Bananas In My Heart

Little Banana likes to sing her ABC's.  She sings her own special, rather abridged version of it, and I love it because her voice is so sweet and it comes just from her.  The only song she seems to know without copying line-by-line from Little One or Missy.  At least I thought so, until we were riding together in the car a couple of weeks ago listening to the radio.
Suddenly a tiny voice began to swell up from the back seat, singing right along with Rihanna.  It made my heart beat more quietly, made me hold my breath so I could listen.  It was just by chance, I suppose, that she happened to like and remember this particular song.  Just because she is small and sings her own version of things, I suppose, that she had altered the words just a tiny bit, just so.
But even though it was a random incident, I couldn't help feeling my eyes sting just a little as her baby voice spun the words out softly, "I want to staaaaaaaaaay!  I want to stay-staaaaaay!" 
As she crooned the words to the ballad, I listened and glanced at her innocent face in the rearview mirror.  "Oh, little sweetheart," I found myself thinking, "I wish you could stay, too." 
The song ended, she stuck those two fingers she's so fond of back in her mouth, rode quietly home.  We went about our days.  But the moment would sometimes materialize in my mind, like a mirage.  Like a premonition.  The thing about foster care is that when you open your home and your heart, it's always a false promise.  Because they can't stay.  Not forever. For us that is particularly true, since we are only supposed to be approved for short-term placements, two weeks or less. 
But then these Bananas came and the the plans for their permanent home fell apart, and the system was stuck with these two children and nowhere else to put them.  So they stayed an extra week.  Some weeks.  We went through ups and downs, we all became attached to one another.
Once the social workers called me out of the blue and said they were coming in the morning to take the kids to a new place.  In the morning! I called everyone and their supervisor and made such a fuss I was told I'd better calm down before I went into pre-term labor.
But they relented.  The bananas stayed.  Well, they stayed a little longer.  But it couldn't be forever, we knew that.  There would have to be a day when they moved on to a place they could stay, at least for a good, long while.  That day came this week.
There were meetings and planning and packing up.  The new family came and I handed over the novel I'd written- what they like, how to tell Little Banana is upset, how to read her body language when she can't speak, what time to feed the baby, all the medical information, all the everything I could think of.  The kids met their new family.  We hauled out bags of baby clothes, bags of toys and books.  Little One kept running back to the playroom and bringing something else- "Here! Take this one! Take it with you!" Missy gave the new folks the evilest evil eye she could muster.
We gave hugs and kisses and stood at the end of the driveway waving.
And then they were gone.
They went to a really nice family, specially certified to take care of high-needs kids.  Which these two turned out to be.  Between routine social work visits, volunteer child advocates, services for developmental delays, and many doctors for many medical issues, we had become a traveling circus.  Throw in the health issues of my own two kiddos and we were spending most of our days in waiting rooms and in the car. 
Before these Bananas came to us, I confess I had become nice and cozy in my routine- laundry and the library on Mondays, baking our breads and tortillas on Tuesdays, cleaning Wednesdays, playgroup Thursdays, art project or outing Fridays, family time on the weekend.  Sundays I planned the meals for the week and made up my grocery list. Ok it was a little 1930's housewifey, but I liked to feel that I was on top of things.
But with all the appointments all that went out the window.  Dinners became whatever could be cobbled together just in time to feed hungry mouths.  Cleaning day moved to Sundays, our only day home, laundry was a constant and eternal process, and the grocery store got to do all the baking.  Juggling appointments, phone calls, naps, and illnesses became our whole day.  Every day.
Hauling 3 or 4 kids, diaper bags, snacks for everyone's special diets, strollers, toys for long waits...got only harder and harder as hauling Little Mister began to feel like it's own full-time job.
Baby banana was always throwing up all over everything, there was continual intestinal drama to contend with. Learning to communicate with Little Banana was a constant mental effort.  It was an altogether exhausting experience.
But they are such lovely, precious, adorable little people, though.  They added so much laughter and sweetness to everything.  They fit so nicely at the dining room table, in the little playhouse, on our laps.  It seems that they were here so much longer than a couple of months.  At times it seemed they had been here always.
Now that they are gone, it is quiet.  I have the time to sit here and type this ridiculously long post.  Now that they are gone, I can get to the actual bottom of the laundry pile; I see days of nothing but walks through the leaves on our family calendar. 
Now that they are gone, I have my life back.
But part of my heart is gone forever.

I've been asked a lot how I feel about it.  I've been given a lot of well-meaning comfort from good friends.  To be honest, I feel sad.  We all do.
To be honest, I appreciate the kindness, but I don't want to be told that I was the best thing that ever happened to those kids.  I'm not.  In actual fact, I am a byproduct of the very worst thing that ever happened to those kids.
I don't want to be called an angel or a saint.  Yikes. I'm far from that.  There were days I was short on patience for everyone, times I had an unnecessary edge to my voice, times I tried to do the right thing but got it completely wrong.  I'll never think I did a wonderful job taking care of everybody; I know in my heart it was a good day I managed a half-decent job of it.
I will always be sorry I didn't have the strength or wisdom to do enough for those kids.  I will always be sorry that in the end I was just one more adult who abandoned them. I will always be disappointed that I couldn't manage those couple of months with more grace than I did.
I'll always be selfishly happy that I had the opportunity to know them, to see my own children make room in their hearts for them, to be called "mommy" by more babies than I really deserved to be. For all the hugs that fell into my arms and the toothless baby grins I got to catch when I walked into a room.  But I'll always be sad about my failures, about the tears on the Little's faces and the way Little Banana's arms reached for us from a strangers car, as it pulled away.  I'll always miss them the way you miss anything that becomes a part of you and then has to be torn off.
I don't need to hear that in time it will be ok.  It will not be ok.
Something I have learned over years of caring for children is that loving a child- for years or for a day- and then letting them go, can never be ok.  Worrying about a child, especially knowing that odds are stacked against them, wondering if you made things better or worse for them, knowing that you will probably never find out if they are All Right... can just not be ok. 
Some things in life are not ok.  They can't ever be.
But I am a mother. 
I was made to lift and to carry; loads of laundry, bags of diapers and jackets and milk, babies, children.  Other Things.  My arms and my back, and my heart, are strong.
So I have this grief, and this guilt, and this sadness.  So there it is.  I will cry about it a little if I want to, sure.  Then I'll breathe.  I'll lift it up, I'll put it in my heart with other burdens, and I'll start walking.  It will go where I go, it will always be there.  I'll be carrying it, moving forward.
Because like our little Bananas, off on their own path of adventures now, I have places to go.  

