Today someone from the girls' past sent me pictures of them taken about 3 months before they came to us. I am truly grateful for the stability he brought to their life at that time and that he is kindly sending me pictures and telling us stories about their past.
But my heart grieved, so hard, at those pics.
The girls look...like poster children for neglect. They aren't looking at the camera. The photos are blurry and appear taken without any effort to pose them.
They both have bangs that are overgrown and in their eyes, with the longer raggedy ends of their hair blowing in the wind. Their hair hangs loose and isn't pulled back in a barrette or pony tail and Jane's hair appears matted and missing chunks as I was told it used to be before she came to me.
Their clothes don't fit. Jane's shirt is obviously a too-big cast off from someone else and it hangs from her shoulders. Kate's clothes are too small and so tight the sleeves cut into her arms. Everything from shirts to shoes is the cheap and sparkly junk that you know feels scratchy and will fall apart at the hems.
In one pic Kate has a bottle half full of what looks like juice hanging from her mouth as she chews on the nipple, confirming my suspicion that a bottle was used, in place of touch and affection, to soothe her constantly. She came to us so obese, at 20 months old, that she could barely push herself up to stand and tired after a few steps. She spoke so little and asked absolutely nothing of us in those first weeks. She seemed like an orphan straight from a crib that might as well have been a jail cell.
And these are treasured pictures of special memories for this man. He is proud of them. They show that he took them out, gave them experiences outside their home, gave them a safe place to sleep and eat every weekend. They capture the very best he could give them.
What hurts me most is the realization that these girls, now on the way to becoming my daughters, were seen as only good enough for this. Only good enough for cheap clothes, matted hair, and blurry pictures.
I know different.
I remember teaching both girls to hold still, look at the camera, and smile. And in just a few days they knew how to say CHEEEEESE!!! and then run to my phone and delight in seeing themselves captured in time.
I remember working through Jane's hair and taking her to my hairstylist for her first haircut. And she still talks about the treasured memory of her first (of many more) "special days" out with me when she got a haircut and pink ice cream.
I remember the first time I held and rocked Kate to sleep, and that I bought her a pacifier because she clearly was still a little baby who needed to suck while being wrapped in soft blankets and soothed. And now today she chirps, "wock-a-bye?" with the sweetest little hopeful question in her baby voice before every nap and bedtime. And then runs to the rocking chair and wiggles into position in my arms with a deeply contented sigh every. single. time.
And what I remember about each of these things is how incredibly easy it was. Those were the very easiest things I did. Those were the things the girls were hungry for. Those were the things they welcomed and remembered and asked for and still feel proud of. Those were the things I did almost without thought because they were so obvious to me in my world of what it means to parent.
The very hardest part of looking at those pictures is the realization that that was as good as their family ever expected them to be. Blurry pictures of scratchy clothes and matted hair was as good as it was ever going to get.
It may look like neglect of hygiene and food and shelter. It may look like we can fix the problem with new clothes and food and a bath. But it goes so much deeper.
It goes to their very soul. A little baby soul that was taught, from her first cry, that there was nothing special for her.
But my heart grieved, so hard, at those pics.
The girls look...like poster children for neglect. They aren't looking at the camera. The photos are blurry and appear taken without any effort to pose them.
They both have bangs that are overgrown and in their eyes, with the longer raggedy ends of their hair blowing in the wind. Their hair hangs loose and isn't pulled back in a barrette or pony tail and Jane's hair appears matted and missing chunks as I was told it used to be before she came to me.
Their clothes don't fit. Jane's shirt is obviously a too-big cast off from someone else and it hangs from her shoulders. Kate's clothes are too small and so tight the sleeves cut into her arms. Everything from shirts to shoes is the cheap and sparkly junk that you know feels scratchy and will fall apart at the hems.
In one pic Kate has a bottle half full of what looks like juice hanging from her mouth as she chews on the nipple, confirming my suspicion that a bottle was used, in place of touch and affection, to soothe her constantly. She came to us so obese, at 20 months old, that she could barely push herself up to stand and tired after a few steps. She spoke so little and asked absolutely nothing of us in those first weeks. She seemed like an orphan straight from a crib that might as well have been a jail cell.
And these are treasured pictures of special memories for this man. He is proud of them. They show that he took them out, gave them experiences outside their home, gave them a safe place to sleep and eat every weekend. They capture the very best he could give them.
What hurts me most is the realization that these girls, now on the way to becoming my daughters, were seen as only good enough for this. Only good enough for cheap clothes, matted hair, and blurry pictures.
I know different.
I remember teaching both girls to hold still, look at the camera, and smile. And in just a few days they knew how to say CHEEEEESE!!! and then run to my phone and delight in seeing themselves captured in time.
I remember working through Jane's hair and taking her to my hairstylist for her first haircut. And she still talks about the treasured memory of her first (of many more) "special days" out with me when she got a haircut and pink ice cream.
I remember the first time I held and rocked Kate to sleep, and that I bought her a pacifier because she clearly was still a little baby who needed to suck while being wrapped in soft blankets and soothed. And now today she chirps, "wock-a-bye?" with the sweetest little hopeful question in her baby voice before every nap and bedtime. And then runs to the rocking chair and wiggles into position in my arms with a deeply contented sigh every. single. time.
And what I remember about each of these things is how incredibly easy it was. Those were the very easiest things I did. Those were the things the girls were hungry for. Those were the things they welcomed and remembered and asked for and still feel proud of. Those were the things I did almost without thought because they were so obvious to me in my world of what it means to parent.
The very hardest part of looking at those pictures is the realization that that was as good as their family ever expected them to be. Blurry pictures of scratchy clothes and matted hair was as good as it was ever going to get.
It may look like neglect of hygiene and food and shelter. It may look like we can fix the problem with new clothes and food and a bath. But it goes so much deeper.
It goes to their very soul. A little baby soul that was taught, from her first cry, that there was nothing special for her.
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