I’ve written before about some wonderful social workers I’ve encountered over the years, the one here in Georgia has been awesome, supportive and tremendously helpful way past the finalization of my adoptions. She’s still the first one I call when my family has issues; she helps me brainstorm, offers ideas, methods and suggestions, and capably guides me a different way if necessary.

This morning I was telling my kids about the time one of my older adopted daughters returned to Texas with me as I was in the midst of another adoption. This daughter now has a Master’s Degree in Social Work, is married and is a mother yet her primal fears remain.

In that large city we found her wonderful former foster mother who accompanied us as we returned to many places my daughter had described to me over the years. She, of course, found every single place now much less frightening and intimidating as if now as an adult, she became empowered.

We even visited where the father of one of my sons had been murdered, where she’d said her last goodbye to her birth mother as well as several apartments she remembered. She requested that we do all this and I was equally as curious.

We also tracked down her social worker, found her in the phone book and we called to talk to her. Retired, she told my daughter that she’d often thought about the three of them, remembering the ornery nature of one brother and the near genius level of the other, but especially recalling the way my then ten year old daughter had strongly insisted, “We deserve better than this,” when they’d been briefly separated in foster care.

My daughter thanked this worker, 12 years after the fact, for sending her to Georgia to be adopted even though then at age 11 she had cried bitter tears over this total lack of control in her life. She expressed her gratitude that she’d been allowed to remain with her two brothers. It was a nice phone call; I expressed my gratitude as well. I then had eight children and this worker trusted my abilities enough to add a sibling group of three older children to our family. They are now 22, 25 and 27 years old.

Several years ago we were told by a supervisor that our worker had passed away. My daughter, a grown woman, sobbed over this loss. The loss of one of the only women, besides her foster mom, who’d truly cared about what would happen to these three children.

My daughter was so thankful that she’d had the opportunity to express her gratitude to this woman, I was glad as well. Social workers are over worked and underpaid, stressed to the max and terribly unappreciated. We, demanding adoptive parents, can be the most taxing; we need to remember how much work they put into building our families. We also need to express our gratitude.

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