One Up, Two To Go

Well we have one little angel all safely through anesthesia.  Luckily our little Banana needed only imaging and no procedures, so once the effects of deep sleep wore off we didn't have many after-effects to worry about.  The hardest part for her was being taken from my arms by a stranger to go back to the anesthesia room.  I really, really do not understand why I can't stay until they are asleep. 
But, I am told, I can't.  So She went crying and calling "mamamammamama MAMA!" and my heart fell apart in little pieces. 
But she woke up almost immediately in the recovery room.  Looked right at me with hazy, droopy eyes, and said, "I. Want. Appa-sauce."  As I was unprepared for this request, she slurped down a juice instead and then tried unreasonably hard to put on her own shoes.  Watching a drunk two year old is both slightly comical and rather disturbing. 
She was confused about whether to be combative and tearful, or snuggly and sleepy.  She alternated between the two until I got her home and properly fed.  Then she took a good nap and was more or less her old self again. 
Sadly for her, she will surely need to go under again pretty soon to have her problem treated.  But happily for her, now we will know that there should be applesauce at the ready.
 

No Hands!

Pardon my absence.  I've been busy riding an emotional roller coaster.
WHeeeeeEEEeeee!
It's been a week of fun- field trips, parties, and family time. But also a week of rough- doctor appointments and hospital visits, hand/foot/mouth disease passing among the many hands/feet/mouths in the house, and enough jerking around by the social work system to give a person whiplash.
On the upside, Little Banana seemed to make a real breakthrough in Her opinion of my trustworthiness the night we danced in the kitchen.  On the downside, we have discovered that she has a pretty major health problem which has caused a lot of rushing around and worrying.  She is now the last of my four to join the ranks of Littles being followed by pediatric specialty teams.  We ought to have our own room at the hospital and just live there!
In the next three days, all three of my girls will be going under general anesthesia.  All for fairly minor/routine procedures, but I'm a mama and can't help but worry.
I thought pregnant women weren't supposed to ride roller coasters? For now we will just take it one turn at a time and try to focus on the ups.  They always come around. 

Biker Chick

On one of our many doctor visits, Little Banana got tired of Little One reading to her.  So she hit Little One and pushed the book out of Her hands. 
"No thank you, Banana! I am going to give you some space." Little One picked up Her book and walked to another chair. 
"Wow," the doctor remarked. "She didn't even hit her back! She handled that like a grown-up."
I was surprised by the comment.  I wouldn't have noticed, really.  I wouldn't have expected anything else from Little One.  If She had hit back, now that would have caught my attention!
But it was a reminder of what we have noticed with Little One in recent times. 
She is very grown up; She does deal with the littler ones, especially the bananas, with a patience and kindness that is maybe beyond Her years. 
Not always, to be precise about it, but the great majority of the time.  She shares, She gives, She takes care. She helps Banana with her shoes.  She coos and sings to Baby Banana.  She lets it go when Her hair gets pulled, Her drawing gets torn, Her tower crashed.  She lets it go when She sees Her shoes on other little feet, Her special toy in other little arms. 
She is all over helping me out, fetching diapers and burp cloths and cleaning up messes She didn't make without being asked. 
Not always. But often enough that I would call it the norm. 
J and I talked it over, not too long after these current Bananas joined us.  We had thought of waiting for Her birthday.  But instead, one day when She finished Her math practice and the others were sleeping, we led Her into the garage. 
"Little One," I explained, "Daddy and I have noticed that with your sister, and with the kids who come and stay with us, you have been very patient. You have been very good at sharing, and doing a lot of helping."
Little One blushed and nodded.  "Thanks mom."
"Well.  It is very grown-up to share things and to help without being asked."
"I guess so, mom."
"So, Daddy and I think that since you are such a grown-up girl, you should probably have a big girl bike." 
We pulled a sheet to reveal a brand new, two-wheel pink and purple bike with training wheels, and She lit up like a neon light. 
"OH. WOW!" 

Normally this is the kind of thing I pick up at a thrift store.  But this time, we decided to go for the whole shiny-new shebang.  Truly, I think She's earned it. 
J took Her out right away, and She had the hang of it in no time. 

Now She loves to ride whenever She can get an adult to take Her out.  She calls it Her Big-girl bike. 

We would have gotten Her a bike anyways.   It's time. 
But it's nice to have had a way to show our appreciation for Her good decisions, and nice to have a way to reward those choices. It makes it sort of a double-gift for Her; a bike and tangible evidence that Her parents don't take Her for granted. 
And it's a double gift for us, too.  Pride that She is big enough to ride this bike, at seeing Her push the pedals and wobble around corners.  And pride that it's not just Her lengthening legs that make Her such a big girl, but Her widening heart. 

