The Heater Cries

A plaintiff mewl issues from the hotel room heater each time the blower stops. The room is stifling warm despite the 64-degree setting and the outdoor temperature in the 30s.

As I lie in the rented king-sized bed, my husband snoring lightly beside me, my mind refuses to quiet and glide obediently into sleep. Instead it replays the many, many nights we were woken by either or both of our two former foster daughters during deep night. They both suffered from scary and confusing dreams, muddled remembrances of the many traumatic events they experienced filtered through their forming intellect, subconscious struggling to find sense.

Six months ago, after it became clear that neither of their parents would be able to provide a safe and stable environment, the children moved to a pre-adoptive home two plus hours distance from us. The young couple who hope to become their parents are wonderful people, knowledgeable about childhood trauma and more than willing and able to work with the girls. But they’re over two hours away and we worried about our ability to maintain contact with them. We do not want them to feel abandoned. We have driven there each month to spend time with them and video chat between in-person visits.

Now termination of parental rights looms. The initial hearing is less than two weeks away. And yesterday we were told that we will not be able to see the little girls for the next two months. These pending parents anticipate heightened emotional disregulation and subsequent behaviors as the three-year anniversary of the children’s removal from parental care approaches. So, they plan to keep their lives and activity levels as low-key as possible as a preemptive measure.

I get it. I really do. These children lived with us for two years and we are well aware of some of the behaviors that concern the new parents. However, my instincts tell me that remaining in contact with stable, caring people who love them will help them maintain a solid base from which to grow and bond with their new family structure, without overshadowing their authority but rather supporting it.

The heater cries again. I stare at the ceiling and wait for the light of dawn.

Pondering Potatoes

Potatoes were regulars in our family meals. They showed up baked, mashed, pan-fried, boiled, riced in home-made beef hash, and for a brief period, as “instant” potatoes consisting of dehydrated spuds miraculously reconstituted with the assistance of water or chicken broth. I still gag when I think of them, though for some inexplicable reason my younger sister was quite fond of them.

Perhaps the unwavering presence of potatoes at our dinner table was due to cultural heritage. My mom’s grandfather emigrated from Ireland where potatoes had been a daily staple. My father’s parents both moved to Wisconsin from Switzerland. They had grown up near the German border and cooked traditional German food. Guess what? Potatoes were a staple there as well.

Though inherited tastes and habits may have been a part of our over-familiarity with potatoes, it was also very likely to have been a matter of practicality. My parents could feed themselves and five children economically by adding potatoes to nearly every meal.

Growing up in Wisconsin, potatoes were plentiful. Antigo, the town where both my parents grew up, was known for its potato production. When our high school football team played against Antigo, a small town about 35 miles from us, you were sure to hear a little chorus of, “I’m glad I’m not an Antigo potato…” sung to the tune of the Oscar Meyer Weiner jingle.

My dad passed away several years ago, but I can still see the way he would take his potatoes, flatten them into a thin circle on his plate, then drag his fork across to make tiny furrows before topping them with butter, salt and pepper. I always wondered why he did that, and now it’s too late to ask. So, I tell my kids about it and someday, if I’m blessed with grandchildren, I’ll tell them too.