The learning curve on gerbils is interesting. It’s definitely not rocket science here, rather it’s a learn-as-you-go process. For example, these little guys like to tunnel, which means they’ll kick up all their bedding and we’ll inevitably have cardboard chips or paper pieces outside their cage (and on table or floor or whatever). I bought bedding with lavender bits because, ooh!, it smells nice! But then what I earned in positive odors got replaced by messiness. This bedding shoots straight through the bars of their cage and, ugh, is ending up everywhere. The gerbils also seem to like to pee on the upper levels of their house, not so much on the bedding. I refuse to be a gerbil pee-wiper (in addition to my other shall we say “low” tasks as in the home) so I think this simply means we’ll have to clean their cage more often.

But look at these pics! Livia learned to clean the cage last weekend and life already seems sweeter. She puts Shiloh in his kennel (Shiloh REALLY REALLY loves the gerbils if you know what I mean), Vice in the ball and Whiskers in his wheel car, and then we collaborated to make a new home for the rodents.

In the past few days I have laughed more than once as I fed the fish—after hollering, “Has anyone fed the fish today?”—or refilled Shiloh’s water dish or dropped a handful of hay pellets into the gerbils’ cage. This is not exactly the mothering I envisioned for my life, but you know what? I don’t mind it. I like taking care of little beings and if God hasn’t given us more human chilluns to love at the moment, then I can tend to these little beasts in my home.

Fair warning, Whiskers and Vice, you are collectively the low man on the totem pole in this house. If/when respite or foster or adoptive or bio kids show up, you’ll need to start speaking out loud to get any attention from me.

My big brother very sweetly bought me a card and a little pot of tulips for Mother’s Day. On Sunday the buds were so tightly closed that I couldn’t tell what color they’d be, but they opened up charmingly by my kitchen window within a few days. (Thank you, Adam! This gift is making me very happy.)

I’m ridiculously in awe of spring this year. Or is it every year, I can’t tell. Jeremy is frequently subjected to my exclamations of appreciation for all the GREEN. One tree out front appears much larger and more shade-providing than last year and I can’t get enough of the way sunlight filters through its branches all day long, casting flickering shadows on my living room carpet while I work in the next room. And there’s another tree in the back yard whose green branches fill up my view as I walk into the kitchen. I don’t feel like I live on the plains this spring. With a little imagination I live in the rolling hills of California or Georgia and my acreage—just dreaming here—is covered with trees. Livia is even getting in on the gushing action. We drive through an area called Wilderness Park frequently and I often draw her attention to the way the trees are changing and filling out as the seasons change. The last time we drove this path I was distracted by texting and from the backseat I hear a voice that perfectly echoed my own thoughts. If nothing else I hope I’ve given her an eye that utterly delights in God’s handiwork.

Thank you, God, for warm weather once more and a world that is changing in color all around us. Thank you that I now have something new to photograph. Thank you for not leaving us in the cold deadness of winter. Thank you for spring and the anticipation of summer. Thank you that school is almost out and the pace of our days will change. Thank you for rest. Thank you for this season of renewal. Thank you for your constancy and goodness and love, for every good and perfect gift comes from you.

Despite the fact there has been very little gender-stereotyping in this household, our daughter loves pink. It’s her self-proclaimed favorite color at the moment and she just can’t get enough of it. Requested: a pink heart-shaped birthday cake with red ladybugs on top. Delivered: a pink heart-shaped birthday cake with red ladybugs on top.

May is a month that takes me by surprise every single year. I’m starting to at least attempt to watch out for it with all its celebrations, and yet, still I am stunned by the madness. When you only have one child for ten years, her birthday becomes something of an intense time. Oh forget it, anyone who knows me knows that I enjoy celebrating birthdays. Even if I had five kids I bet I’d still make a big deal out of them! So there’s Liv’s birthday followed very quickly by Mother’s Day. We have lots of beloved mothers around here, including Livia’s birthmom and birthgrandma. I recently learned the Saturday before Mother’s Day Sunday is called Birthmother’s Day, but really? I can’t compete in all this. It’s so much! Because we love Liv’s first family we’ve always send them photos this time of year anyhow—see, celebrated! And then there’s Mother’s Day. And then there’s the Monday after Mother’s Day which is…

Silence.

Ah.