Visitation Day

Today we all packed up and went to the child center for the Bananas to have their weekly visit with their parents.  As usual, Little Banana went in like a lamb and came out like a holy terror. 
She came right to me for a big hug.  Then pushed me away hard and gave me the look.  Uh oh.  I know that look.  On the way to the car she stomped and hollered, "NO! NO NO NONONONO NO!" even though she wasn't actually saying no to anything particular. 
She was so wound up, and the weather was so wet and icky, I decided to take them to the mall play area to let off some steam.  They all ran amok and had a great time sliding and climbing.  Until Banana took up a seat at the top of a slide, and refused to budge.  The line of children behind her piled up.  She sat there, backwards on her perch, staring them all down. 
I began walking over to encourage her to slide, just in time to watch her suddenly pop the kid behind her right in the eye.  What do you know?  Girl has a pretty decent right hook! She nearly knocked him off the steps. But he rallied and slapped her back.  She looked utterly victimized and began to wail piteously.  (Which did not, I'm afraid, save her from time-out.) 
I took that as our cue to exit for lunch.  After all our headway on her eating issues, today of course she slid right back to square one.  She played with her food and made a huge mess. She crammed her entire sandwich into her mouth, then stared at me with steely eyes and steadfastly refused to chew.  We sat there waiting for her. Forever.  She threw a fit in the bathroom when she had to be changed.  She insisted on putting on the straps in the stroller, then began to fuss because they were on.  Little One knelt down to console her, cooing and asking how She could help.  Banana kicked Her in the face. 
Back home, after a long nap, I picked Banana up and- like she used to in her first week with us- she went rigid and leaned as far from me as possible.  "Get off me," she chanted as I changed her diaper.  She went to play with the Littles while I fixed dinner; pushed and hit, grabbed toys and screamed "MINE!" whenever either of them touched anything.  She took a red crayon and scribbled all over the art table.  She swiped Little One's lovie and ran and hid it in the living room.  Finally I called everyone to dinner.  She didn't come.  The Littles washed up and sat waiting in their chairs.  Banana ignored my calls. "Ok, Banana.  If you can't hear me I will come and bring you to the table!" I started to walk over to her.  At that, she came running into the kitchen, pell-mell, right into my shins.  Sobbing the whole way. 
She practically never cries.  She whines.  She whimpers.  But she doesn't cry.  This time, she was all-out tears and heaving sobs crying.  I knelt down, held her at arms length and looked straight into her face.  "What's wrong?  Why are you crying honey?"
She just shook her head.  I don't think she has the words for such a big question.  Maybe no one would.  Or maybe she just stubbed her toe, I don't know.  She can't tell me these things. So I just went with intuition. 
"It has been a hard day, hasn't it Banana?"
She nodded. 
"It's ok to be upset.  I see that you are feeling upset.  You look sad and mad."
She wailed.
"I want you to know that it's ok.  You are ok.  We love you and we don't want you to feel sad.  I'm right here and I will take care of you."
She stopped crying suddenly and just stood there, staring at me.  Her arms went up- ...down.  Up- ...down. 
"If you need hugs, I have plenty for you."
She seemed to fly into my chest, crying again, clutching my neck.  I picked her up and held her a long time. She quieted, she went limp.  Finally she lifted her head and looked at me and smiled. 
"Silly!" She said.  (Which I've learned over time is Banana language for "I like you". )
So I smiled too and we ate a dinner with few problems.  
Afterwards I was cleaning up and she looked at me again with tears in her eyes.  This time she reached for me and said, "Mama.  Mama mama! I want you.  Mama."   She calls me that. 
I scooped her up and she held on so tight.  In the kitchen Pandora was playing Jazz standards. 
I held her close and we danced as Sinatra sang to us-
"you're nobody till somebody loves you! So find yourself somebody to love"
She had her head on my shoulder, her cheek pressed to mine. Every time I slowed down or began to let go, she gripped me tighter.  This little thing who took weeks just to be comfortable in quick hugs or a story time cuddle, wrapped herself around me like a band-aid and melted into my arms. 
We danced three songs.  In the glass of the window over the sink, I caught glimpses of her smiling. 

Small Victories

I can't share everything about our little Bananas.  I'm not allowed to share photos, names, or identifying information.  So I won't.   But I can share some of what we are going through as a family.  We are working on patiently taking tiny steps forward. 
Baby Banana is nearly a year.  But because of "non-accidental" brain injury, caring for him is like caring for a six month old.  He can't feed himself a cheerio.  He can't sit up by himself.  He is tiny for his age; he is learning how to eat. 
Little Banana is a tiny bit older than Little Miss.  Like Missy, she is small, which is nice because she now has a closet stocked with outfits to share.  They play together and it is very sweet.  But, now that she has settled in enough for us to really see her whole self, it is heartbreaking as well, because it's impossible not to compare. 
Missy is potty trained.  She sets the table and sings the alphabet and spells Her own name. She has Her favorite stories memorized, She plays elaborate games of pretend involving family members She rarely sees and the names of friends from play group.  
Little Banana doesn't know her own name, or who she sees in the mirror.  She knows what a dog is.  But she can't recognize one in a book.  She can't recognize me in a photo.  She can't choose between water or milk, or tell me where it hurts if she falls.  She talks a lot, she is very engaging, so it's hard to notice at first.  But almost all of what she says is just parroting what someone else has said. She seems to be playing the same game as the Littles; She follows along and does what they do.  But if you ask her what she is playing, she says, "playing!" If they are being mommies and feeding their dolls, I tease, "are you pretending to be lions?"  She nods, "Ten-deen lions!" 
She seems to understand you- she nods when you ask a question. But it has nothing to do with affirmation.  She takes directions very well, and she's extremely compliant.  If I ask her to put away the blocks she's been playing with, she will jump right up and begin gathering them.  Only, even though she's just taken them out of the white box minutes ago, she can't remember where they go.  She runs frantically from room to room with one in each hand, repeating, "Bocks? Bocks? Bocks go?" I tell her to put them in the white box at her feet. She looks all around.  She looks right at it.  "Feet?" I have to point, to show her.  "Oh! There a is!"
She's nowhere near potty training; she has serious issues with both toileting and eating.  It's agonizing both from an empathy and a frustration point of view to watch her attempt either.  I spend half the day, it seems, coaxing- "Eat, Banana.  Chew it up, love.  Swallow your bite please, Banana.  Try a drink of your milk."  She will stuff her mouth as if she's starving, until she begins to gag.  Then just let the food sit there.  And sit there.  Forever.  She will forget what she's doing and begin playing with the spoon, begin rolling a pea over and over.  It can easily take her two hours to finish a bowl of oatmeal.  Amidst the many appointments we are rushing to these days, I am constantly faced with how on earth to get food into her before we have to pack up and go again. 
She scribbles alongside Missy.  Missy tells me, "this one the ship. See, looks like a tri-angle. A big sailboat! An' it's going aaaaaalll a way to Texas.  And here, is a crocodile! Going to get the sailboat to eat it up! And here come the mama, right here, to save it from crocodiles.  And here is a cow." 
I ask Banana, "And tell me about your picture?"  She looks up at me and cocks her head. 
"Pic-ure."  
"But what are you drawing?" 
"Drawing!"
It breaks my heart. In moments like those, I look at her and see a child who has been robbed of the very greatest gift we are each born with- unlimited potential.  I look at Baby Banana and see years of struggle for things that could have been a given, if they weren't taken right from him.  It breaks my heart. 
But I have to shake it off and remember that pity and anger and breaking hearts never do anyone any good.  That nothing can be done about could-haves and should-haves.  What we can do, is start from here, and do our best.  The hard work for me isn't to decide fairness or assign blame- that's not my job at all.  My task is to accept them as perfect.  As just who they are, just where they are.  And to do anything I can to just move forward...no matter the pace.  No matter how far behind we start compared to someone else.  To choose to see their potential as Limitless Anyways.
The eating is messy and frustrating, with them both.  The effects of "training intestines how to process food regularly" is messy and frustrating.  And gross.  For them both.  Learning to cope with delays, especially those that effect certain behaviors, is tiring and confusing at times. 
But tonight I want to celebrate the victories.
After a month of being in our family, our bananas are quite far behind their peers in so many ways.  But they aren't in a race; they are on their own tracks.  And I'm feeling happy with how far they've come so fast. 
Little Banana no longer runs and hides when she's scared or hurting, she comes to me with wide arms.  That's huge.  She has learned, after lots of work, to tell me at least sometimes when she is hungry or thirsty, or needs help.  This feels like a big hurdle jumped; learning to both identify and express a need.  Today, for the first time, she was able to identify both Littles by name. She has learned how to buckle her top car seat buckle, and she is so proud of this it makes my heart shine.  She ate her whole dinner tonight with silverware. 
For Baby Banana, it was a banner day.  For the first time, he rolled all the way over and discovered the incredible freedom of getting from one place to another.  This baby who used to be on the same spot on the blanket if I left the room and came back later- by the end of the day he was rolling half way across the room.  It's a new world for him! 
When he first came to us, if I put him on his tummy he would whimper a moment, then lay down and go to sleep.  After a month of tummy time he now pushes up on his hands and plays with toys, he gets his belly just off the floor.  Today, he even scooted forward a few inches!  He has learned to eat baby food, even with a few soft chunks, and decided that he loves it.  Today in fact, an amazing thing happened. 
He cried.  Because he was hungry! This is a baby who thus far has only cried if in real pain.  Who I have to feed a set amount on a careful schedule because he could not tell when he was hungry (and wouldn't fuss no matter how long it had been since eating last) or full (and when fed would eat and eat until he threw everything up).  Today he cried for food- he asked for food!  He has also learned to turn away when he is full.  He is learning himself, learning how to communicate, learning how to be cared for.  It's beautiful.  I've hardly been so happy to hear a baby cry. 
These children are amazing.  They have been given so little; I am stretched, I can manage just the basics most days.  But they have taken that little and used it to grow and learn and become bigger and better and stronger and smarter.  In such a short time, in such a hard, scary situation.  I am proud for them. 
They are proof of what human failure can do to damage.  But they are also proof of what the human spirit can do to overcome.  They haven't passed as many milestones as some their age, but they are achievers in their own right. They inspire me. 
If they can keep on, keep being better each day than they were yesterday, after all they have been through...well what's my excuse?! 
The truth is I have been feeling tired and stressed and rather maxed out lately.  But today especially these bananas remind me that I have a human spirit, too.  It means that the more I have to overcome, the more I will overcome.  If they can wake up each day and move forward on their own tracks, well so can I.  Tomorrow I am going to be be myself.  But better. 

