The combination of nuances necessary for a successful day are significant. After lunch we bounced on to the path to hell (a term not lightly applied).

Almost without exception these forays come about when  I have an agenda or something I need/want to get done. Today it was gardening. Since I will be away for two weeks in June, the pressure’s on. My new house didn’t come with much landscaping – just a string of Rose of Sharon bushes and a couple of lilacs (my favourite!). I have grand plans – which, owing to a roof that needs replacing, are being modified for this summer. However, I did want to get some flowers in and a small vegetable garden. Sabrina built a box for the veggies the other night (which ended in disaster, but at least it got done).

The rain held off today. So I made the most of it. We were up and out of the house by 8:40am. It was the final day of the plant sale at Sabrina’s school – everything half price! We were there when the doors opened. With two extra kids this weekend, it was no small feat. After a chaotic trip through the green house and the stroller loaded with plants, we stopped by the park. It wasn’t long before Sloane was kicking and screaming at me because one of the other children wanted to sit beside me on the bench.

Weekend additions tend to upset the apple cart. The agency I work for provides a weekend of paid “relief” every 6wks (or 3wks if a child is particularly challenging). There are three girls, from another foster home, who come on a regular basis. It provides me with a bit of extra money and a chance to socialize my own kids. The downfall is the amount of trouble it brings.

Sloane’s tantrum continued. As we left the park, she was screaming about being in her stroller. I did get a sympathetic smile from a young couple out walking their newborn. “You don’t know the half of it,” I wanted to say. And, thankfully, they probably won’t. It’s impossible for a child to land in foster care without any behavioural issues. My agency caters to some of the most challenging cases.  Having your own kids is bound to be astronomically easier, though I can only speculate.

By the time we got home, Sloane managed a degree of composure. We were off running around town – picking up milk, dropping off craft supplies for Sunday school, getting movies from the library, buying more soil and plants. Home. Lunch. Out we went into the hot sun. Sabrina begged for things to do….but every assignment frustrated her. It was too hot. It was too hard. Me in my giant, floppy, black sun hat and gray full length dress with four children trailing after me. Repeatedly I recommended Sabrina excuse herself from the adventure. In stead she kept asking for jobs. I kept giving them. She kept complaining. At one point I found myself lying on the patio stones with my hat over my face. “What are you doing?” one of them asked. “Dying,” slipped out of my mouth.

It’s a theme Sabrina’s now running with. When her hostility towards me continued to grow, she was sent to her room. It’s nearly bedtime and she’s threatening to jump out her window and die. It’s been a while since Sabrina’s had a breakdown of this magnitude. She’s kicking the walls and screaming about how horrible her life is.

The trick is getting her to stop so Sloane can fall asleep. With this little one bedtime is a very precise formula. Even when it all comes together perfectly, I leave the room with her saying “I don’t like bedtime.” When it doesn’t come together, I leave with her screaming – which happened two nights ago and has left her hoarse. In the hallway, to my right, behind closed door, Sabrina is shouting death wishes. To my left, Sloane is twisting the spindle of her bed. Recently she discovered it can make a blood curdling squeaking noise.

Downstairs the two additional children are fighting over a remote control car. It isn’t long before the older is sent to bed. “That’s not fair!” she screams repeatedly – the foster child’s mantra. And it’s not. There’s nothing fair about the situation they’re in. But, in this case, the problem is Sloane’s still not asleep so I can’t send the younger – who is sharing a room with her – to bed. The older makes a good show of slamming doors upstairs. Sabrina, out of her room to brush her teeth, joins in the fun. My knitting is tossed down and I’m up in a flash. The visitor gets a good piece of my mind with a repeated explanation of why she was sent to bed first even though she’s older.

Now what? After peeking on Sloane, it’s clear she’s no where near sleep. And there are a couple of screaming children in the rooms opposite hers. One child remains downstairs in the living room. Believe me, that’s one too many!! So, I pull  the second guest’s mattress and blankets off the bed and drop them in the hallway. It’s against regulations, but I’m not about to work overtime tonight. Come 8pm I’m off the clock. Considering I’ve been going since 6:30am, it’s completely reasonable.

