We sat around the warmth of the campfire. The children laughed as their marshmallows burst into flame, blackened, and dropped into the hot coals. Their laughter danced through the air like the flickering of the flames, bringing warmth to my soul. This camping trip had been filled with such warm moments. We were a family, laughing and loving.

I watched the joy in six-year-old Paula's eyes as she stuffed another marshmallow into her mouth. This foster daughter had lived with us for 18 months now. Memories of last year's camping trip flooded my mind. I thought how that round freckled face had been covered with tears as she went from one tantrum to another. Paula had been like a cornered animal, so full of fear that the size of the enemy did not matter. Survival was her goal. She trusted no one. She allowed no one to care for her. That would have been a sign of weakness, of vulnerability. Paula fought with each breath she took.

We knew we had been in a battle after that trip. We walked away tired and sore. Not camping tired, but the kind of tired that comes from trying to bring a semblance of peace and normalcy to a chaotic situation. The tired that comes from the struggle between the way things should be, had been, but couldn't possibly be at this moment. Each day had been a test of our ability to keep Paula from hurting herself, or someone else. After that vacation (vacation may not be the best word to describe that week), the family should have worn t-shirts that read, "I survived the camping trip of ‘95".

Paula was a survivor. I saw that in her eyes the first time I met her. Had it been three years? Her foster mom brought Paula to the Foster Parent Training meeting. This little three year old stole my heart that night. She sat on my lap and rattled on about everything and anything. She told me that she was very smart because she knew lots of words. I knew she was very smart because she was still alive.

I knew this foster mom. She had dreamed of a little girl to love. She wanted to love Paula. She wanted to touch Paula's heart. Paula's heart was well defended. The pain that she had endured from neglect and abuse had taught Paula to be cute and adorable. It also taught her to trust no one.

The cycle continued with the second mom. Trust equaled vulnerability. Vulnerability equaled pain. Mom tried to gain her trust. This brought greater fear to Paula. Fear translated into anger. Anger frustrated mom. Frustration translated into anger. Paula got hurt. Paula trusts NO ONE!

The cool night air refreshed my spirit as the crackling fire sent sparks heavenward. Paula climbed up on daddy's lap, giggling with impish delight. She patted his cheeks with her sticky hands and gives him a marshmallow kiss. Daddy grabbed her hands and began to tickle her tummy. Shrieks of laughter brought the other two for their share of daddy. I laughed, feeling their giggles bubbling up. Little girls should have a daddy that makes them laugh, feel warm and safe. A daddy that protects them from the surrounding darkness.

In Paula's world, daddy had not been safe, or warm, or protecting. This cherub with bright brown eyes had scavenged for food, found warmth huddled with her four-year-old twin sisters, on a mattress on the floor. At times the girls would sleep on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor in hopes that daddy couldn't find them that night. She had cried out for mommy to save her. No mommy came.

Second mom had become frustrated and angry. Paula was moved to a new foster home. Did this new family want her? Did they know how to help her? Could they love the angry little girl as much as the cute and adorable little girl?

I was assured that the family wanted to adopt her. She was in a good home. It would be a permanent home. I knew this little girl had a fighting spirit. She could survive if her heart could be touched. I pushed the image of this elfin freckled face into the recesses of my mind. After all, I was about to adopt two children that I had fought for the last six years. I was in school. There were other people who could love Paula. She would be fine.

She wasn't fine. Within months, I heard the sad story of a little girl. A little girl so angry that she raged for hours destroying anything and everything. Her rages were so violent that this family could not control her. They could not keep their family safe. They could not keep Paula safe. Paula needed to be moved. There would be no adoption. The third mom was gone.

Where would this child go? Who could hold her long enough to gain her trust? I had been trained to work with angry children. Would they consider letting me work with her anger until a family could be found. My daughter wanted a little girl. Could we transition Paula to her home?

This plan was accepted. Paula joined our family and the battle began. Each time she flew into a rage, I held her in my arms. I whispered through the screams, "I will keep you safe. I can look at all your anger. You won't make me go away." She kicked, fought, threatened to cut my ears off. She called me a liar when I told her I loved her. Her screams of , "I hate you, I hate you" bounced off me. I held her closer, whispering, "Its ok to hate me. You have a right to be angry, to be frightened. I'll keep you safe. I love you." When the anger subsided, the tears flowed from both of us. We rocked, snuggled and shared. We grew so close, she and I. We shared so much. She shared her worst fears and scariest nightmares. I shared my sorrow and grief for her suffering.

She had been in my home two months when she looked into my eyes with wisdom far beyond her years and told me,"Its almost my birthday. I am four and have four moms. When I turn five, I'll get my five mom." Tears flowed. She was telling the truth. She knew it. I knew it. I was preparing her for "five mom". Could "five mom" love her the way I did? Would "five mom" ever feel the depth of pain or fear this child had felt? I had held her through the rages. I was the one she shared her secret terrors. How would I ever hand her over to someone else? That was what I must do though. I must prepare her for "five mom".

The birth family's day in court arrived all too soon. This day the judge would decide if Paula went back to her birth parents. Could a judge be convinced of the dangers that lurked in her past. The judge would want to be sure that Paula had a family that wanted her, before he would relinquish parental rights. We were told that Paula needed a permanent family, NOW!. No one wanted Paula to return to her birth home. Paula was not ready to transition to a new foster home. I was not ready to let her go. That day in the judge's chambers became very complicated. Many tears were cried. Hard choices were made. When the day ended, we had a new little girl permanently added to our family. Not adopted. The court was not ready to grant that yet. Which was alright, because Paula was not ready for that big of a step, and neither were we. But we had legal guardianship. Paula had a permanent home. She would not need a "five mom".

The fire had died down to hot coals, perfect for roasting marshmallows without setting them on fire. The children were snuggled deep into their sleeping bags. They were exhausted from the days activities. A bear could have picked them up and carried them away, and they would never have awakened. They slept the sleep of the innocent who were wrapped in the arms of love.