It took his left-behind toothbrush to undo me. I’m sitting here in a parking lot sobbing my guts out. He was mine for two and a half weeks, but those days and nights saw him smile, sleep through the night instead of freezing awake in terror, swing for hours on the swings my kids take for granted. He called me “mama,” and I told him every time I left that if I said I would come back, I would. I prepared him for his new home as best I could, but now it’s nap time and his new mom says he misses me.
My answer to those people, who say they couldn’t do it for fear of becoming “too attached” to kids they will have to let go, is this: I absolutely get attached. Every single time. I wonder where they are now. They visit me in my dreams, and sometimes I wake up with a wet face. It hurts. Sometimes it hurts so bad that I struggle to catch my breath. You know what I know even MORE, though? More than anything else, I know I’d rather these sweet babies know my love than never know it.
There is absolutely no reason that an eight year old who watched his mother be murdered not know the love of a stranger. A stranger that will love and care for them like their own child. It’s absolutely criminal that a two year old sit in a social worker’s office for two days in dirty clothes because I’m afraid I’d get too attached. I got attached. I always get attached. Getting attached has been the greatest pleasure and honor of my entire life. I will do it again in a heartbeat.
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