Sometimes, I dream about them. The little ones I fed and diapered and kissed and snuggled and dressed for months, sometimes years, and then handed over to someone else. They show up in the middle of the night and I watch them playing or crying or maybe they're in a highchair or a carseat and I reach for them and say "Auntie's here" but they don't know me. They don't remember me. I want to touch their sweet little faces and kiss the tops of their heads, but they pull away.
And then I wake up.
Do you know what this feels like? It feels like pain...and peace. Because I want them to forget me. I don't want them to remember anything from their time in foster care except the feeling they were loved and wanted. But I also want to hold them. I want my presence to bring them comfort and joy like it once did, when they were here.
The dreams haunt me. They bring memories flooding back, and no matter how many babies have come and gone I still remember how each one felt leaned against my shoulder. I still remember the face they made when they were about to cry. I still remember them needing me.
But they don't anymore. And I'm glad. But it also hurts.
Waking up from one of these dreams leaves me disoriented at first, and emotional. I'm stuck thinking about the past and wondering how those babies are doing and praying they are happy and protected. I ask God to please please please fill their hearts with His love and truth. Please, Lord, please hold them forever in your hands.
And then I remember the child who is here now. The baby who needs me now. So I tuck the memories away, of babies gone but never quite forgotten, and pick up the little one who is here today and say, "Auntie's here."
