Moving On

Anonymous

My alarm clock, in the form of the builder's digger, wakes me, as usual half an hour too soon. And as usual I turn over and try to snatch an extra few minutes sleep. As usual it doesn't work. A normal day. Except.

Except that today the two little people who have lived with me for so long are 'moving on' - to a permanent foster placement where they will stay until they are independent. Every day since we were told of the plan I have prayed that it will be a 'moving on'. I hope so, for they don't need more trauma, more loss.

It is 7.00am and they will not go to school today. There are three and a half hours left before their new carers will come for them. Three and a half hours of 'last' things.

The last time that the little one will climb onto the top of my bed clutching a handful of cars that he will run up and down on the cover, broom-brooming on the hills I make of my legs.

The last breakfast. Unusually quiet, with only my husband managing his normal one Weetabix and a slice of toast. Today there is no 'you can't leave until you've finished or you'll lose your play-piece' rule.

The last gathering up of toothbrushes and pyjamas and all the needed things that must wait until the end.

The last searching behind chairs and under cupboards for things that otherwise might be left.

The last bounce on the trampoline, the last playing 'passies' with the football, that I video because she has asked that I make a memory for me to keep.

We have bought small gifts for them. One fails to work, the other is instantly broken, perhaps deliberately, and so we have a last trip to the pocket money shop and both make a new choice.

The suitcases stand in the hall and because I know that if I have to keep looking at them I will cry, we go out to 'our' coffee shop. This time they have a free choice of all the cakes.

When we come back I take them one at a time and we look through their photo albums, remembering the good times, trying to laugh together. The post comes, cards and good wishes from our extended family. He rips his open, hugs the pictures to him, while she focuses on the messages, touching each gently.

Their 'goodbyes' in our street have already been said - in a tea-party that they handled much better than I had expected - but today there is the last ride up and down on their bikes, the last stopping to speak to those who have been surrogate grandparents to them.

I am in the kitchen, wrapping their special cups, when she flies in to tell me it is 10.30 and wraps her arms around me in a fierce hug. That is our real goodbye, for when the car comes we concentrate on loading it up and when it is done she climbs in and drops her head. We will see you, I say (for we are to keep some form of contact, though not soon) but my voice breaks as I strap her brother into his seat and shut the door quickly. He stares out at us, bewilderment clear in his face. She doesn't look up. Nothing in all the careful preparations have equipped any of us for this last moment.

We force ourselves to stay standing by the edge of the road, in case either of them should look back, but I cannot see anything and so don't know when the car has disappeared around the corner. And then, uncharacteristically, my husband suggests shopping.