Between Seasons

Sunny days, cool nights, and big decisions

I see something orange in the air out of the corner of my eye. It drifts down from the sky, rocking back and forth like a skiff on the ocean. It’s in no hurry to reach the ground, twisting like a ballerina, glowing like an ember. It might be a butterfly—those are on the wind these days. But when I turn my head, I see it clearly: the maple tree has released its first leaf of fall. Another one soon follows.

Yesterday was Labor Day, and I lounged in the lake on my rainbow-colored float, soaking in the sun. This morning I’m on the deck in a sweatshirt and socks, wondering if I should go back to the camper for a blanket. The leaf is another unmistakable signal that summer makes way for fall. I crawled under a thick comforter last night. For the first time since we dewinterized the camper in May, I wished for warm water in the faucet. Does the water heater still work in our 1991 Winnebago, I wonder? Since we shower at my in-laws’ cottage down the hill, I haven’t had to worry about it.

The temperature will climb near 80 for a couple days this week, but the cold nights wring the moisture out of the air, so we won’t suffer the humidity of July and August. The first two weeks of September are always the most beautiful of the year in New Hampshire. I’m grateful I can enjoy them outside, and not be stuck in an office or a classroom like I once was. I get to sit on the deck in my favorite Zero-G chair overlooking the lake, writing on my iPad. I know these days are numbered; in another five or six weeks, my fingers will go numb if I try to type outside. 

Or will they? I don’t know where I’ll be a month from now. My own seasons are shifting. 

Since I drove home from Alaska last November, my life has singularly focused on becoming an adoptive parent. After three years of infertility and five miscarriages, Seth and I got our foster license last year, hoping to provide a forever home for a child who couldn’t return to theirs. 

Children enter the foster care system with the goal of reunification with their family of origin. Typically they are removed due to abuse and neglect, and their parents have 12-18 months to get their lives together while their children stay in a temporary foster home. Birth parents may enter rehab for substance use, get treatment for their mental health, and connect to resources that help them secure stable employment and housing. If they fail to demonstrate progress on their treatment plan within this timeframe, their parental rights may be terminated by the court (this happens in about 50% of cases). At that time, the children become legally free for adoption. 

Sometimes the temporary foster home will choose to adopt, and other times the children move to another pre-adoptive foster home. That’s where Seth and I come in. The first step is to be matched with a child and start the transition process, visiting and getting to know them. This takes a few months. Then, if the child were to move in with us full-time, we would be required to foster them for at least six months to ensure it was the right fit before moving forward with adoption.

We’ve had two pre-adoptive placements in the ten months since I ended my road trip and returned to New Hampshire. The first match, a 13-year-old boy, ended after seven visits. The second match, a 1-year-old girl and 4-year-old boy, ended after eight visits. We never got to the point of moving the children in full-time, because in both cases, we knew at a gut level that it wasn’t going to work. Twice we decorated the kids’ bedroom, bought clothes and toys, opened our hearts, and prepared to be parents. We went through a hundred hours of training on child development, the impact of trauma on the brain, developmental disabilities, and behavior strategies. We prepared ourselves the best we could. 

It wasn’t enough. We loved those kids and wanted the best for them, but we were deeply uncertain whether we could manage their needs. Even more uncertain was what those needs would look like down the road, what kinds of educational and psychological supports would be necessary, and whether the children would be able to achieve independence in adulthood. None of this is for certain with any child, of course, but special needs are far more prevalent in the foster care system, where up to 80% of children have been exposed to drugs or alcohol in utero, forever altering the wiring of their brains. And that is before their development is impacted by trauma and neglect.

Foster parenting is a difficult road to take after infertility, after years of dreaming and hoping and praying for a baby that would be the perfect mix of my husband and me, gestated in a uterus that has avoided chemicals of all kinds, and brought into the world with love and kindness. Foster care and adoption are motivated by the belief that all children deserve a safe home; that genes don’t define love; that every human should have the opportunity to reach their potential. Unfortunately, the needs of some foster kids exceed what a typical household can manage. Foster parents may face a choice between martyrdom and their own sanity. I wasn’t willing to forge ahead at all costs and sacrifice my mental health, knowing it wouldn’t serve these kids in the long run. Statistically, nearly half of all foster families drop out within their first year. 

So a year after receiving our foster certification, with our hearts broken two more times, Seth and I stand at another crossroads. Last year we made the decision to end fertility treatments and give up on my aging ovaries. Now we must choose between adoption and childlessness. We have all but ruled out donor-egg IVF, which would start around $30,000 with a 50% success rate, as well as private adoption, which comes with a $30-50K price tag. We aren’t even sure if we can handle a baby, as we both approach 45 years old, with our parents pushing 80, and no extended family nearby for support. 