School is still in session. I can get out my bible and sit in the quiet of the morning, all by myself. Eventually I move on to the computer and the dog and the gerbils and greet my husband, too. Monday after Mother’s Day? I like you a lot.

What holds me back from telling you how I really feel are a thousand little voices on my shoulder. One voice says that I’m a bleeding heart and I should shut up. Another voice says that the only reason I’m here is because I haven’t been able to get pregnant and sustain a pregnancy. Yet another voice says that it’s annoying to sound this trumpet over and over again, that people don’t want to hear it. And still another says that if Jeremy and I are this scared every time we get a phone call, every time we say yes, then who in their right mind would willingly join up?

The voices are going to take a back seat for a minute. I have something to say.

The need for loving, mature and capable foster families is huge. It is huge and it is real and it is not going away anytime soon.

As soon as one family takes in a kid—whether for a short duration or a long one—another child is in a bad situation and will need a home. As soon as one bed is filled, another bed is needed. We could talk until we’re blue in the face about why this is. Why does foster care exist? Why are people so terrible to their children? Why are people irresponsible and why does the government, of all entities, have to step in? We could get absolutely lost in those types of conversation and then miss the fact that the most vulnerable in our society still need beds and warm showers and three square meals a day and, oh yeah, adults who love them.

When you read a story in the newspaper about a drug bust where children were present, you can bet a foster family is getting a call that very night to take in those children. When you hear a story on the news about an infant found in squalor in an apartment, perhaps with roach eggs on his feet, you know a foster family’s phone is ringing. When you hear that a parent is cited for neglect because their five year old was found wandering downtown streets at 11 o’clock at night, you know a case is being built and perhaps that child will need another home for a time until their parents can figure out how to parent a little bit better.

The need is real. The need is huge.

There are stories we all hear, but then there are actual phone calls I get. I recently got a call to take a one week old infant and had to say no. It broke my heart to say no, but with our health concerns, I simply couldn’t tend well to the needs of a newborn and still tend well to my own needs. This was wise, but it was sad, too. Awhile back I got a call for two little sisters. Their mom had lots of services to help support her family but she still chose not to protect them from dangerous people. They needed a place to go. Another call involved sisters again who needed a home while their mom went into drug rehab and yet another involved little boys whose mother constantly neglected them. One series of calls revolved around a baby boy whose outlook for life was pretty rough after he sustained tremendous abuse from an adult in his life. Did this little guy need a lot of care? Absolutely. Is he worthy of care and respect and love as long as he needs it? Again, absolutely yes.

My request is that you open your eyes and simply do what you can. Don’t pretend like these kids don’t exist or like their lives don’t matter. But do what you can! If you can become a foster parent, sign up for the next session of classes. Babies, toddlers, middler schoolers and high school kids all need homes. Kids without support systems can use your help. If you cannot foster, support these kids another way. Lincoln is full of charities designed to aid kids in need, not just foster kids but other at-risk youth, too. Project Everlast, Lighthouse, Christian Heritage, Cedar’s, City Impact, the City Mission, The Bay, so on and so forth. You can give money, you can volunteer your time, you can rally a group of moms from your school, workout partners from the gym, neighbors and/or friends to do something big together. You can also provide support to foster families you know by taking meals, sending encouraging letters, providing diapers, sharing baby supplies, driving their kids to therapy appointments, getting background checks so you can babysit and so on. Your support is incredibly valuable if you didn’t know it already. That pack of pacifiers or diapers may not mean much to you, but I can guarantee it means a lot to the foster family who is working fast and furiously to prepare for new little people in their home.

If you’ve read this far, thank you. If you’ve read my words and have kept an open mind, thank you. If you’re supporting the kids of my beloved city, thank you a million times over.

I can say with utter sincerity, these kids are our future. They are our most precious commodity. Let’s take care of them.

I jumped in the car and backed out of the garage this morning, pausing for a few minutes to let the engine warm up and put on some makeup before meeting a friend for coffee. And then it dawned on me, no camera. I almost pulled an I-totally-don’t-care but then the weight of my public DPP announcement made me run back in the house and grab my equipment.

I’m glad I did.

