I am not a patient person. I am sure that some brilliant scientist could look at scans of my brain and say, “See this this area right here? This is where your patience button should be. You don’t have one.” I am a busy person. While this may not be reflected in my body mass index, I am constantly doing something. Writing, talking, doing online things, watching a movie, working, reading, researching, ranting, etc, etc, etc. I’m not even still when I’m sleeping. As many a scattered teddy bear could tell you, I run marathons in my sleep. Have I accurately described how patient I am not? I hope so.
Today my mother went to court. She had a custody hearing to determine the fate of my adopted brother - a boy who was tragically and irreparably damaged by his birth mother; a boy who has been diagnosed with sociopath tendencies; a boy who is violent and aggressive towards everyone that he meets; a boy who has done everything in his power to destroy my mother. Today my mother went to court to tell her side of the story. She went to tell them that she did not, in fact, abuse my brother. She had case notes, she had reports from aids and one-to-one workers, she had personal references and statements attesting to her credibility as a foster parent. She went into court ready to fight for not only her reputation as a mother, but also to fight for the well-being of her adopted son.
I had a Psych class early this morning, and then work at 11:00 am. I wished my mother luck for the hearing, and told her to text me when she knew what the outcome was. I knew that it would be at least 6 hours until she knew anything. And so, I waited. Work kept me busy. I called in overdue books, I made cards for a grade 3 class coming in for a field trip, I mended books, made new spine labels, sleeved and shelved movies and CDs, sent books and movies into transit, and somewhere in there found the time to run home and grab a movie for a co-worker.
At the end of my shift, I checked my text messages. The judged approved the custody order in favor of my mom, but held it over until March. My brother’s lawyer has completely bought into his lies about my mother, and is convinced that she is a danger to him. She wants a permanent guardianship order, and wants to deny my mother access to him indefinitely. She didn’t get what she wanted today, and that makes me smile. Today, my damaged, deceitful, sociopathic brother did not get his way. But, this is just the beginning.
My mother still has to go to court to prove that she did not abuse the other foster boy - the other foster boy who has waited for my mother to visit him for a year; the foster boy who wasn’t told that it wasn’t her decision to stop coming to see him; the foster boy who loved my mother to pieces, and couldn’t deal with the disappointment of finally finding out that she was never coming back for him; the foster boy who made up a story about my mother whipping him, because he was mad at her. My mother still has to go to court and prove that two boys - who were damaged by their birth mothers, and have a history of violence, aggression, and false accusations - are lying about her. Unrepresented.
And there’s nothing I can do about it. For now.
This is all I can do. I can rant on my blog about the injustice of the world. I can write letters that attest to my mother’s stellar record as a foster parent, and the abuse she’s suffered at the hands of these boys. I am a writer. This is how I vent.
Four more days I have to wait. In four days, my mother will attempt to restore her reputation, and get back her foster care license.
In the meantime, I’ve been writing a book. I’ve been writing a book detailing my mother’s hardships, triumphs, failures, and successes as a parent/foster parent. I have been writing a book that, in four days time, I will decide if I am going to publish.
My mother has been used and abused by Children’s Services, and if they drive this final nail into her coffin, I will publish this book, and I will hold nothing back. People need to know the risks of becoming a foster parent. People need to know the risks of putting their faith in a system that does not have their back in the long run. People need to hear my mother’s story, and know the damage that false accusations can cause; the damage that a thirteen-year old boy with no morals can cause.
Four more days. Doesn’t seem like that long, does it? Unless of course you’re in this position, and the future of someone you love will be decided in that short time.
How did it all come to this? What would you do? If this was your mother, and you knew these boys were lying, and you knew the case workers involved were leaving your mother out to dry, and knew that everything hinged on this one hearing … what would you do?
I am not a drinker, for several reasons. Alcohol heats me up, and I have a high enough body temperature as it is; I do not like the taste of alcohol, with the possible exception of vodka, but once again, it heats me up too much; I can get natural highs - I am generally a very excited, giddy, fun-loving person. I have never needed alcohol to have a good time. Also, alcohol is a depressant, so logically speaking, it can’t make you happy. Even with all of these facts, I could really use a drink. I would love to just slumber my way through these next four days, and not be so anxious and neurotic the whole time. Even as I’m sitting here writing this blog, my feet are bobbing on the bed, and my hands are tapping the keyboard impatiently.
Patience is not my virtue. Nor is it a virtue of my mother’s. I don’t know how she’s keeping it together, but somehow she is. If it were me, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from screaming at these lawyers and case workers. I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from wringing their necks at their sheer stupidity. This is why I’m not the foster parent …
It’s times like these, I really wish I believed in a higher power. I wish that I could believe that someone was watching out for us. That good people are rewarded for their hard work and sacrifices, and bad people never prosper from their evil actions. I haven’t prayed since I was eleven years old, but I wish that I could pray to someone. I wish that I could do something as simple as get down on my knees, do a dozen Hail Mary’s, wish upon a star, blow out a candle, and have everything work out perfectly.
Why can’t life be like that? Why do good people always have to suffer? Why the hell can’t time magically move forward, and save me from this insufferable waiting game? Why, why, why, why, WHY?
