Desperate Respite

"How much do you love me?"

It was the on call case worker who had brought us Baby O for the first time.  

I laughed.  "I do love you, but you know we have a placement here, right?"  (this was back when Bram was still "on the books").

"I do, but this is only for four or five days, I swear."

He had called other times, and I always said no (another one of foster parents' "rights" -- right to refuse a placement, woo freakin' hoo).  Usually it was for a teenager (no thank you).  Once it was for a six year old and an eight year old from the city who came with their mother to visit their father in prison (this area has a hub of four prisons).  Mom decided to smuggle in some drugs to dad, got caught, was arrested, and the kids were taken into foster care.  Can of worms!  No thank you.

This time, it was for a two and a half year old boy.  It was spring break and The Agency was having a hell of a time finding anyone who would take him.  His foster family was going on vacation -- and they weren't bringing him.  (jerks).  I couldn't imagine going on vacation without my foster baby, unless it was for a romantic get away or something.  

I don't know what made me say yes, but I did.  I was off from work, so it wouldn't all be on Tiernen.  Plus, a little boy would be a fun playmate for Bram.

I went to the store and picked up some food I thought would appeal to the average two year old:  peanut butter and jelly, pizza bagels, mac and cheese, bananas, juice boxes, grapes, string cheese...  I doubted he would eat the pad Thai or avocado toast that we ate at home. on a regular basis.  

We picked him up on Monday.  He was at a temporary overnight foster home.  I kid you not, when we walked into the house, there were 10+ foster kids there from infants to tweens in every color of the racial rainbow.  The house was huge and gorgeous.  The kitchen table had twenty chairs around it, complete with booster seats and high chairs.  There was only one adult there and she couldn't have been more than twenty-five.

She told me that this was her aunt and uncle's house and she was over babysitting and doing laundry.  These were all her foster children.  Some had been adopted over the years.  It was a LOT of kids.  She told me this was one of the slower years:  they had had as many as twenty.  Damn.  I love kids, but not that much.

She gathered the little boy's things:  his duffel bag of clothes, his favorite blanket, a half-empty bag of Pull Ups, and a sippy cup. 

The little boy was lying, half asleep, on an ottoman.  He did not look well.

"Oh, he's had a little bit of diarrhea," she added casually, rousing the sleeping toddler.  He, not unexpectedly, started to cry.  She picked him up and said she would walk us to the car, leaving the tweens in charge of the rest of the masses.

Darryl put his car seat in the car and the twentysomething strapped him in.  I asked him if he wanted a banana and he nodded yes, but he didn't eat it. He stopped crying but whimpered every few minutes.

We were going to be fine, I told him repeatedly.

I was trying to convince myself.