If we want to be parents, our most realistic option is to wait for the right foster match to come along. Our social worker says that we’re next on the list for a newborn, with an increasing number of babies removed at birth due to maternal substance use. In most cases, this would mean working with the birth mother toward reunification for up to two years, at which point the child would either return to their family of origin or become legally free for adoption. Could we support reunification in good faith, without our own agenda? Could we handle another loss, especially after so much time with the child? And if adoption were an option, could we manage future needs that would be largely unknown at the time of placement? A couple of times a year, we are told, a baby is relinquished at birth and immediately available for adoption. Do we wait and see what child comes our way?

That’s a lot of “ifs” to place on our heavy hearts. I still worry that it was a mistake to give up on our last placement. I miss those kids dearly; I long for another kiss and another cuddle. I wish I could be their auntie; I just don’t think I was cut out to be their mommy. The pressure got too high, and I crumbled. We were at the point where we either had to move them in permanently or let go. Seth and I didn’t feel prepared for that responsibility, so we said goodbye. Except there were no goodbyes; only a phone call with a social worker, then bagging up the toys and the clothes to be sent back to their current foster family. A life built over months, dismantled in minutes. It still doesn’t feel right. I don’t know if it ever will. But moving forward didn’t feel right either, and our closest friends and family agreed.

And so our season of foster placements, like our season of fertility treatments and our season of miscarriages, may be coming to a close. What’s next, then?

I came home from Alaska last year to pursue adoption. Otherwise, I would have steered my van south towards Baja for the winter. Now I could pick up where I left off, leaving New Hampshire this fall to drive west and then south, exploring Mexico, and heading up the West Coast to Alaska next spring. It’s the trip I’ve dreamed of the past two years; my consolation for childlessness. Living out of my Roadtrek camper van with my dogs, all it would cost me is gas.

But is solo travel still my dream? I’m deep in grief knowing our two little ones could have moved in with us by now. The 4-year-old would have started preschool at the Montessori program this week, and the little girl (now approaching two) had a spot in a nature-based daycare across the river in Vermont. I thought I’d be making friends with other moms, getting into a routine, and enjoying weekend adventures as a family. Once the adoption was finalized, I hoped to take the kids on the road with me. I still can’t shake that fantasy, even though the reality might have been very different. It’s the life I’ve been working towards for the past four years. I’ve done everything in my power to make it happen. 

So do we try again? If I don’t migrate south soon, I’ll be stuck at home until spring, through another New Hampshire winter. But what will I do with my life? Will the next foster placement be different? Or are we done with the adoption rollercoaster, with getting our hopes up only to realize it’s not the right fit?

This experiment has proven that Seth and I are awesome parents; I’ll give us that. We’re fun but firm, patient and kind, and we work well as a team. Maybe our child is still out there somewhere, or yet to be born. Maybe when it’s the right fit we will “just know,” like other adoptive parents have just known. Maybe it’s like falling in love and finding The One, versus trying to fix a relationship that is not meant to be.

Or, is it time to close the door on the adoption chapter and accept our childless fate? Could we embrace a life without kids? Certainly some of the stressors of having foster children are the same stressors as having any children—the exhaustion, overwhelm, lack of freedom, and lack of alone time. Childlessness means better sleep, more flexibility, and time to pursue our own interests. It might not be so bad. It might be better than forcing the alternative. At least it would eliminate the heartache of another loss.

If I leave for Baja, the door to parenthood will close for now, maybe for good. I turn 45 next year. My options are dwindling. 

If I stay home, I could wait for the next foster-to-adopt match. The next newborn. Or I could write my memoir about my trip to Alaska, and plan to return to the Arctic next spring. I’d just have to figure out how to survive another winter, and another year in the town I’ve tried to escape.

At least Seth and I have each other, and our beloved dogs. Their health is another factor in my planning. Laney has recovered from her lumpectomy and chemo, but her cancer will likely recur within a year, requiring another round of treatment. Baxter still hasn’t recovered from her knee surgery in March; she’s had pain in her hip that’s kept her activity restricted. She’ll need physical therapy if it doesn’t resolve soon. If I want to travel, should I wait for Baxter to completely heal, or go now, before Laney’s sarcoma comes back?

The seasons are changing, but I don’t know which one comes next. I may be moving into fall and winter, or I might set my sights on an endless summer. Adoption or childlessness; home life or travel… I feel lost in the in-between. Like early September, I’m 80 degrees at noon, and 40 overnight. I’m the maple standing tall and green while shedding its first leaf. I am the leaf, drifting and twirling in midair, having let go of my branch, but unsure where I’ll land. 

At least there’s beauty in falling.

This poll is anonymous, but feel free to share your thoughts in the chat!

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