T'was a night before Christmas, and all through the house,

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse,

All the stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that Saint Nicholas soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of a mother's love danced in their heads;

And mamma, to whom they were entrusted to keep,

Had just settled down for a night of good sleep,

When out on the drive there arose such a clatter,

She sprang from her bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window she flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow

Gave the lustre of mid-day objects below,

When, what to her wondering eyes should appear,

But a car filled with men waving guns in the air . . .

 

So it's a different spin on an old rhyme.  But that's what happened last Tuesday night, when a home in North Preston was riddled with gunfire at 2:00 in the morning.  And in the home were three foster children.  Seven bullets actually managed to penetrate the walls.  Apparently foster mom was allowing her son to reside in the home, after reassuring our Agency that he would not be allowed on the premises.  You must understand that this Agency was aware that her son was a criminal, and is now facing seven years in prison for murder.  The shooting on that fateful night was no random act.  It was meant to serve as a warning. 

 

Estelle was the lucky worker on this particular case.  She interviewed the children, and the youngest disclosed that he saw guns in the home, and that they belonged to foster mom's son. 

 

Problem: foster mom was preparing to adopt all three children.  These children had been placed with her for over a year and were attached.  And these children had been through so much already.  The eldest's feet are covered in scars as biological mom saw fit to dip her little one in boiling water in an effort at "discipline."  They were finally settled.  But they were not safe, and so the decision was made to remove them from the home.

 

Estelle called on me to serve as "wing woman."  Emotions on her team were too high, and I would serve as an unbiased participant in the removal.  We discovered that the media had been called, but after warning foster mom that we would not allow the children back to her home to say goodbye if reporters were present, she asked them to leave.  When we arrived, she had a few things packed, and Estelle and I immedately starting filling the trunk.  And then we waited.  Estelle had arranged for an access worker to pick the children up at school and bring them to the home for a last goodbye. 

 

Foster mom's biological daughter accused us of being blaze about the situation.  How wrong she was!  But we are trained to keep our composure.  The tears come afterwards when we are alone. 

 

The children said their goodbyes and were escorted out to Estelle's car.  And of course they were separated because no one was prepared to take three kids just before Christmas.  Little girl went in one direction and the boys went in another.  Little girl was reunited with a foster mom from her past, who held her when she was just a baby and addicted to crack.  Once she was settled, we journeyed on towards the next stop, with promises of MacDonalds beforehand.  And one of the little boys started to sob, crying out for his foster mom, begging for us to take him home.  And because Estelle was driving, I reached my hand back, and told him to squeeze tight.  And he did.  And he held on for the entire trip.  And I did my best to soothe his broken heart. 

 

Anyone who believes that we take pleasure in this kind of event is so mistaken.  The stereotype that social workers are lurking behind bushes, hoping to catch our clients in an act deserving of apprehension, is ridiculous.  It is Christmas time for fuck sakes.  Sorry for the language, but this job is hard.  And to come home and catch the late night news, with foster mom bemoaning the fact that we were taking her kids and pulling the carpet out from under them, made me so angry.  Because she failed to do her job.  She failed to protect those kids.  She knew her son was involved in criminal activity and still allowed him in her home.  And she failed those kids.  But we're the bad guys?

 

Merry Christmas.

My father arrived last Friday night for a weekend visit.  We had great fun exploring the sights and sounds of the coast, and even made a trip to the local museum.  I learn so much from my dad.  I don't imagine there is anyone else in the world who can speak intelligently on so many subjects ranging from geology to poetry.  I have missed our conversations.

I continue on at work in my "casual" position.  Morale has been a bit low but we are managing as best we can.  The Children's Aid Society of Halifax is officially no more and we are now the Halifax District Office for the Department of Community Services - Child Welfare.  Quite a mouthful, especially when recording the office voice mail each morning. 

I decorated for Christmas to cheer myself up a bit.  Isabelle kindly donated a Christmas tree plus ornaments before leaving for England.  It now stands proudly in my living room, the lights twinkling.  It looks good I think.  The stand I bought is a bit awkward but it does the trick.  The Christmas parties begin this weekend so I'm happy to get in the festive mood.  Have to enjoy what I can . . . Heather Ruth isn't home for Christmas this year and the holiday will be short as I need to be back to work on December 27th . . . that is if I still have a job . . . .