It is funny how words cloud up the brain and threaten to thunder and shower when one is driving a carload full of babies in the afternoon. It happened to me just yesterday as I took the achingly slow route back home, praying that our sweet Lord would put them all to sleep so I could find a few quiet moments in my day.
I was two for three, the third making a mess of hot cocoa in the backseat. Alas, I cannot write or record anything when my eyes are on the road, even if I wanted. But I was thinking how tremendously lucky I was to be able to drive to town for no reason other than to play at the park and pick up gift cards (for teachers) at the drive-thru gourmet coffee place, where they gave me a gratuitous latte and two Not-So-Hots (chocolate) for the boys. Then I was able to return home taking the long way without even blinking about the cost of gas. My biggest concern for the day was that my two year old might not take a nap.
It was nearly thirty years ago that my folks took on the position of foster parents at a Christian group home, a modern day American orphanage. I would have been five and a half, the summer before kindergarten. It is funny what the mind remembers, and I had the advantage of being an innocent little girl with zero street smarts. The worst thing I did that summer was to try and bathe the kittens in a five gallon bucket of water. My dad, who was actually no fan of cats, rushed to the rescue of the poor kittens and dumped the bucket of water on me instead. He hollered something like, “You just see how that feels, Pearl!” and then he told me I couldn’t come inside for the rest of the day, not even to change into dry clothes. I cried for a long time, wet all the way through.
In his defense, he was having a rough summer. Plagued by serious health issues and filling in as a temporary dad to a dozen emotionally abused kids was a difficult spot. My accidental, almost-drowning kittens incident probably pushed him over the edge.
The youth home survived on donations from churches. There was a sweltering room–or was it a whole building? jam packed with stacks and stacks of second hand clothes. A big freezer that, in my memory, seemed to be freestanding outside near tall trees. Inside were donated baked goods, mostly white bread on the verge of molding–a cold, stinky smell I can’t seem to forget. A pen full of pigs where we tossed our apple cores. A smelly, murky lagoon behind the horse barn.
One day the kid in charge of setting the table did not do his chore so we ate little piles of corn straight off the table with our fingers. Another time I was playing under the slide when I felt something wet. I looked up and saw the twins peeing down on me, laughing.
There was a large gravel circle that connected the handful of houses, each one inhabited by a makeshift family. Most kids wouldn’t return permanently to their biological families, though they all desperately hoped they would. When an older kid got in trouble, they were sent out to walk the gravel circle a few times. When you are a foster parent caring for children that technically not yours, your choices of disciplining a child are limited. I am pretty sure my dad’s dumping a bucket of water on me wouldn’t fly in foster care, not then, not now.
That summer was the first of my life where I was physically and socially aware of things around me. Surely character shaping might have been going on before. But the summer before kindergarten, for me, opened my eyes to a world that isn’t fair or always kind and loving. Sometimes you get peed on and sometimes the only bread to eat is moldy. Sometimes you walk the gravel circle and feel alone. These are the kind of lessons that linger.
In the car yesterday, I thought about those kids that spent the summer with me at the youth home. They stayed longer than I did. Some didn’t leave till they aged out. I wonder what their lives are like now as grownups. They were all older than me then–they would be at least 35 or more now.
I wonder if they have raised their own kids, if they are able to afford fresh bread and new clothes. If they worry about spending too much on gas. When you grow up and the best you have is second hand, how does it affect who you become?
And ultimately, if Today is all I have, am I living the best version of it given what I know?