If you don’t have the tools, you can’t create. Whether it’s a notepad and pen for recording ideas or the phrase/sentence/paragraph that keeps churning in your mind, or a camera for capturing that hilarious thing your kid is doing or the beautiful sunset, you’ve got to show up prepared. Doors won’t open if you aren’t even trying.

So I brought my camera. Now I have a small file of images from a coffee shop AND my sister-in-law’s floral shop to play with. Thanks, Chelsea, for letting me snap your picture and walk through your amazing flowers. Me and my camera are happy campers indeed.

It’s clear in everything I’ve said to friends and family that I expected our foster sons to stay around for a good while. Maybe a year, I said, envisioning a long settling in process before they’d be allowed to return to their parents. And then I got word last Friday that perhaps this would not be our reality, perhaps something was going to happen very fast. I’m grateful that I heard whisperings through the grapevine as it allowed me to start considering the very idea. Over the weekend I organized diapers, put Thomas the Train DVDs in the proper locations and made mental lists of what belonged to whom.

On Tuesday a judge ordered the boys to return to their home and within three hours they were gone from our home. In that three hours I sorted and folded and packed and created a small mountain of things that belonged to them. (This is not the norm for foster kids, that they’d enter your home with a lot of possessions, but our boys did indeed come with a lot of things.) I cried off and on as I packed up their teeny t-shirts and little man pants, Spiderman undies and the Pull-ups that were our current reality. I prayed and prayed and prayed over these items. And eventually we installed carseats in a new car, added the boys to the car, and kissed them goodbye.

This is foster care.

Jeremy and I never pretended to be the boys’ Mom and Dad. In our hearts and on our lips we were their foster mom and dad. In the practicalities of day to day life, however, we loved them and treated them as our own. Hugs. Tickling. Feeding snacks and meals. Getting drinks and changing diapers. Bedtime stories and morning wake-ups. Doctor appointment after doctor appointment. We loved them. We were the second Mommy and Daddy for them, and they called us Mommy and Daddy because that’s the role we played. We loved them.

You don’t care for someone everyday for almost five weeks and then send them off without your heart being impacted. Jeremy, Liv and I are processing this change differently from one another and since I’m the verbose, emotional one, you get a blog post with a few ideas in it. I miss the boys and the fullness they bring to our house. I do not miss getting up early in the morning. I miss sweet cheeks to kiss and little bodies to bathe. I do not miss the dinnertime ritual (so shoot me, it’s true—dinner is much easier with one 9 year old child). More than the missing, the wondering is what gets to me. It’s testing my faith in new ways, this trusting God with what is best for the boys. I did not approve of their removal from our house, but then again, no one asked me. Foster parents, for those who are wondering, don’t get much say in the legal matters of a case. After caring so intimately for these little people for days on end, they are outside of my control and decision-making. And that’s hard to bear. I hope and pray they are being cared for well.

I wrote about the reality of our 2013 Christmas card and now find myself in a place where I could actually mail it out. But a little bit of my Christmas spirit is lacking now. This is not how I envisioned celebrating Thanksgiving and Christmas will not be what I envisioned either. Going back to a family of three feels normal to me, though, so the adjustment will come and the missing will decrease—I know this much is true.

We were there for the boys when they needed us, and I hope we can be there for them in the future if they ever need us again. As I was putting clean sheets on the now-vacant bed in our foster room I could feel the tiniest spark of excitement at a new body finding it’s way into our home, a new little person who could use a warm bed and a few loving family members. May God use us. May He give us grace to sustain us in sadness and in joy. And may He use normal, tired people like us to love others. Amen.

I had a Christmas card all picked out and waiting for order in an online shopping cart. Our family of three, cracking up and being super silly at Disneyland last summer. I don’t know what kept me from pulling the trigger, but I didn’t order it.

And now that card doesn’t feel fitting.

Our family looks a little different today than it did three weeks and two days ago. We are still the Tredway Three in legal terms. We are still the Tredway Three in history and in permanency. But something else is going on that makes it, well, odd to send out a card with the three of us featured. We are the Tredway Five right now.

