There is a part of my son’s life that I have no knowledge of.  And that is a queer thing for someone with a three-year old—but not abnormal for a foster parent.  Once a week sometimes more, a person arrives, flashes a badge and scoops him away.  He is placed in a strange car, in a strange car seat and driven across town.  Do they drive safely?  Is he strapped properly into his car seat?  Do they interact with him or listen to top-40 radio while ignoring the precious little cargo that they transport.  He is with his parents for several hours.  Then he is returned.

There are case workers, student workers, supervisor workers, fill-in workers, transport workers.  I hate that he has these random people in his life, that this entity with all of its appendages called the foster care system, bounces him about in this very impersonal way, like some kind of commodity being carted around.


It makes me yearn to know what this all means to him.  I wish that he were old enough to talk about it.  I know that it would be a hard conversation to have—to talk about his workers and parents, to talk about the future and what that might mean, but I would, if I needed to.  I could do anything for him.

I know that he doesn’t quite understand who Mommy and Daddy are.  I wonder as his time with them grows, whether that will become clearer.  I wonder if he will begin to realize and even get used to the idea that he is going to be living with them and that eventually his time with us will come to an end.  It is probably my biggest fear—that ultimately he will end up confused about what happened to the life he has known for the last three years and as a result, he will be an emotional mess.  I fear that no one will care—no one will help him understand why his little life has changed so dramatically.  I wish I could be more positive about the outcome of the transition or more certain that he would be taken care of.  I have seen little that would make me a believer. 


And just as my hopeless again rears its ugly head, my beloved partner comes through again.  The other day Darrow reminded me of something that I hadn’t thought of—T has two beautiful sisters.  They too have been living with foster parents for the last three years.  The grief and loss that I fear for him, he will have someone to share that with.  However his life will go on, it will go on with his sisters around him.  It is the key to everything for him and for me.  In grief, in life, and in every happy moment—he will not be alone.