All Things Temporary - Except II

We were skiing at Snowy Range outside of Laramie, Wyoming and.....

I pulled Sandy up off the ground and helped her balance on the narrow skis. "Let's go inside. We'll get hot chocolate." I pushed her toward the lodge.

"No way! This is great! Raymond!" She grabbed his arm. "Get me to the lift!"

Full of pride, I laughed as they hopped back on for another run. As the day wore on and she grew more confident, we took her on a long gentle slope that wound around and down the mountain. By lunchtime, I was exhausted and my toes were numb.

While Raymond went to the van to retrieve the food he'd packed for us, we waited at a table inside the lodge. The mustard yellow booths looked like cast-offs from an out-of-date fast food restaurant. Everything in the lodge centered on the open fire pit and giant metal flue that funneled into the two-story ceiling. Cement blocks threaded with two-by-fours ringed the roaring fire. Snowy Range's management believed in putting their money into the slopes, not fancy décor.

"I didn't think it would look like this," Sandy said, motioning with a wave of her hand around the room. "I see all those ads in magazines and stuff on TV about skiing. They don't look like this."

"I thought the same thing the first time I came. The big flashy resorts draw tons of tourists, but this is the best place to learn. Nothing's worse than a beginner's slope crowded with people who don't know what they're doing." I laughed.

"Like me," she said.

"I was worried at first but you're doing great now, a real natural."

"Think so? Really?" She beamed.

"Really."
"I'm sorry about this morning. I didn't mean to upset you when I asked that question." She dug with her fingernail at a dried blob of ketchup in the center of the table.

"Don't worry about it." I wanted to make her feel better and be honest, too. "The problem is I've heard those questions for as long as I can remember and they either have complicated answers or no answers at all. It's frustrating, makes me feel like I'm on display, like a circus freak."

"Kind of like when people find out I'm in foster care," she said. "They want me to talk about why I don't live at home and if I'm going back to my parents and how I feel about the whole thing. Sometimes I just want to say go F... yourself." Her cheeks bloomed red in exacerbation.

I ignored the language and said, "I understand."

"What I really wanted to ask you was if you want to know who she is? Your real mom, I mean. I bet she misses you and wants to know what happened to you."

"I doubt it." Now I picked at the ketchup stain.

"You watch Oprah. She's done lots of shows about reunions, moms looking for the babies they gave up. If it was me, I'd have to know. That's all I'm saying." She stopped talking and glanced at me. "What?"

I looked her in the eye, knowing I could never say what I felt.

"You want to tell me to go F... myself, don't you?"

I nodded and we laughed uncontrollably.

During the long dark ride home, I thought about the things she said. I knew the shows she talked about. I'd gone so far as to write down the telephone numbers for help in locating a birth parent and hide them away in my bedside table. Raw terror kept me from dialing the phone, afraid of what I might find if I looked and equally afraid of what I might lose in the process.
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What you just read is an except from my memoir "All Things Temporary - Confessions Of A Young Foster Mother"

Thanks for reading...Lisa

"All Things Temporary" - Confessions Of A Young Foster Mother

Greetings from Mars -

Some couples create gobs of children and plaster the hallways of their homes from ceiling to floor with school pictures. Others thrive on quiet and solitude with one child as the focus of their energy.

I've met screaming families who would argue about the color of butter, but whose genuine love and deep loyalty kept them afloat during all manner of disease and heartache. I've met siblings that appeared loving but in actuality had swallowed gallons of anger until the day one of them burst into a murderous rage over funeral decisions for their dead mother.

Entering foster care exposed a different side of family life, a side where parents beat children senseless for wetting the bed. In this world, mothers twisted little boys' arms to the point of breaking them and fathers tore their daughters apart from the inside out with cutting words and deadly insults. Still, I'd never seen a family like Sandy's.

We officially met Darryl and Maricela Hooper on November 14th in a mediation room at the Laramie County courthouse. When they walked in the door, I recognized them right away because Maricela sported the same high-heeled boots she'd worn to the mall on Halloween.

Watching Darryl Hooper's precise demeanor reminded me of Sandy's comments at the dinner table. In the past weeks, she'd worked to make a connection with Raymond by discussing her father's military career. To me she'd said, "My dad's from Georgia just like you."

Darryl nodded to Jenny and Mrs. Benefield. Before sitting down, he leaned across the table and shook hands with Raymond. "Pleasure to meet you," he greeted my husband. And like a southern man should, he pulled out a chair for his wife.

Sandy's mother might well be crazy, but as I suspected, she possessed the same timeless, exotic beauty as her daughter. Maricela crossed her arms and slid into the seat. When she did, she seemed to shrink, to fold in on herself like origami. I wondered if I should reach out to her; introduce myself as the woman who'd stepped into her maternal shoes. Unable to act, I took a deep breath and somewhere in the middle of my exhaling, Mrs. Benefield spoke up.

She clasped her hands and rested them on the table in front of her stately bosom. "We all know why we're here. When a child has been a ward of the state for one year, there is a case review meeting between all parties involved. This is Sandy's review."

Sandy's father interrupted, "I got something to say before we go any further. My wife and I won't be takin' the girl back."

"Mr. Hooper…"

"Nope. No use in talkin' about it. We've made up our minds. You just go on and do what ever it is you plan to do. That'll be fine with us."

"Mr. Hooper, reunification is the state's ultimate goal. I'm compelled to ask why you don't want to be reunited with your daughter." Mrs. Benefield leaned forward. Her fingertips had turned white as if she were channeling her frustration into her clenched hands.

Darryl pushed back from the table. "Come on Maricela. We've said what we needed to say." Maricela unfolded from the chair, preparing to walk out with her husband.

"Sandy can't stay in foster care forever," Jenny blurted out.

Darryl turned to Jenny and pushed his thumbs into the pockets of his crisp Wrangler jeans, preparing for a showdown. "Won't be forever. She'll be grown soon." Before any of us could scream out in protest, he pulled the door closed behind them.

I held my breath and watched the door. For a moment, the knob seemed suspended in mid-turn. I wondered if the Hoopers wished to hit the rewind button and change the decisions that would surely follow. But, the lock slipped into place and the sharp click of boots on tile could be heard as Sandy's mother left the building.
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What you've just read is an excerpt from my memoir "All Things Temporary".