"Sarah? ...

... I want to stay with you till I get to go back to my mom. Okay?"

The girl ...

... had to go back to her actual foster home yesterday, and the boy did not want to be alone much after that. He asked if we could do a living room camp out. Ten hours of floor-sleeping back pain and high-volume Futurama later, I'm glad boychild and the animals all enjoyed themselves!

"Hey, guys, wake up! I made ...

... 63 pancakes!"

Kicking off spirit week with boychild's jersey number in pancake form. And dad jokes because that's like 30+ percent of why I became a parent.

I have ...

... two children for the weekend and I dreamed I was teaching one of them to drive and I couldn't find the other one. In case you're wondering about my confidence level on this parenting gig.

Sister is ...

... visiting. I feel like I need reinforced for not eating the open but whole Twix bar of mysterious age that I just found under the couch cushion. I have two preteens in my house for the weekend and they are angry and sad. I mean, the Twix bar can't be THAT old. I've only been a mom for twelve days

Normally, when you've been a mom for twelve days, you have a twelve-day-old. I have two middle schoolers who want to know why I think it's justifiable to monitor cell phone use.

Yesterday ...

... was hard, but together we got through it.

Today, I got my first "bye" when I dropped him off at school in the morning -- a playful "'bye, fool!" as he bounded from the car, the first day since I've known him he didn't clamber out in stony silence.

And when he saw me from the football field tonight, I got a half-smile and a nod of acknowledgement.

Yesterday was hard. Tomorrow might be, too.

Today was good

That moment when ...

... you think the preteen is finally listening to what you have to say, only to glance over and find he's fallen asleep and has no idea you're talking. #FosterAnOlderChild #ItsLikeTalkingToYourselfOnlyTheyCostMoreAndHaveBetterHair

Boychild ...

... will be staying with me at least through October. Send bacon.

We had a meeting with his caseworker. Words were said. Sad things were talked about. I can't take him and sister both -- they won't let me because my house only has two bedrooms -- and lots of other things happened that make his math grade seem like a petty concern. But I can't fix the other things. I can fix math. And I can feed him bacon.

Me: "What do you want ...

... for dinner? We can make a pizza and each pick our own toppings. Or I can do pork chops and potatoes."

Kid: "... Can I just have like a ... big ... meat sandwich?"

Me, a 12-year-vegetarian who now eats meat but still gets squeamish about it: "A big meat sandwich?"

Kid: "Yeah. With, like, ham? And turkey? Maybe bologna? And roast beef? What's that yellow and white cheese called? On those big kind of bread?"

My life is different than it was last week.

RECIPE

Big Meat Sandwich

y. 1 serving

Ingredients:

Those big kind of bread (first go, we used Italian bread, and second go, Kaiser rolls, which were better received)

That yellow and white cheese (Colby Jack, Provolone, and Sharp Cheddar)

Big pile of meat (Ham, turkey, and roast beef. I talked him out of the bologna because stuff adds up!)

Preparation:

Preheat oven to 350.

Assemble Big Meat Sandwiches (2).

Bake until cheese starts to run.

Do not add condiments. Why would you even ask about condiments? Gross. You're weird.

Feed to boychild.

Repeat for 3 consecutive nights.

I'm not saying ...

... I went into fostering so I could put children on horseback and convert them to horse-crazy lunatics like myself just so someone would finally play Horse-opoly with me.

I'm just saying that's one of the perks.

(Bonus: replace game pieces with tiny pony toys from childhood.)

Me, out loud, ...

...  for the fourth time, "Up and at 'em, kiddo, we're going to be late!"

Me, in my head: "Oh, thank God, he's running late, I can sit and finish my coffee!"

In ...

...  the car this evening, passing a glowing billboard, I had the "foster an older child" version of the "where do babies come from" moment:

"What's the Lion's Den?"

He ...

... is clean. His homework is done. And if we were awake till after midnight, well, I'm new at this and you can't win 'em all!

I fed him ...

... spaghetti with meat sauce and garlic bread at 7, with chocolate pudding for dessert. We both fell asleep early. He woke me at 9:30 to ask if it was OK if he ate some cereal. By "some," he meant "all."

I'm about to play the role ...

... of boy mom. Wish me luck!

I've been meaning to tell you ...

... this story for a bit.

The first night I was a foster mom, nine o'clock found her barricaded in her bedroom after a polite decline of dinner, and I was in the living room, frantically googling "appropriate bedtime for a 12-year-old." I don't know what time she slept, because her door never opened again that night.

I'll tell you who didn't go to sleep at an appropriate bedtime, and that's "Who Thought I Was Qualified to Be a Mama" right here. No, I kept leaping awake from dreams of losing the child to jot down another note for tomorrow:

-buy paper towels
-more snacks
-Can she ride in the front seat?
-Train cats not to scratch on bedroom door (as Oggie fervently attempted to tunnel his way to his new friend, who had bonded with him over the laser pointer before disappearing into her room)

I finally fell asleep around 6, and woke at 8:07, having promised the child I'd wake her at 8 to get ready for her sibling visit. Great. Morning one as a kind-of parent and I was already teaching her my tardy ways.

Between the third and fourth times I woke her, I made pancakes. Mine, I ate with peanut butter and whipped cream, just like I'd eaten half the snacks I bought her upon getting the call for respite. Hers grew cold on the counter while she sat on the carpet with my cats.

I can't begin to imagine the chain of events that led to somebody's precious baby being placed in the care of someone who never thought to google bedtimes until it was past bedtime. And as scared as I felt, I can't imagine how scared the child was feeling, deposited at a stranger's home for the weekend, sleeping on top of the covers on Friday, waking up to take on a Saturday of siblings and social workers, armed only with a laser pointer and half a cold pancake.

The phone has been ringing nearly every day since then, but none have been a placement I felt comfortable taking. What I know, though, is that since my weekend visitor left -- after I put away her art supplies and rescued the dirty dishes from the closet and washed the bedding even though she only ever slept on top of it -- my house has been quiet and my heart has been waiting.

My foster certification ...

... is active! Is anyone ever really ready to be a mom? But I hear I'll need patience and wine and I've got both. Lola's ready to be a sister, and two cats are ready to increase their available lap acreage. The third cat doesn't know what we're talking about, but she wants you to know she had a tuna treat a minute ago, so life is pretty good.