At the end of the day: one’s in the hall, three in rooms. None of them like me. Not the best of days, but I did get everything planted. Pushing through…today I managed to. In the midst of all the screaming, I can’t help wonder, “Am I trying to do too much?” Probably. But what other choice is there? Should I succumb to their moods and demands nothing will ever get done. At this point, there are dirty dishes in the sink and laundry, clean at least, is piling up in the basement. But at the end of this day I’m sitting down to a foreign film with a glass of wine.

Is it possible to have baby brain with a three year old? Since her arrival, a month ago, I’ve lost my ability to think. Even simple tasks – like cleaning the bathroom – are overwhelming, never mind launching a blog. I should do this when the kids are in bed, but knitting projects fill up that space. So I’m typing in the basement with a sick teenager upstairs, and a three year old who’s confiscated the glass of water I brought down. She’s asking if she can fall off the foot stool. It’s a perfectly reasonable question in her world. The obvious no, brought a second option of crawling off. Every time she leaves my side to get a toy, Sloane assures me, “I will be back.” Although my teen, Sabrina, has been doing this since she arrived three years ago, I’m surprised.

A kind-hearted Sunday school teacher was equally surprised when Sloane asked me, “Will you be back?” It’s not the first time I’ve left her in the cheery 2/3yr old room. I do always come back – and even manage to be one of the first parents. I don’t want her to worry when the other kids start to go.

“I’ll come back,” I say – looking into her wide eyes.

A laugh escapes from the teacher’s lips. “Of course she’ll be back.” To her it’s a ridiculous question.

For Sloane, it’s legitimate fear. In her short life she’s been back and forth across the country. There’s a dad and brothers somewhere. And grandparents with cousins somewhere else. But they’ve been gone for a while. Now her mom’s gone. After a few months in one foster home, she came to me. The reality is: I will be gone at some point as well. Hers is a temporary situation. There are issues of location making Sloane’s case particularly difficult. At this point it’s unclear how long she’ll be with me. Though I’d like to promise her forever, especially when she asks for it, I know empty promises won’t help in the grand scheme of life.

But today, I will come back. This assurance dispels the fear in Sloane’s eyes. After 10mins of vain coaxing prior to the question, she’s ready to stay in her class.

We are born to love certain souls into full being, unconditionally. Certain souls are born to love us the same way…We turn toward some, we turn away from others. Our choice – to walk toward or turn away from – becomes our destiny, our deeply personal love story.

Sarah Ban Breathnach

The story of how I got here is long and complicated. After being knocked out of the running several times, it fell into place quite naturally. And then I thought, “What have I gotten myself into?!” My dream was to foster babies. The lack of infant homes continues to shock me – who wouldn’t want a cute little baby? In the end I had a 12yr old with Fetal Alcohol Syndrome and significant learning disabilities. One month after Sabrina’s arrival, for her 13th birthday we went to the butterfly conservatory.It was supposed to be glorious. But we spent most of our visit outside in the adjacent gardens, after I forced Sabrina to remain in the conservatory for 20min (long enough to get some stunning pictures). Turns out she can’t manage crowds. The list of her disabilities is long. But Sabrina’s abilities continue to grow.

On birthdays (there have now been three), holidays, and in every day the story is about choosing to let go. I must let go of my expectations. The ideal celebrations I still find myself dreaming of fall in the face of reality. The fact is my kids are special needs – it’s not a field I would have chosen. But, the story of Sabrina is exceptional. We knew each other very well before she became my foster child. In working for the agency caring for her, I’ve entered a completely different world.

At some point I made a choice to love and it has become my destiny. Despite the obvious orchestration of God in the matter and His grace – which I do my best to access – I’m still shocked by this story. Even more shocking is the fact that it’s mine.