Living Large

Today I spent eight hours with Littles and Bananas at the hospital.  We did a sort of tour of waiting rooms, triage stations and exam tables.  Then I dragged the lot of them across a parking deck in wind and rain to find an exploding diaper.  Changed the poor shivering buns on the passenger seat, then drove the soaked bunch of hungry, no-nap children whining in harmony through two hours of rush hour to get home.  J is out of town again.
It's not all rainbows and sunshine all the time, is it?
In fact, it is simply amazing how much actual, literal crap is involved in this job.  I honestly would write more for you Peanuts about our current lives, except that practically every story involves poo or vomit or both.  If I can't be spared it, Peanuts, at least you can.  Some of it, anyways. 
Tomorrow we go back to a doctor, Friday to another.  Between the four of them we are the traveling band of medical maladies.  Since I've been hit with a good strong respiratory infection the last week, I make a perfect ringleader!
But even though the house is a wreck and the kids and I all had a great laugh today about the state of my rainy-day hair, we are hanging in there.  At the end of the day we get to snuggle up, all smelling like baby soap, all in our fuzzy jammies, and read stories.
Suddenly the rain seems cozy and friendly, the messy house still feels like home.  The long day melts away behind us.  That too has passed.  And now we're Here, wrapped in blankets, cuddled together in an imaginary adventure to dream about soon. 
This season of life feels large to me.  As large as I am! The days are so long, the work is so ponderous.  The headaches are so blinding and the sacrifices demanding.  But the payoffs.  The sweet moments.  They are breathtakingly huge as well. As long as I remember to hold on to those while the challenges fall into my lap, life may get heavy, but maybe there will be balance. 
And hot chocolate.  There will always be that. 

Big Little (One) Decisions

Today I took four quite ill children to the ENT specialist at nap time. 
I'm not sure if this was like a test to see if the surgeon could remain calm and collected under all circumstances, a test to see if I could, or just some kind of a twisted joke I decided to play on us both.  But, fortunately, surgeon and I both passed the test.  And while no one got the promised Big Treat For Being Extra Patient And Calm (our traditional BTFBEPAC at the hospital is orange juice), no one got scolded either, and I did get to have a lengthy conversation which I could even hear all of.  So overall a win I think.   In part because of the compelling facts Dr ENT had kindly printed up for me in advance (points for actually reading Her chart and being prepared! And passed the four-sick-kids-no-nap test! The guy needs a trophy.) we have decided to go ahead with the surgery. 
The other reason we are going for it is that for extra credit, Dr. ENT agreed to coordinate with another specialist who is already scheduled to have our Little One under anesthesia later this month, so that She could get both procedures knocked out with one, well, knock out. 
Since half the risk will be undertaken whether Her tonsils are removed or not, we might as well yank 'em and hope that it will be the miracle life-changer for Her that the latest studies promise. 
The trickiest part (other than how I will manage to disguise myself as an orderly or stow away in the scalpel cart so that I can be RIGHT BY my baby's side EVERY SECOND while She's having a part of Her body cut off),  will be convincing Her this is all a good idea. 
As I've mentioned, the fevers have been part of Little One's life since She was a baby.  She literally can't remember living without them.  So for Her, what's the big deal really?  Removing body parts, however... um....that's a novel experience She is none too excited to explore.  Her exact and final words to me in our discussion today were, "Say what you want to but I will NEVER ALLOW IT." 
Of course She was a little grumpy about the no juice.  But still. 
And what about this other procedure you ask?  Oh, you know. Just another specialist looking into whether She has yet another rare disorder associated with deranged immune systems.  Unfortunately, confirming this diagnosis requires general anesthesia.  And I personally really, really don't want Her to have it.  On the plus side, deranged as Her immune system is, it isn't dangerously so in the way that say, cancer, or some really terrible thing might be.  So I will count blessings instead of eggs before they hatch. 
Speaking of blessings, tomorrow will be the first school day in a very long time that no one has any appointments for me to drag us all to.  We will stay home with our sick, nasty selves and keep our PJ's on and do birthday party crafts and take actual naps.  I'm pretty excited. 

