These are my least favorite days of foster care.
Little One is old enough and verbal enough to express himself.
That's a great thing.
But it's a horrible thing.
Now is the season of foster care, that here in our house, we call the fog.
The case is seeming up and down, drama around every corner and forever going in one direction then taking an unexpected turn in another. These are the days where my grace and patience with everyone involved wears thin. These are the days that getting him ready and sending him on a visit just plain breaks something in my core. There is something about the look on his face, the look in his eyes when I hand him over to the visit workers and they take him off to the car. I've stopped looking out the window as they get going because I can't stand to see him looking back through the window at me. These are the days that the hours and days after a visit are filled with his rages. A sweet joyful little person becomes a little ball of hate, hitting and biting and breaking and kicking. Neither one of us sleeps at night.
But I signed up for this.
I said yes when God asked.
I hate the fog. It's hard. It's walking blind by faith. I don't like that.