We Called Her “BaBa”. Halloween with Foster Children

We called her “BaBa.” That nickname stuck because of her love for the song “Ba Ba Black Sheep,” a tune she hummed with her tiny toddler voice that could make anyone’s heart melt. Halloween was around the corner, and a recent drive with my husband took us near the school where our former foster children used to go. I glanced out the window and felt a familiar ache of nostalgia for that time. It’s funny how certain places can bring back memories so vividly.

In 2021, we were foster parents to two siblings, Sarah and Ryan. (names changed). Sarah was only two and a half, and it was her very first Halloween. Ryan was nearly four and already had ideas of his own; he chose to dress up as Batman. Sarah didn’t quite have a say, so we decided she’d go as a sheep—our sweet BaBa in costume. That Halloween was more than just costumes and candy; it was a rare chance to play “mom,” a role I hadn’t experienced before, and it felt magical.

The school hosted a Halloween parade, and I remember the day was perfect—crisp fall air, trees painted in shades of amber and red. Because of the pandemic, the parade was outside, winding around the school’s parking lot. We stood there, surrounded by other parents, waving like our lives depended on it as the kids walked in circles. Babies were pushed along in strollers, and the little ones who couldn’t yet walk were rolled out in cribs. It was a sweet, chaotic scene, but seeing Ryan notice us from across the way was the moment that truly made it all worthwhile. He beamed, and for a second, he tried to break free to come over, but his teacher held his hand. I could tell he was so excited that we were there, that we saw him.

That day meant the world to me. It was the first time I could do something so “mom-like”—picking out Halloween costumes, waving from the sidelines at a school event, soaking in every little detail of this small but joyful celebration. My husband, who had already been through the journey of parenthood before, stood by my side, sharing that moment with me, and it felt like a gift.

Looking back now, I find myself recalling the good things: the beautiful autumn day, the kids’ costumes, and the teachers who worked so hard to make the parade special. I remember the pride in watching Ryan and Sarah being part of something so simple and festive.

For a while, memories of fostering brought up the more difficult parts, the endless struggles and frustrations with a system that didn’t support us or the children like we had hoped. Ryan had so many challenges—oppositional defiance disorder, emotional outbursts that seemed to go on forever, undiagnosed lactose intolerance that made him so uncomfortable, and the hurdle of potty training that felt never-ending. We begged for help, for resources, for someone to listen to what these kids needed. It was exhausting and, at times, heartbreaking. And there was the strain of dealing with their biological family, the misunderstandings, and even their hostility at us that came with it.

But today, as Halloween approaches again, I find peace in the memory of that parade. I’ve come to accept that not everything was meant to last, and that’s okay. I hold on to the happiness of that day, not the sadness or the loss. That Halloween was a day filled with joy, pride, and a whole lot of love, and that’s what I choose to remember today.