Things Are Going....Swimmingly.

Now that J is home (yay!),  things are running right along at home. We have a rhythm going. 
The Baby Banana is as adorable as it is possible to be.  Baby Banana relishes the attention of the Littles and so they pour it on.  They jump along with the jumper (in fact Little One is the one who taught BB to jump!) they bring soft toys to jingle, and help BB practice babbles and silly faces.  Little One sits in front when BB does tummy time and gently pulls BB onto Her lap.  BB curls up and rests on Her thigh, sucks on those fingers and coos.  Little One melts.  She croons- "Oh baaaby, pretty baaaby, you are so sweeeet.  You are a daaaarling, a wonderful baaaaby.  How I love you! Sweet angel baaaaby!" BB is sleeping.  She melts again.
Missy asks to hold BB in Her lap.  I prop them up together on the couch; BB is almost as big as She is.  Miss looks like a proud mother hen.  "Look I'm so big gul! I a Momma! I can be so gentle see?  I can do a good job!  Hi baby! You my friend?  I think baby say yes, Mommy!"
Little Banana seems a bit younger, but is just Missy's age.  When they aren't having a standoff over who can be the Most Two, they play nicely; when Little One is around they are three peas in a pod.  Missy calls Little Banana "Friend", LB calls Missy "sis-er".  The two of them follow Little One around like ducklings, to Little One's great delight.  The baby dolls in this house are exquisitely cared for. 
Little Banana has been here long enough to begin settling in and testing me carefully. What if I say "no"? Lb wonders. What if I dangle this piece of turkey over the floor until I catch an eye, and then drop it?  What happens if I knock over Miss's milk?  Or take Her toy?  Or paint pictures on the glass with my snot?  Or refuse to eat- anything- and instead say "banana. cookie." over and over and over?  This is the nature of things.  There is an adjustment, a settling in.  A readjustment.  Typically Bananas aren't supposed to be with us long enough for that second phase. 
Since Little Mister is poised to hit this family like a precious, adorable wrecking ball in a swaddling blanket, we were only approved for short-term foster care placements.  However, there have been some twists and turns in the life story of these two particular bananas, and it appears they may be with us for some time. 
I'm sad about that, because foster care is no place for children.  I know it's an odd thing to say, but though the system is certainly better than nothing (I've seen places where there's Nothing; broken is drastically better than Nothing), it is still a mess.
I'm happy about it, because they are precious and despite the medical issues and the testing and all the car seat buckles (why has no one invented the self-buckling car seat?!) I like having them here.  It's fun having four- there are more snuggles and giggles.  I like them in particular; they are sweet little people I'm honored to know.
And then I'm sad about it again because as much as having four is fun, as much as I love these special bananas with all my heart already, taking care of them is not the hard part.  It's that broken system.  It's being constantly sent all over town to appointments which may or may not exist, with people who may or may not show up.  It's spending 3 hours every day on the phone with social workers and lawyers and various affiliated people who are all somehow involved in the Bananas' case, but who never seem to speak to each other, only to me.  ALL the time.  And they rarely agree. 
It's never being able to clean my house because there is always someone coming over to judge the cleanliness of my house.  It's being asked why I don't have them on a morning nap schedule by the same people who have insisted I drag all the children out to some meeting or doctor every. single. morning. since they have been here.  That stuff.  That's the stressful part.  A couple little kids, with or without some health issues, is no problem.  The kids are lovely.  It's the grown-ups, guys.  The grown-ups are driving me CRAZY. 
It's funny, but I had been prepared for the kids to be so much harder to deal with than any of them have been.  But, ignorantly I suppose, I was not prepared for the grown-ups to be so terribly frustrating and exhausting.  You have no idea how many times a day I want to send them to time-out. 
Instead, I am channeling my favorite cartoon fish (hey we all need a role model), and trying to just keep swimming, just keep swimming.  Luckily for me, J is my emotional life-vest as I swim, and he always gives me a little lift when I start to feel in over my head.  Luckily for me I have a few really, really good friends who have been there to help me along;
luckily my own Littles are such expert swimmers themselves that all I really have to do is try to keep up with them. 
And when it really starts to get to me, Baby Banana coos and gurgles at me with big, shiny eyes. Little Banana reaches for me and wants to sit and rock for awhile, hugging me tight.  My Littles climb up too, and for just a minute before they start to bug each other or get bored and run off to make messes, I stop swimming.  In fact, I'm floating. 
Long enough to catch my breath. Long enough to remember the Whys.  And then off we go again....swimming, just keep swimming.....

Mom Luck

Mom luck. 
The rule that dictates that only after one has cleaned the house, scrubbed the floors, and taken a shower, shall one child vomit all over Mom (and the clean floors) and the other poo all over Mom (and the clean floors) (and the clean bathroom). 
It was all going to need washing again soon anyways. 

This Beat Is Bananas

The Department of Human Services cares about me.
It cares in a diefied way, an omniscient way.  It cares about my deeper being; my long-term character development.  It wants me to be all I can be.
I know this because days like today, I feel confident that DHS knows me.  It knows my soul.  My flaws.  DHS knows that I am an impatient person.  That I am a type A, lets-get-things-done, according-to-plan person.  It knows that I have raging Mama-bear tendencies when it comes to any child within detectable existence, much less those in my care, and that rage is bad.  Rage and impatience and all of that.
DHS is like a swami, people.  It knows.
That, I am certain, is why it goes to such loving, meticulous lengths to help me overcome these character flaws, by giving me such extreme and mandatory opportunities to practice patience.  And changing of plans.  Three times.  Eight times.  16 times.  To practice not becoming ballistic when seven different people make mistakes in one day and all of them adversely affect my babies.  Rage is not a good thing.  Not a good thing.  Ooooommmmm.  DHS has even given me a mantra!
After spending three hours waddling back and forth across every wing of a hospital while pushing a decrepit double-wide stroller with one trick wheel and simultaneously balancing a two-year old on my pregnant belly, after SIX HOURS of waiting rooms and car seats with three, and then four children and NO LUNCH for anyone, after over a dozen fruitless phone calls, I can say for sure.
DHS cares about me extra today. 
How they managed to throw in the exploding diarrhea child and the vomiting baby I really don't know.  But after today I feel confident they had it all covered.  It's the omniscience.
Now it could possibly be the strained muscle from hauling a pack and play upstairs with a child on my back, but I don't think so.  I think it's just growing pains, you know, from all the personal growth.  I'm feeling it!  Thanks DHS.  I practiced patience all day.  Keep it up! Keep it coming!  Someday I'll learn.  Ommmmmmmmm. 

