Getting pregnant isn’t always easy. For some of us, yes. A couple of months of easy work produces a team of dividing cells that bubble inside you, not unlike like happiness you feel when a second pink line suddenly appears alongside the lonely control. It was like that for me, but not like that for more than 12% of women out there, and not like that for my best friend, Kara.
She’s tried things. Lots of things. They haven’t worked, except one time, and it was fleeting. A few short weeks of dividing happiness before the bubble burst. So she and her husband decided she would take a break from trying lots of things. They decided to become foster parents in hopes of adopting domestically. Within a couple of short months, they were the foster parents to two girls aged 7 and 2. The youngest one had red hair, like Kara.
The girls were removed from their home because their parents were dealing and taking methamphetamines. They came with two trash bags of clothing, abandonment issues, and developmental delays. Kara and her husband were thrilled.
They went to the beach and museums and parks. They ate real, complete dinners as a family. Kara met with the oldest’s teachers and both she and her husband worked around the clock to bring her up to speed academically. They put her in private school for the summer and attended her awards ceremony at the end of the term.
They were bubbling with happiness once again.
The parents, while clean, were not making the progress stipulated by the Court. They failed to secure a job. They had no place to live. The girls came back from visitations hungry, dirty, and, on three occasions, with with heads teaming with lice. Kara took off work all three times to take care of the situation because that’s what moms do.
While the parent’s lack of progress was unfortunate, Kara and her husband were, albeit secretly, bubbling with happiness at the prospect of adopting the girls.
And then, on an ordinary Wednesday, the social worker called Kara and her husband to let them know she would be recommending to the Court reunification. She wanted the girls placed back with their parents full time. The parents were still jobless and homeless, but she felt those were issues to overlook in light of the fact they had been clean for almost six months.
And, again, Kara and her husband’s bubble burst.
Thirty days later, I attended a farewell party for the girls. The next morning, Kara dropped the girls off at the adoption agency and said goodbye for the last time. That night they received a phone call about another little girl, this one eight years old. For many reasons, they gently closed the door to their open home–temporarily. They needed to take a break from blowing bubbles.
And so that is why this week my favorite moment is not really a moment. Instead, it is a feeling of respect and admiration for those couples out there, like Kara and her husband, who open their homes to the many children out there who have no family of their own. Children out their who are alone in a world without family, without hope, and without bubbles.
If I had a magic bubble blower, I would surely blow them some. And a few for Kara, too.