Baby T not a baby anymore

Warning this will be long and boring as I catch us up…The new exciting dirt comes in the next post which will be either tonight or tomorrow.

The last time I tried to resurrect this blog, I failed. I was still licensed and privacy rules were getting in the way of my honesty. I would rather not write than be shushed. So I stopped. Since then, we have closed our license. It kills me to think of never fostering again. No I am not talking about the wonderful rainbows and unicorns of “saving the world”. I am talking about the adrenaline rush. Plain and simple, it’s a drug. The Anticipation. The Wait. The Call. Other foster parents will get it. It is why so many of us have so many kids. We don’t want more kids. We don’t need more kids. We rationalize. We say “it’s a calling”. Maybe it is. Pftt. It’s an addiction and just like smoking, I am no longer taking that drag. The first hit is always the best and well the rest is just a cigarette. Wow, I just read that. Pretty cynical. Pretty disturbing. Well let’s just say I am not the person who started this blog.

What about Baby T?

Baby T is now Baby A. We were able to adopt what will be my last baby. We changed his name. This is a very controversial subject in the world of foster and adoption. My other children kept their birth names and even combined their previous surname into their new name. New being the addition of our last names. With Baby A (who is now a terrible two entering into the throws of three-age as we speak), his identity was more us than them. Them is birth family. We had always wanted a little boy with his name. So the only linking factor that we kept to his history was the T. He has a second middle name that was once his first. I would love to say that we did this to honor his birth mom’s choice. The truth is we didn’t. We did it to honor his history. His fight to survive and those that prayed and fought alongside him and I as we made that possible. People prayed for T. T remains a part of him.
So he is okay. His autoimmune disease is stable but chronic. He depends on chemotherapy treatment every 4 months and IVIG blood infusions every month. He has one tomorrow. These hurt and involve blood work, needles being inserted into a port in his chest, tubes and long days of ouchy boo’s. He is now waking up often and asking “is it tube day mamma”? Kills me.  Again, he is okay but he is not in remission. Remission would me no longer needing to use these harsh drugs with heavy side affects and no longer suffering the symptoms. His doctor and nurse teams here are amazing. Here is Michigan. However, they can’t do much more for him. So, we will need to see a specialist in L.A. This means moving across the country in the next year and a half. Yippie! I love the idea of getting close to my sister, who lives in Arizona, which is where we will land. Boo! I hate the idea of moving my kids who struggle to ridiculous levels with transitions of any type. This will be traumatic no matter how much preparation we put into it. Due to the fact, they self-sabotage and have anxiety issues, we will not tell them yet. So if you know my kids, shut it. In the meantime, we try and make life as normal as possible.

Because I am delusional and an idiot.

So last year, I still believed in the awesomeness of adoption and wore my rose covered glasses. I was still high (remember fostering is an addiction) and thought I can do anything. (Again I am an idiot and no I can’t do it all). So after some information was passed on to me, I thought hey lets adopt a pregnant teen who resided in a residential facility and help her raise her baby. WTF was I thinking? Right! Oh the support came in. The response was overwhelming. I mean didn’t I adopt 4 kids (3 at the time, Baby A wasn’t finalized), didn’t I move mountains to keep Baby A alive? We had this.
Wrong.
My next post will be about my fall. It will about the devastation of things not going well. It will be my walk of shame.

Stay Tuned