Bananas In Pajamas

So awhile ago, J left to go bobbing about the sea on a boat again.  Not for long, just for a bit.  Such is the Navy life.  Wouldn't you know it, he'd been gone just a day when I got a call saying there was an emergency need for two Bananas to find a place to sleep.  Four kids under five, on my own, 7 months pregnant can't be that hard, right?  Right?  ....hello?...... Right.
So they came.  In their pajamas, just in time to meet us, wonder what they'd gotten into, and go to sleep.   They've been playing and sleeping and eating and reading with us since.  After spending today at a farm/playground AND a shopping trip through a packed commissary with the lot of them, I can honestly say these things:

1) Ok, friends with large families, ok.  I always thought maybe you were being a little unfriendly, a little sensitive.  But no, really, it gets super obnoxious really fast when every other random stranger in public has some comment or invasive question about the kids you are hauling.  I mean, seriously. Call me crazy again and I will show some crazy TO you, people! 

2) The question "are they all yours?" is particularly common and particularly awkward when, no, they aren't- but, well, kind of- and anyways they are listening and probably would not love being pointed out as Not Belonging seven times a day.  So I'm going with "aren't they sweet?" as an answer. And then just laughing as they look at my belly, and the baby, and then the belly, and just stand there doing math in their heads and looking confused.

3) There needs to be a minivan version of shopping carts.

4)  Four Under Five are not that hard.  Even pregnant, even J-less.  In fact,

5) It's pretty fun.  There are a lot of extra giggles around here.  Lots of them are mine.

6) There may be nothing more inspiring than the way children can instantly accept and love each other.  What is wrong with adults that we can't do that?

7) I'm tired.

In fact, I'm too tired to make it to 10.  Let's assume it would have been something funny and/or insightful.  And on that note, I will make like my kids and the bananas, put on some pajamas, and go to bed.  There will be adventures waiting and giggling to do in the morning, I'm sure. 

Yes, We Have No Bananas

We spent the weekend getting ready for our new banana. 
We rearranged furniture and car seats, put together the new bed.  We did a few things we'd been meaning to, that we knew we wouldn't be able to while Banana was here. 
We camped in the backyard

Complete with S'mores, of course!

We went to our very first theater movie.

Dressed For The Red Carpet

It was a fun theater here which also serves dinner, so we had dinner and a movie.  Fancy.  We saw Planes, which Little Miss enjoyed, and which was only a little too scary for Her big sister. 
We had lots of talks about how this would be a special banana, and the Littles were wonderful about understanding, accepting, and brainstorming ways for our family to make accommodating changes to make Banana feel at home. 
They spent the entire day before the arrival getting ready.  They'd heard blocks were a favorite toy, and so they took each and every one of 4 sets of blocks and polished them with damp cloths.  To make them "super clean and shiny".  They chose the favorite set to keep in Bananas room.  They went through all their toys, picking out the ones they thought Banana would like best, polishing them up, and setting them out to be easily discovered.  They planned games like:
"How about we build up a big tower, and then let Banana smash it! Then we can do it again!" They went through the car carefully cleaning up stray leaves and paper bits and and washing the windows and dash.  They drew some Welcome! pictures.  They saw me off excitedly. 
I went to the meeting to pick up Banana.  I was there, discussing particulars with parents, previous foster-parents, social workers.  Part way through, I was pulled aside. 
The placement had been cancelled.  Just then, that minute. 
In the end, I agree it was the best decision for Banana, for various reasons, which is what matters most.  But I felt an odd combination of relief and disappointment.  And.  I had to go home and face the Littles. 
Little One rushed me at the door, all lit up.  There was a moment of dead silence. 
..."where's Banana?" 
When I told Her She melted into Her father's lap and didn't speak to me for a few minutes.  I broke the news to Miss.  She glared and shook Her head vehemently.  "Not ok! I want my new friend! I am SAD!" There was some moping around. 
I am not a mom that changes plans on my daughters at the last minute if I can help it.  Infamous throughout my youth for being the one who was eternally late for everything, I have come to have a strong disdain for flakiness, and have myself become a lot more dependable, at least when there are children involved.  Because I hate to teach my daughters that I can't be trusted.  Because I hate to teach them that because they are little their feelings don't matter.  Because I hate to see them dejected.
So I often don't tell my kids about play dates or plans with friends- especially if I know they can be flaky- until the last minute, when I'm sure it won't fall through. I'd rather surprise them than get them excited and let them down.
But in the case of life-altering changes, like adding a person to the family for awhile, it's important to give them some time to ask questions and get used to the idea.  So, since this foster care business is anything BUT dependable, what's the answer?  I'd love some advice from the Peanut Gallery on this one. 
In the meantime I guess I will just hope that it's character-building to learn to be flexible and live with disappointment sometimes.  But I sure wish I had done something differently, to make it easier.  I guess we are all learning as we go, especially me. 

