them when others came at them upset or angry. I can't help but think that this is my answer to it takes a village to raise a child. This is my truth. They will be my salvation and my destruction, they have wrecked me and rebuilt me. I will never do for them as much as they do for me; perhaps, though, from some corner of their subconscious, on days when they don't know if anyone cares, they will pull forward the knowledge that I will be there. And they will be comforted and sustained, if only for moment.
It's Friday. It's stormy and wet, the world shaking off the beginning of February. There's always tomorrow, always another chance, always another kid to coax a smile out of, always room for hope. It's Friday, he is beautiful as ever and I fall into the loving with realizing that I have tumbled. Perhaps that is the best way to do so, without fear or hesitation. In the end, I have to believe that they will be ok, and, for a second, I releve to demi-pointe where I can see tomorrow.
