Remnants of Parenthood

"Parents of..." 

These 2 words took me by surprise as they stared back at me from their stark white background. The short walk to my mail box was nothing special, but the lone envelope that awaited me triggered forgotten memories of a child's touch, a girl's laughter, and a little boy's kisses. 

They've been gone for 6 months now and just when I thought my wounds have healed, little reminders of what once was seem to pop up around me. These reminders come in various forms but tend to trigger the same reaction. 

My mind is taken back and suddenly it's a girl's mom calling to coordinate outfits for twin day at school with my "daughter", who had recently moved out.

It's the little boy at daycare who recognizes me as I take a new placement to his class and asks, "aren't you 'so and so's' mom? Where is he?"

It's the school reminders of teacher night, fundraisers, and carnivals, that stream into my email and text messages without end. 

It's this envelope, it's this moment of remembrance that makes me the most upset. Up till now my remnants of parenting these children have mostly been verbal triggers, something someone says or a quick electronic message that is easily deleted, easily pushed to the back of my mind, but this envelope brings a rush of emotions I wasn't expecting. Tangible words written by hand across its front, something I can see, something I can feel, something that is not as forgettable. 

"What message does this envelope hold?" You might ask, well it's quite anti-climatic in reality, but it's as real as a dental reminder can get. These reminders initially came as text messages and emails and now, as a last resort, it has come in a paper form. Not only does this remind me of what once was, it also makes me feel like a bad mom! How crazy is that?! Like I've neglected to take my kids in for their check up, except I don't even have the kids to take in! Lol! 

The solution seems obvious, calling the office and asking to be removed from their contact list, but, oddly enough, I have contacted some of them and I'm not sure what's worse. I could just ignore the reminders that come, and regard them as quick nuances to be deleted, or I could call and explain the whole situation to a stranger, who has no emotional regard to the sensitivity of the situation. Sometimes they can stop the reminders, but sometimes they're automatically generated and out of their control.

So alas, I sit here, I write, and I debate my next move as I shred the evidence of what made me go crazy for 45 minutes on a Monday morning. I guess it's another intricate part of being a foster mom.