This post has been a long time coming...I don't even know if it will be completely coherent as I'm still sorting through some complicated feelings I can't quite finger out yet...please bear with me...
I've definitely realized there's a cycle to my struggle with attachment (after almost five months of bonding 24/7; you think it's time?!): It's all about the weekly visits with Tomorrow's biological family. (BTW, is it weird to say biological? Should I say birth family? I didn't get a rule book with the baby, KWIM?)
All week long I go about my business, loving Tomorrow as if she is "my own" baby. In the morning, when Mike brings her to me, I take her reluctantly at first but her warm little body instantly melts me. If she's been sleeping in her crib I bring her to bed and I cuddle her up and kiss her sweet face. If she's sleepy, I will doze with her in my arms as long as she wants or until the boys wake me up. If she's wide awake for the morning, I let her lay next to me and babble, and I try to read or write while she practices rolling over and crawling (backwards). Sometimes we play silly games like "What's that under the blanket?" (it's usually my foot). When I get out of bed, I tie her on to me in a carrier, like a piece of clothing I will wear for most of the day. All day long I feed, burp, and change her. I still massage her at least one day, and share Reiki time with her and stretch her legs out as well. I love to play peek-a-boo and tickle her to hear her giggle. I wear her in a carrier so I can comfort and entertain her, while tending to the boys and the house. At night, I swaddle, rock and sing lullabies to her. She fights going to sleep at night but I am proud to say have never let her cry it out (or cry without being held). When she finally lets go with a sigh, I experience an emotional letdown. My milk even lets down sometimes (I express for her) and my salty tears fall, too. I hold her until she falls into a deep sleep and begins to "talk to the angels" (that's what Nana calls it when babies are falling asleep and their eyes move around and they smile and sometimes even appear to be mouthing words and nodding). I whisper sweet nothings to her and she smiles and nods in her sleep, and nestles into my bosom. I watch her as she sleeps so peacefully, and I can see the beautiful woman she will become. She appears so tiny, and at the same time so wise. I bow to the divine being which resides in her.
It rarely occurs to me anymore, through any of our activities, that she isn't my child.
So when Monday rolls around and I have to get ready for the weekly visit, I am conflicted. Actually, it starts on Sunday, with this sinking feeling when I think of what I need to do for the next day. I've never liked Mondays anyway, now I loathe them even more. I've tried to fake a nonchalant attitude of "Oh, it's just a short visit! No biggie!" but that always falls short of the truth.
So as attached as we are and as perceptive as she is, it only makes sense that she picks up on my stress. It starts with naps. Normally, I can swaddle/rock/sing to her and put her down for all naps in her crib. Not on Mondays. Usually, I can lay her in her "fascinette" in our bedroom (an Arm's Reach co-sleeping sidecar to which I have attached some crinkly and squeaky toys) and get dressed, make the bed et cetera. But not on Mondays.
This past Monday was an exceptionally tense and frustrating one. She was more vocal than ever about not wanting to be put down, and practically screamed at me all day. Everything I needed to get done was a struggle because she wanted my undivided attention, as in eye contact and silly faces all day. When Mike came home to drive us to the visit, I was at the end of my rope. I was almost relived to take her to the visit. And while we waited for our food at Denny's, I told Mike and the boys that I had had a hard day because she needed me so much and I wasn't even attached to her (yeah right!). Needless to say, Mike looked at me like I had seven heads. Hammy said, "Me neither." And Moose added, "Yeah, she is annoying." I felt detached. I could let go. I said something to the effect of "Think of the things we can do without a baby once again if she's reunified with her bio mom!" I was whistling in the dark. In retrospect, it's almost comical.
When we picked her up, she gave me a big gummy grin, grabbed both sides of my face and planted a kiss on my chin. The thick layer of skin I had tried to grow fell off. It wasn't even glued on. I don't think I even have enough glue for the job. I cried sitting in the middle row next to her all the way home. Once there, she didn't want us to put her down for a second and it was okay.
Clearly, I'm attached to my foster baby, and in the words of the great writer Maya Angelou, "I wouldn't take nothin' for my journey now"...BUT I do worry a great deal (and maybe too much) about what will happen to her and me if she is "reunified" with her bio mom and her family of origin. And this may sound selfish, but I worry mostly about me and how I will cope (or not) and how it might affect our "core family" (that is what the professionals call the foster family that may include already-adopted or biological children). I figure I don't worry as much about what the aftermath would be like for her anymore because I know that I basically won't be able to do a damn thing to help her through the tough transition.
Will I be able to function? Will I need to get on anti-depressants again? Will I need therapy? Will I ever want to hold another baby again? Will I ever be able to fill that whole in my heart, in her room, and in our life? Will I come out on the other side better or worse for wear? Will I harden?
Sometimes I wonder why I did this at all. Should I have known better? I get attached to plants. What was I thinking? Why didn't anyone stop me from doing this to myself? Where is this path trying to take me? When will it end? What am I supposed to do or learn that I am not seeing?