A Banana To Carry

Last week I was talking to a good friend.  I told her I was having trouble deciding whether to take in the most recent banana we were called about. This one has some significant special needs and would be with us longer than usual, during a time J will not be able to help me much. It seemed like a lot to take on.
We talked about foster care in general, and she asked me if it is hard to hear the stories about how the kids ended up in care.  As a social worker, she said that there were times she almost wished for the blissful ignorance she had before entering the field, because the stories can be so horrendous and hard to bear.  I know what she means. 
I remembered again that summer in New York. 
That was the summer that my ignorant bliss was really shattered. 
I was the nurse at a summer camp for kids from the foster care and shelter systems of inner city NYC.  The first night the kids arrived, they poured off the bus into the dining hall for dinner.  I was in the clinic, busily preparing for the intake exams that would begin after dessert.  I was excited and nervous.  I didn't know what to expect, but I didn't expect to get my first patient before dinner was even over.
I was called down to the hall for a boy that wasn't feeling well.  He was a skinny thing with a big head; he looked up at me with eyes so sad he reminded me a little of a basset hound.  He promptly threw up all over my shoes.
I got him back to the clinic, cleaned us up, and was just starting to try and figure out what was the matter with him, when another child walked in.  Another.  And they kept coming, all sick to their stomachs.
At first I thought- it's an epidemic! It's the spaghetti! Food poisoning!  But I stuck to my training and asked all the routine questions.  One of which is- what and when did you eat last?
I soon realized that they all had something in common, and it wasn't just the spaghetti.
It was that, before that dinner, it had been a long, long time since they had eaten anything.  Some of them couldn't even remember the last time they'd had a meal.
Then they had arrived at a table overflowing with pasta and salad and bread, and gorged themselves.  Their starved little bodies had been shocked and couldn't keep the food down.
It wasn't the only problem that night.
Not knowing or trusting there would be more coming from the kitchen when the pasta bowl ran out, fights broke out over noodles and garlic bread. That night I treated lacerations on little kids who had seriously tried to shank each other with plastic picnic wear.  I iced black eyes.  My office was a melee of children in various states of illness and injury; there was crying, groaning, shouting, cursing that made me do a double-take (did that seriously just come out of that little six year old?!)
That was before the intake exams.
Where I saw the three brothers who at first glance seemed to have a pox of some kind.  But no, they were covered head to toe in cigarette burns.  Where I tried to speak to glazed over stares and discovered children drugged with psychotropic medicines that came with them in unmarked bottles.  Where I noticed the healing scars on the girl who had been dipped in boiling water.  The untreated infections that had been ravaging little bodies for weeks, months, maybe years.  Where I heard the stories about far worse wounds, the kind I could not see.
That was just the first day.
I remember being ashamed by my ignorance; knowing that there was something wrong about the fact that I felt so surprised.  That I'd had no idea, really, that these things were happening here, right here, right in my own country/city/neighborhood.  These kids weren't on some Save The Children commercial, so far removed they might not be real.  They were living pain and poverty right here; just a few subways stops from fifth avenue. And there were so. many.
When I finished camp I was still a college student unsure of what my future would be, but I knew what I was looking for.  I wanted to look into the shadows, and see who else was there.  I wanted to learn about that reality, and be a part of it in some way.  I felt then that, sure, I couldn't change the world or Fix It.  But it seemed very, very important to at least acknowledge the truth.  To do all I could not to be so blissfully ignorant anymore.
I'm sure I still am, unaware of many things.  But I've been a few dark places since then.
It's true that there are times it has seemed like too much.  There have been things that have made it hard not to lose hope- hope for anything.  I've realized that a child's pain isn't something I can turn away from, forget, or get over.  It's something I just have to carry around.  But that's ok. It's a lighter burden than they carry, and yet they do.  Surely I can be strong enough to share just a little of it.
I told my friend that, yes, it is astounding, horrifying what happens.  So often and so close to home.  That the way I personally handle knowing about the nightmares that are out there is to be a part of them. I can't erase what's happened to these kids.  Or fix it.  But I can show them that they are not invisible. I can care.  I can always care. Foster care helps me carry what I know.
As I said it to my friend, I knew I had my answer.
I pick up our new banana on Tuesday.   

Phobias and Philias

**Be warned.  This story is graphic, and extremely gross. Read at your own risk, and preferably not while eating. ** 

We all have little pet peeves, right? Things that we just Can Not.  I have a friend who can't stand butterflies, one who's afraid of sea water.  There's all the usual stuff that freaks people out; heights and elevators and spiders and lions/tigers/bears.  Me?  I don't mind any of that stuff.  I'm not afraid of the dark.  I like flying and falling and public speaking.  I used to have a pet tarantula, for goodness sake.  His name was Terry!  
But, I have a thing about bathrooms. Even clean bathrooms kind of ick me out, and I can't stand dirty ones.  I Can Not.  In times of stress or chaos, the rest of my house might temporarily fall apart, but I scrub the bathrooms every week like it's a religion, and in my family you know that the Good Lord help you if you get fingerprints or toothpaste spittle on my mirrors.  Uh uh. 
Filthy bathrooms, especially public ones, give me some serious heebie-jeebies.  I mean, ick people.  Just eew.  Do you have anything that freaks you out like that? If you do, keep it in mind.  I'm telling you this so that you can understand the gravity, people, the serious seriousness, of what happened to me last week.
I took our two latest Bananas to visit their siblings, and when we left there was a lot of sadness.  They have been through a lot recently, and I really felt that they needed a familiar, comforting transitional place before taking them back to my house.  For these kids, that place is one they are accustomed to visiting frequently, but one my family does not go to.  So, though it wasn't my cup of tea, I took them to McDonalds.
I am not a McDonalds patron.  So maybe they are not all grimy and smelly, but this one was.  Nevertheless, the extreme joy of the Bananas convinced me to stay.  I ordered "For Here" so they could work off any extra anxiety in the "play place".  This, Peanuts, was not a wise decision.
Because I was already a little grossed out by the way my shoes stuck to the floor, and the slick oily finger smears shining in streaks up and down the faded yellow slide.  And then, 3-year-old Banana had to potty.  This is not a child who can hold it.  So in we went.
I'm not sure if she wasn't feeling well or if this is normal for her, but I tell you I stood in that nasty stall with the baby on my hip for- believe I timed this on my cell phone, Peanuts- over half an hour.  Half an hour in my most unfavorite place on earth.  While she pooed.  She kicked her clothes onto the floor.  She played with the toilet seat.  I am trying to be rational and pick my battles, and calmly ask her if she's ok, and is she done.  And now, is she done.  ......now?
She is singing and chatting and having a grand old time.  I am trying to breathe and remember how important it is to practice patience, even when I want to run screaming into a bathtub full of hand sanitizer.
Then the baby, who has a cold, sneezed.
"Bless you", I said, still keeping my eye on Three.  Then I felt a wiggle and heard a schlurrrmph from Baby, and looked to see that she had blown a thick, neon-green snot rocket, and smeared it with the back of her arm, ALL OVER her face.  She looked up.  Grinned at me.  And blew out her diaper.
Ok.  So three is still doing her business, and I step out of the stall, just long enough to wash Baby's face and arms in the scummy sink basin.  Before handling the diaper issue, I peek back in to check on Three in the stall.  She is leaning forward.  She is up to her elbows in the murky toilet water, splashing, singing, and wiping the stuff all up and down her front side.   Like paint.
 I did not scream.  People. I have seen broken bones sticking through skin, I have seen open heart surgery, I have held a piece of skull over an open brain and not blinked, but for this- can I tell you how proud I am of myself that I did not scream?! 
I didn't do it.  I took a deep breath.  A deep, stink-filled breath.  I spent the next 6 minutes exactly trying to get Three to please finish her business and to convince her to- no! no, no! Don't touch the- wait! Stop! Lets keep our hands on the seat. ON the seat, please, on the seat!
She looked at me like I was nuts. "But whyyyyy? I like to splashies!"
In the end, I had to bathe them both in the McDonalds sink as best I could.  And then go back out there.  To the play place.  And watch them finish eating.
We survived.  Somehow.  We got home and people, we all got baths and then the bath got a bath.  It might go down as one of the most appalling experiences of my life so far.  But I faced a fear and lived to tell the tale (aren't you all so lucky I did).
And later that night, tucking Banana into bed, she cried and shrieked and refused, and then jumped into my arms and held me so tight and hugged me for a long, long time.  I rocked her until her rigid body relaxed, I tucked her in, arms still around my neck, and she whispered, "I don't want to go home.  Can I stay here?  I want stay here with you. Can I stay tomorrow?"  
I remembered that I wasn't the only one facing fears that day.
I thought about what a gift it was, to be trusted by a child who had no reason whatever not to expect the worst of me.  How rarely in life we are given the benefit of the doubt like that.  I put her to sleep, knowing that she would wake in the night, as she does every night, screaming in terror.  And that I would go to her and, as if granted the magical superpower to keep demons at bay, be able to soothe her back to sleep with just two calm words and a hand on her back.  Amazing.
I guess foster care is a dirty job. But somebody's got to do it.  Lucky it should be me. 

