Another man’s son.
All that was left was his little red truck. Until next time, I thought to myself. He’ll be back soon. My heart felt that twinge of pain that I feel each and every time. He’s another man’s son; another woman’s little boy. The red truck is his when he comes to stay with us. We are his respite foster carers.
Another sleepless night. The screaming when he wakes in the night is the most alarming sound you could hear. My husband said “it is a very distressing cry. Very loud”. It is a sound that sets your mind and bodies on high alert immediately. The sound of distress. Become hyper vigilant. Leap into action.
But nothing can be done. We don’t know the reason for the screams and nothing will comfort him. Only he knows how to calm himself until the next resurge of anguish twenty minutes later. I lay beside him on the floor and gently rub his back. I live through his anguish, and he knows I am with him. It’s like an endless labour, but the child isn’t mine. By the morning we are all exhausted. I feel sick. I can’t go on. But we are the only ones who will take him, and in some weird and complex way, we are bonding, and it’s “working”. He loves coming, and we love having him. We miss him when he’s gone, and without us, his carer might not be able to cope anymore. So it’s a win-win, I keep telling myself.
The sight of the little red truck causes some anxiety to well up inside me. What will next time be like? Will he scream and will it take us to the brink of despair? Will he be better next time? Or maybe we’ll just be better at coping next time.
Three months on and he sleeps soundly and peacefully. All is well. The worst is over. We hope so. A new problem arises. He is bonding with our son. Attaching. Following him around, he cries if he can’t find him. Two days later his carer comes to pick him up. He looks at her and walks back into our house. The awkwardness is there as we mumble our words to make light of things.
My son starts school, and I overhear him telling others that he has a brother. A new dilemma. I find myself using a signature response to talk with my partner about each new challenge that comes along with fostering. “We have a situation”, I announce calmly. And so it is. New situations. New responses. I remind myself again that he is another man’s son.
