On a chilly evening in the early days of the pandemic, my kids and I walked the back ten acres of a friend’s property. We were longing for a familiar face outside of our family of six, so we’d met and strolled at arm’s length to get some fresh air and welcome the blossoming spring. His land consists of horse pastures, hardwoods, and one large clearing dotted with scrub brush at the very back. Taking our time, reveling in the birth of a new season, we meandered the perimeter of the field. As we rounded the backside, a chickadee caught my attention, seemingly beckoning to us in its repetitive dee-dee-dee. Delighted and curious, my oldest son and I followed the little gray bird toward the center of the clearing. It hopped from sapling to bush to thin tree branch, calling us all the while. Cautiously, we stepped around low points with gathered water, both intrigued by the bird’s playful nature. “Chickadees remind me of my grandma,” I told him as we followed along. “Grandpa’s mom. She had a big birdfeeder in the pine tree outside her kitchen window, and all I can remember are the chickadees who came to feast every morning.”

“Mom, you know how to tune a guitar?” “Nope. Not a clue,” I say, turning the little knobby things at the top. “Twaang, twing, twiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing,” go the strings. My son watches me, uncertain. Might I actually be cooler than he thinks? He deliberates. I tighten the knobs further, then hand the instrument over. He strums a few times, raises an eyebrow. I am not cool. Waves of regret douse the living room. I cannot play an instrument. When I was little, I tried to teach myself piano on weekends at my grandma’s. I played violin for a year in 5th grade, switched to trombone in the fall, and quit all together once I hit Junior High. Now, with a 10-year-old staring at me, waiting, I wish I had something to show him.

A week before Thanksgiving, an email went out to all Ottawa County foster families. It dropped in my inbox with a clap of thunder as I prepared to end the workday and collect my boys from school. “Ottawa DHHS needs your help and an 11-year-old boy named _____ needs a home; placement is needed by Friday.” It was Tuesday. Emails like this one are rarely sent which told me they were running out of options. I finished reading the message and clicked on the video at the bottom, recognizing him right away. He looked just like my middle child, ash blonde hair and toothy smile. His plastic-framed glasses had been broken and taped back together at the corners. He talked to the camera about sports and Pokemon and his dream for a family, those big and little things that hold a boy together.

Last November, as fall crept slowly toward winter, I was holed up in my house staring at a teacher who was holed up in her house trying to teach my kid his multiplication tables. I was defeated, and most likely in desperate need of a shower, as I straddled the line between lethargy and fits of unbridled rage. I felt disconnected from the outside world, and I knew the holidays in whatever unfamiliar form they took, would only bring further isolation. There were glimpses of normality during the bright months of summer – a drive to the South Dakota wilderness, jaunts to the beach, conversations held within the glow of a campfire. By the time fall rolled around, though, many of us had retreated back into our homes to protect those around us, no one knowing how much longer the pandemic would last or how much longer we would.

The little blonde boy hops down from his power wheel and runs to my side. He plants a kiss on my cheek and another on the top of my head, then charges back to the waiting John Deere. Landing next to my other foster son, the two race away to fight dragons and catch fairies somewhere in the backyard. Soon, they return, each presenting me with careful, cupped hands holding fairies from the woods. We talk to their captives, exchange names and pleasantries before the duo heads back toward adventure. By the fifth lap, the whine of their carriage indicates a dying battery. A little magic turns their plastic scooters into horses, and they climb aboard. I sit in my beach chair on the front pavement in awe of the transformation before me. This child with the fresh cut hair and sneaky smile hardly resembles the one brought to this driveway four short months ago. His are the same eyes, the same white blonde widow’s peak, but there are times like this one where his presence seems wholly changed. I watch the two boys play together without pinching fingers or shoving matches. They laugh and take turns. We go entire minutes without tears or anyone screaming my name. As the early sun peeks through the canopy above, they delight in one another’s company – a feat so unimaginable during the initial adjustment period. That’s not to say we aren’t still adjusting.