There are five seat belts in our car that get used every time we venture out as a family. Thank goodness for the larger sized sedan we purchased last July—we can just barely fit two carseats and a 9 year old in the back seat. There are five place settings at the table every time we eat a meal. Three normal size forks and two preschool-sized ones. Three Fiestaware plates and two Spiderman bowls. There are potty seats haphazardly tossed next to two toilets in the house. Boxes of diapers trip me as I walk into my office and piles of boy pajamas sit in the previously all-girl-all-the-time bathroom upstairs. Our house is again filled with blocks and board books, little puzzles and farm sets. An often grabbed-for Febreze has a twin upstairs in our vain attempts to mask the odors that come alongside diapered toddlers, and we’re still getting the rhythm of what goes in the indoor garbage can versus the outdoor garbage can.

Two precious faces have been entrusted to our care. For how long, we do not know.

Jeremy and I are Mommy and Daddy to two extra little people who already have a Mommy and Daddy. We drive home each evening to pronouncements of, “Here we are! We’re home!” and we say, “Yes! We’re home!” Because what else is this place if not home? Here you are safe, we say. You are fed, bathed, hugged, snuggled, disciplined, sung over, prayed over and loved in a million different ways. For however long you are here, this is your home.

So you see my predicament in blithely mailing out a Christmas card with three goofy (or Goofy) Tredways on the front. We are still those people, and yet we are not those people at all. For now, for this season, there are five of us. For better or for worse, the Tredway Five.

Pssst… Wanna see our Disney pic? Of course you do. I LOVE this shot. Makes me all happy inside.

Three year olds talk A LOT. And I only understand roughly half of what this particular one is saying.

Throwing sippies is a thing. Who knew it was so pleasurable for little boys to throw their cups?

I woke up every time someone coughed last night, which was a lot, and then remained anxiously awake for the next 30-60 minutes.

Is this the moment where I take up drinking coffee in the morning?

By the time Jeremy got out of the shower all three children were dressed. Why yes, I am patting myself on the back right now.

Livia’s internal motivation could power the earth if we could harness it on the rare moments it shows up with vim and vigor. I can’t take credit for dressing her; she did that herself in record time.

Also, Livia is an excellent big sister. Even though she does forget that the three year old is terrified of monster and continues to talk about them.

These little people are new to me and this whole gig is going to take some getting used to.

I feel like a babysitter right now.

I am trying very very very hard to live in the moment, which means not worrying about the future. A planner by nature, I can’t do so in this situation. I need to be a mom and also support their mom. I need to be flexible, respectful, easy to work with and knowledgeable.

I need to love people the way Jesus loves people.

I totally can’t do that. So as we take [pausing to take the baby’s hand out of the trashcan] on this giant responsibility, we ask that you pray for us constantly. We need it. We know God hears and gives grace. He loves these little bitties more than anyone does and we need him to impart that godly love to us. Thanks a million times over for praying.

If you’ve been reading the Prairie Box for some time now then you’re well-acquainted with the fact that I have one daughter and that Jeremy and I are foster parents. If you’ve been reading for a really long time, then you know that we want more kids in our family. Featured on A Musing Maralee today is a tidbit about the baby we wanted and lost to miscarriage in the fall of 2006.

Writing a letter to that dreamed-for, hoped-for baby was not an easy task. But it was a really helpful, cathartic exercise. I’ve lumped the loss of that baby in with the subsequent years of infertility and it’s become a giant ball of yucky grief that I shove to the back of my mind. Remembering the miscarriage and writing a letter reminded me that my pregnancy involved one particular person at a particular point in time. I was pregnant! And it was great! I won’t say that one letter will relieve me from the giant grief ball, but it’s nice to have it unravel a bit more over time and, in doing so, lose it’s power over me.

**The flowers featured here were given to me by my awesome husband. I should write a post sometime about how he loves physical touch and I love gifts, and how I keep bringing him little presents from the store and he wants to hug me a lot. Fifteen years of marriage, folks, and we’re just now starting to figure out this love language thing.

I shot images in my house today for an upcoming project.

This picture reminds me of Jeremy’s new habits for a healthy lifestyle. His breakfast of choice every day? Oatmeal. And lunch every day? Fresh vegetables (with a dash of onion powder) and a little fruit. Add to that routine a four to five mile walk several times a week and we’re all seeing some great results. The cutting board reminds me of how proud I am of his hard work.

I cannot stand eating the same thing day in, day out, so no, I will not be attempting this diet. But it’s amazing how such a positive change affects the whole household. I’m inspired by my husband. And I also happen to love him a ton. xxoo