What we don’t talk about are all the children that couldn’t stay with us.
What we don’t talk about are all the times we said no.
What we don’t talk about is the little girl with multiple handicaps that we were first “offered” when we very first started fostering, who passed away before our home had the paperwork to get going.
What we don’t talk about is the little baby girl who was born with half a heart, whose doctors called us a year ago to see if we could adopt her before she died.
What we don’t talk about is the little baby boy we got called about this week, the one who was born with a too small head and no folds in his brain.
What we don’t talk about are all the ghosts of faces we see that we cannot help.
We cannot help them because our house is full.
We cannot help them because we are mortal, and exhausted.
We cannot help them because the special needs of our own children are already so expensive.
We cannot help them because our time is spent earning money to care for these children, and our free time is spent playing with the little ones we made promises to already.
We cannot help them because there is just me and Nathan, and sometimes a nanny, and everyone in the community who helped us so much is about tired of rescuing us because we tried to rescue these.
We cannot help them because, because, because.
Except we can.
We don’t need to adopt every single baby in the world.
We don’t need to bring home every single medical fragile child we encounter.
We don’t need to keep every single little one the rest of the world rejects.
But we do need to do something.
There should be a safe place that an abandoned infant could go to die, instead of dying alone in the hospital.
There should be a safe place that a medically fragile child could be properly cared for until a brave family could be found.
There should be a safe place that sick children who are “difficult to place” could go to receive therapy and be stimulated and receive nurturing and love while waiting for their forever families, instead of being stuck in the hospital by default, sometimes for years.
That’s what we can do, even when we can’t be a family for every single one, we could be a place.
We can use our experiences from Seven Lively Arts, our experiences from fostering, our parenting skills, our newly gained medical skills, our fantabulous resources of excellent therapists and nurses and doctors, and all the contacts we have gained through the book and through advocating these recent years and three houses when we only need to live in one…. all of it suddenly makes sense.
All of these random pieces that have slowly pulled together over time, and then exponential-ized since the book, and the platform responsibility we now have, plus new secret warriors who have the missing pieces I needed, and suddenly it’s all coming together.
We are going to start an agency, for group homes for medically fragile children.
I’m not kidding.
We are going to call it Kyrie’s Kids.
That’s what we are going to do. I already have the paperwork from the state to fill out, and the contacts I need, and the friends who are willing to help and full of ideas, and resources to get started, and plans to make as soon as Nathan wakes up and finds out about all this in the morning.
But it’s happening, you guys.
We’re opening a group home.