Rosie

(A True Story – 1972)

       My husband and I had been foster parents for five years. It had been three months since the last child had left to go back to his parents. When Rosie was brought to our home in the arms of a Social Worker on a cold, snowy, January day. She was one year old.

       The phone call had come early that m0rning. “Hello,” a voice said, “this is Miss Taylor, your case worker. We have a little girl here, her mother is unable to care for her seven children and she is placing them in foster care. We have placed the brothers and sisters, “ Miss Taylor continued. “We want to know if you can care for this child?”

       “Of course,” I said.

       “We will bring her around three o’clock if that’s all right with you.” Miss Taylor said.

       “That’s fine, I’ll be ready”.

       As I hurried around getting the crib ready, checking to see if we had milk and juice, I thought of the children we had cared for. I thought of little Jimmy whose father had burned him with the end of his cigarette to discipline him, and two-year old Karen, who was forced to put her head in the toilet bowl while her mother flushed it, it was also for disciplinary reasons. I wondered what we were in for this time and for how long. I knew the longer a child was with us the more difficult the separation.

       Rosie arrived that afternoon, a very chubby baby. Her eyes were red from crying, her blond hair was wet with perspiration and partially covered with a too small wool bonnet, tied under her chubby chin with tattered and torn ribbons. She was holding closely a stuffed animal with pink ears.

       As I thought of this child and her brothers and sisters and the mother who could not care for them, I knew there were millions of families without food or shelter. We were glad we could help in any way to make even one person a little more comfortable.

       My family welcomed her and wrapped her in a blanket of warmth and kindness.

       The first few days were the most difficult for her; she always woke up crying after every nap and every morning she cried. No amount of comforting could quiet her. It seemed as if she had to cry for at least 30 minutes. When we would look in on her during her naps, she always had her hands in a prayer like position under her cheek. She never wanted anything in the crib with her only the stuffed animal with the pink ears, we guess she used her hands like a little pillow. Rosie’s mother would pick her up one day each month to visit her brothers and sisters. The mother kept in close contact with her children while she was trying to put her life in order. We admired her courage. We were happy the brothers and sisters could visit each other once a month, and we thought of these times as little rehearsals for the day when she would leave us.

       As the days went by, Rosie seemed to be less unhappy and more cheerful. She became more comfortable with us, her laughter exceeded her tears.

       We learned so much from her. We experienced the wonder of finding a four-leaf clover, the fun of walking through a mud puddle, and the renewed relationship with Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and The Tooth Fairy. She loved to be read old stories. ‘The Little Engine That Could” was read again and again. She would know if you skipped a page or missed a word. She learned how to print her name, how to make a batch of cookies and could climb a tree faster than any of her little four-year-old friends. It had been 19 years since we had a four year old around the house and now our grown up children were sharing this experience with us.

       We wanted her to know the joy of learning many things and to have happy experiences that would help her to become a generous and out-going person. We wanted to give her lovely memories to warm her life when she was no longer with us.

       Rosie left when she was five years old.

       Even now to that day 12 years ago it is difficult to talk about. The phone call came like before, only now they were taking her away. Miss Taylor explained how the mother had straightened her life out and was able to provide for her children. She had found a job and saved enough money to rent a house.

       I helped Rosie pack. We talked and we cried, then she put on her jacket and waited quietly, holding the stuffed animal with the pink ears. I watched her trying to hold back the tears and thought how that child like ability to accept the changes in her life as so unbelievable. Then, as quickly as she had come into our lives, she was gone.

       A few days after Rosie left, her mother called and said, “Rosie wants to see you, would you like to take her for the weekend?”

       “Oh yes,” I replied, “we will pick her up Friday.”

       “She missed you,” her mother said.

       Rosie has spent one weekend a month with us since then. For a long time she would cry every time we left her with her mother. As time went by and she grew older the tears became less evident. Then came the weekend when there were no tears. As we drove away, I turned to my husband and said, “I think she made it.”

       “She seems more comfortable with her family now, I think she will be all right,” he replied. And so will we, I thought, as we drove home.

       Rosie is sixteen now, a happy, well adjusted beautiful young lady, and I often think of that sweet, sad little baby that came to live with our family so long ago and how we all learned what it is like to be loved.

~ Louella G. Stephenson

1986