Some days are tough in foster care. Triggers are hit. Boundaries tested. Tantrums flying.
And none of us quite sure how or why we got here.
But here we are. With no clear path out.
Sometimes a simple diversion works. The books use the beautifully sophisticated term “redirection.” We find our best redirection involves laughing about dukie (what our foster kids like to call feces). Less high brow, but equally effective.
Other magical moments, one of the kiddos reaches for the restart button. A circle scrawled on a small card that resides in a desk drawer until it’s pulled out and transformed into a powerful weapon for good. A single finger on the circle and little Nick can turn it around. Who doesn’t love a fresh start?
But then there are the days that neither poop jokes nor paper promises help. Consequence after consequence falls flat. Lost privileges add up one on top of another as we desperately attempt to break the cycle.
Instead strong wills build momentum. Whirling into their own tornado.
But the pain and trauma seem more than our flat words can fight. 30 days of safety and love prove little more than a middle school romance.
Breadth and depth take time.
He needs to see the other side of a bad day. Again and again.
He needs to know that our pride isn’t based on his performance. That our snuggles don’t come with strings.
That our love isn’t giving up.