Bananas Foster

So far, foster care seems to be rather like the dessert that shares it's name.  It's a bit like playing with fire; there is definitely a possibility of getting burned and ending up with a big, hot mess.  You must be a little crazy, bananas even, to get involved in something so sticky and easily flammable.  But, then again, it is extremely sweet.
We have two more little Bananas with us this week, a one and a three year old.  Doubling our number of children in an instant means scrambling over some learning curves pretty quick!  J and I are certainly getting a good sleepless-night bootcamp for when Mister joins us. And I'm fairly certain that in a just world all foster parents would be given a steam-cleaner upon certification.
But so far we have had the huge honor of getting to love and cuddle four seriously adorable babies, and the interaction between them and our Littles has been fun to witness.  Little One is like a happy mother hen, tucking each one under Her wing.  Missy is defending Her position as the Family Baby with a sword, some nunchucks, and a potato gun full of rabid piranhas.  But having a lovely time with our new friends, you know, other than that. 
I can't say there haven't been any messes made.  But J and I have always had a sweet tooth, and so far we haven't burned the house down. So I'd say it's going well overall. 

Geronimo

A lot of life is kind of wishy-washy.  Things get decided and undecided, dreamed up and then change-of-planned away, and generally made up as you go. Most of the time, when you say things like: "I will be a ballerina when I grow up!" or "now we are blood-brothers for life!" you mean it in an optimistic, yet flexible sort of way. Kind of like the washing-machine repairman when he says he will be there around lunch time.

But then again. There are times, in life, when we Mean It. There are even times when we make Solemn Vows.  Have you made some of those?  I have.
There was the time I stood in a garden with J and said "better or worse". Or when I saw a bit of bone in the red pit of Bernice's pressure sore and thought to myself, "this is the LAST one she will ever have." The times I looked at brand-new Littles in the moonlight and promised I would love them like crazy forever. Or the time I passed by a stranger in a mall, and said to my sister, "I solemnly swear I will never, never, never get a perm. Ever." There was another time.

Way in the middle of the forest in New York state, after the last one left my office for the day. What happened is that I remained utterly serene. I maintained complete integrity and composure. I gave a little chuckle and smiled, and I said, "see you again at four, then!" and waved and shut the door.

Then the air got all still and crackly. And I covered my mouth with my hands, and crumpled down on the floor by the trash bin with the rusty spots on it, and cried the kind of cry that is so hard that your back shakes but no sound comes out. Just lots and lots of tears; so many that they climb and roll over each other and make little splishes in the dust of the floor.

Just for a minute. Then I sat up and watched a little brown spider creeping under the window ledge. I thought about everything I had heard; I listened to it again in my mind. It was nobody in that room but the Big Guy upstairs, me, and the spider; but we all three know that right then I made a Solemn Vow.

Years later,  J and I were talking about taking our two ordinary little lives and maybe combining them, like vinegar and baking soda, to make one big bursting party of a future. We had a little talk about non-negotiables; the things we Had To do or have or be when we became our future selves, and the other person had to either be In, or Out.  I told him then about my Vow, this non-negotiable thing I had done in the witness of the Big Guy and the spider. And he said, of course, that he was In. It became his Vow too.

It has not been easy.  We have tried and had one obstacle or another fall like trees across our path.  But then, J's parents (his vow-granting, fairy-god-parents) came here for nine weeks.  Nine weeks of their lives, to help us make this happen.  With our Littles in their safe fairy-god-hands for several hours at a time every week, J and I went to a lot of meetings. A LOT.  We had our fingerprints taken and answered deluges of questions. We had our house and selves investigated to a point that stopped just short of picking through the strands of our hair for evidence of lice, or perhaps use of the wrong shampoo. And in the end, finally, we were deemed worthy of keeping our Vow.  We became foster parents.

It has been more than ten years since that moment in New York.  But our first two children came to us right after we got home from Canada. When they left only a week later, I thought how strange it was for my heart to feel so empty and full at the same time.  Already. The work of extra children is hard.  Loving someone and letting them go is hard. This won't be an easy thing.

And the Littles keep me hopping. J is busy, I am tired and pregnant and we are preparing for the arrival of the Little Mister.  It's terrible timing to do this.  Picking up a special-needs two year old and a newborn the day after returning from a cross-country trip, with a 12 year old in tow and more guests arriving the next day is seriously terrible timing.  We did it anyway.

Because we are crazy, Peanuts. We are.  But also, there is not ever, ever, Ever an easy way or a convenient time to take your life, shake it up, and turn it upside-down.  There is never a safe angle from which to jump from a cliff and see what happens.  Which means that waiting for the right time and place can mean waiting until the promises we make to ourselves pass us by.

So for the wishy-washy stuff, maybe it's not worth it for the mess it makes.  But for the Solemn Vows? For when we Mean It?  Sometimes we have to climb whatever rocky crags it takes to get there, even if it takes ten years.  And then at the pinnacle, when it's either jump or retreat, just hold on tight to our climbing partners.  And.... Jump!