|My baby girl.
So proud of her, and proud to be her mommy.
Do you remember the baby dinosaur on the tv show that used to scream “Not the momma!!”
(If you need a reminder . . . here’s a hint: https://www.google.com/search?q=dinosaur+not+the+momma&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ei=DIzZUrD5LczpoASfoYD4Cg&ved=0CAcQ_AUoAQ&biw=1440&bih=752#facrc=_&imgdii=_&imgrc=Bx5o_N3CGS6qDM%253A%3B68OVJMrGDOi5yM%3Bhttp%253A%252F%252Fsas.guidespot.com%252Fbundles%252Fguides_up%252Fassets%252Fwidget_aMMgBRO6jhGybBAivLqMum.JPG%3Bhttp%253A%252F%252Fwww.guidespot.com%252Fguides%252Fwhatever_happened_to%3B290%3B271)
Lately, it feels like that crazy little dino is sitting on my shoulders screaming, “Not the momma! Not the momma!”
When we first got little miss, I totally FELT like her mom. And I was doing the mommy things. But over and over again, I was reminded in so many ways that I was not the momma.
I was FOSTER momma.
Things felt much better after parental rights were relinquished.
I remember the first (and last) visit little miss had with her bio parents. I was accustomed to hearing no details about the visit, other than “it went fine.”
This time, I got a call a few minutes into the visit. “Would you like her to have chocolate syrup in her bottle?” the social worker asked. “Um, no I don’t think that’s a great idea. I’d rather her not have that much sugar,” I responded, totally caught off that they would ask me, little old foster momma ME, what I would prefer during a visit. “That’s what I thought,” she replied. “We’ll tell the parents no chocolate.”
I hung up a little stunned, and a little happy. What a change.
I was on my way from being foster momma to adoptive momma. (Or pre-adoptive momma, according to some paperwork.)
And maybe things got to my head a little bit.
Maybe because I was told she’d be ours by now . . . maybe because I’m the one who wipes away all her poo, endures grocery shopping while she screams to the heavens for crackers, and holds her hands and head during a CT scan in the ER . . . maybe because emotionally, I am HER MOMMA . . I let myself forget.
I am NOT her momma.
Last night, when I received the email saying we would not have the right to show little miss’ face or name in the video we made, I burst into tears.
Ryan didn’t understand why I was so upset. Maybe I didn’t entirely either. I don’t know why it matters to me so much. Except it does.
I have a feeling though, those tears had much more to do with everything going on and not just the video.
Let me back up a little from our day . . .
In the morning, we had our monthly social worker (G’s) visit.
First, she came without disclosure. We’ve been waiting for disclosure for over a month, and all that paperwork I posted about won’t be even submitted by the state till I have disclosure. (Disclosure is EVERYTHING that they have on file for Little miss’s case that I get to look through. Family history, medical records, etc. will be in there.)
She already came once without it, now she’s without it again.
Furthermore, the court date we had hoped would be adoption day will NOT be our adoption date. She thinks maybe a few more months?
I don’t want it to be another few months. I want to get it over with.
Then G informed me that due to Little miss’s fall, we’d been reported to CPS. She said it was likely our agency (something they have to do), or the doctor who made the report. She said that it was pretty standard for any injury in child under 3 that has to go to the ER, plus our agency would also have needed to report us.
G assured us that we would likely not be investigated, as she had been to our home enough to know how active and accident prone little miss was.
Still. It was hard to take thinking that we had been reported, even as it was “standard procedure.”
A few minutes later, Maddy threw a ginormous fit — throwing herself on the floor, screeching. And I’m thinking, really??? You’re 5. Really? Right now?
So I pick her up, take her to time out, while she is hitting and kicking me.
And then I come back to my audience of the social worker who just said I had been reported to CPS.
As I fixed G’s hot chocolate, I turn my back so a tear or two can escape my puffy, swelling lids, and I swallow back the rest.
Maddy eventually calms down. We get a NEW date for disclosure. G stays an hour. And at the very end, I excitedly let her know that we are sharing our story, and she is invited to come. I let her know that the state was setting up the meeting.
I had already talked to our agency about the producer wanting to put in on YouTube. But for whatever reason, I mention it to G.
“I’ll have to check with my supervisor about this. You never know who might want to sue to state over something like this.”
Deep, deep sinking feeling in my gut.
Why, oh why, did I say something???
Later that evening, we got the email that they would NOT give us permission to use on FB, and in addition, her photos and name must be blotted from the video to show at our church.
You all don’t know the layout of the video — but I do. I know there is power to those pictures. Power to our story. Her name and her face show her personhood.
Perhaps I don’t like being told no. Maybe I hate senseless red tape. Maybe it frustrates me that I was feeling so sure that God was working everything out just so.
My sinking gut told me that Satan was going to do everything he could to stop this video being shown.
I know, I know what you are thinking. If it was going to be a problem, better to find out NOW and not later.
But I still can’t help but be upset. I could make all my arguments as to why this is ridiculous. But I’ll spare you. (Just know that I think it is.)
Again, it felt like a huge knock on the head by crazy dino. “NOT THE MOMMA! NOT THE MOMMA!”
Yesterday, in God’s quiet voice, I felt Him asking me if I believed He was a God who would prevail.
I know He is.
I know He saw this supervisor’s decision before the beginning of time. I know He had plans for our story, plans to use us for His glory. I know He’s in control, and my freaking out about it really shows my immaturity in all of this.
And I’m also reminded that I’m still the momma in all the ways that DO matter.
I get to be there for her when she’s upset. I get to take her to church, read her the Bible and pray over her while she sleeps. I get to pick out nutritious food for her, and make sure she naps every day. I get to have her play with Maddy, rock her, and teach her songs. I get to teach her new words, and open her eyes to new experiences.
I get to be the one who loves her.
So to everyone who witnessed my ginormous freak-out yesterday on FB, I’m sorry.
I think it’s just showing me how much I’m ready to be her REAL momma in EVERY WAY . . . and to knock that silly dino back into the ’90s where he belongs.
I’m so ready to BE THE MOMMA.
Adoption day . . . please come soon.