A year ago today, I opened the door, quite uncertain of what would be on the other side.

I knew who was standing on the other side of that door, holding our agency director’s hand.

But I didn’t know how he would come.

What would he look like? What would he sound like? Would his hair still be curly? How big would he be? Would I recognize him?

And most important — would he recognize me?

The door fully open now, my eyes took all of him in.

His moppy hair. His thin frame. Nothing was left of the baby boy I returned home. Instead, a smallish boy stood in his place.

With barely a moment’s hesitation, he charged in like a bull let loose in the arena — frenetically running around our living room, an imaginary bullfighter playfully taunting him this way and that. It took me the better part of a year to find out that bullfighter had a name.

Within seconds, he turned all of our toy bins upside-down creating a mountain of mess in my living room.

Chaos feels most at home in chaos.

I introduced myself as Miss Rachel.

His wild eyes barely landed on me, or anything in our home, his attention flitting from one thing to the next.

He wasn’t angry. But he was charged — like a wound-up toy wound a a few rounds too tight.

He was the same boy we loved. He was not the same boy we loved.

We survived that day, spending hours outside pushing him on the swing until my arms ached.

He asked when he would go home. We could not answer. We didn’t know.

I tried so hard to tap into my emotions that day. I wanted to pinch myself, and say, “He’s here, he’s here, he’s back in our home.”

I wanted to cherish this moment that had I had longed for.

But I didn’t long for it to be like this. His presence reminded me that the circumstances weren’t ideal … they never are. It was hard to shut down the constant wondering of what happened.

He’s been gone for 2.5 years — very little of it, I imagine, will I ever understand.

The only photo I dared let myself take his first night back in our home.

Try as I might to be introspective, to take it all in, I simply couldn’t. This was real life, not a Hallmark movie. Just trying to navigate that day was exhausting.

I couldn’t truly ask how I felt until he was asleep in his room — his light on, as it has stayed for the last year.

I watched him sleep for a bit from the doorway. He was peaceful. His face looked just like it had as a baby when he slept. I recognized him, really recognized him, for the first time since that morning.

So many unknowns lay before us. So much fear. So much that felt unreal.

I asked myself how I felt, watching him there, his eyes closed, his breathing soft, all adrenaline from that day worn off …

The only answer that came was a lump in my throat and a few tears down my cheeks.

In the year since that day, many have asked me that same question, “How does it feel to let go of a child you called son, not hear from him for years, and then suddenly he’s back … completely changed?”

Therapists ask. Family asks. Friends ask. Social workers ask. Everyone who knows our story seems to want to know what this experience has been like. How do you feel?

I didn’t know how to answer any of them. Maybe even I resented the curiosity just a bit — not frustration with them, but just frustration that I cannot say with integrity, “I’m so relieved.” Or “so thankful.” Or, God help me, “We’re so blessed.”

I cannot give the answer I so long to give.

I think it’s because it’s like asking someone what flavor a smoothie is.

Well, it’s not just one flavor. It’s mango. And banana. And pineapple. And coconut.

It’s all of those things, deconstructed then reconstructed, a million tiny particles all becoming one whole. And when you drink the smoothie, you have these little bursts of flavor where you taste the coconut more, or the mango. With each sip, a different flavor comes to your awareness a bit more than the other flavors, but the other flavors are just as much there, same as they were before.

My feelings at his arrival, at the fact that we are here (or rather he is here) one year later, have all been blended together in such a way that one feeling does not exist without the others. And on certain days, certain moments, one comes to the surface a bit more, and I feel that emotion a bit more than the others — but the others never go away.

Gratitude for seeing him again.

Regret that he needed us.

Fear (so much fear) that things won’t get better.

Resentment for the drastic changes our family has gone through.

Pride in what he has accomplished, and in every step toward recovery he makes.

Love, because he calls me mom, and I call him son.

Anger at the behavior that has wreaked havoc in all of our lives.

Stress at the amount of services we need, and people I need to report back to.

Thankfulness that they called us.

Hope that somehow, we can do this.

Despair that maybe we can’t.

Compassion for him and for his mom and siblings.

Sadness. Oh the depth of sadness that he has to walk through the loss of a family again.

Worry because I can’t see an outcome.

Joy when he laughs and things feel ok.

And through it all, a touch of surreal-ness.

It’s been a year, and things still feel new. Routines change, services change, progress changes, behavior changes, and I just want to come up for some air and see outside it for a bit, and know for certain what lay ahead.

And then today comes, August 14th. We made it a year. One of the most personally challenging years I’ve experienced as a parent.

I wondered how I should commemorate today. After all, a year in foster care is not really a win. He’s still deeply grieving (as he should be), and if I’m brave enough to say it, I’m grieving too.

I’m grieve the ease we had as a family before. The freedom I had before. I grieve the naivety that he was doing well. I grieve the amount of time and attention I’ve been able to give my kids. I grieve normalcy. Nothing has felt normal in a year’s time. I long for normal.

I grieve for him, every time he asks for his mommy. I grieve for him when he thinks certain circumstances are normal because that’s what he knows. I grieve for him because he has had so much loss and so many challenges. I grieve for him because even though I know he loves me, having me means losing the rest of his family. What a horrible burden to bear.

So with all this grief, is there room for celebration? Probably not.

But I do think there is room for recognition.

So tonight I will make brownies for dessert and we’ll take some time to affirm the things we’re proud of this year. Like perseverance. And strength. And vulnerability. (Well, those will be my answers. I am sure you will get a very different set of answers from my kids.)

We made it a year. I have no idea how much longer it will take, how much more our hearts will break, how much pain is at stake, how much longer the grief will ache …

But we are here, today. We were here for him.

We made it a year.

The post We made it a year: Foster care the second time around. appeared first on The Lewis Note.