I don’t think I do enough in the way of works, or enough in the way of faith, really. I’ll let alone the fact that doing enough is likely impossible, but even that distant horizon feels unseen. I’m generally of the belief that writing about a thing is counter productive to doing the thing. By writing about it your brain is given some small picture of the reward of doing it, so you can justify not doing it. Which is bad. I hope that doesn’t happen from my writing about it here, now, today.

I’ve done a great deal to bend my life and myself towards a person and position that’s good for children. Robinia’s wellbeing is my top priority, and pretty much everything that I do is to that end. There’s a single-panel comic that I really love, in it an aghast financial expert begs: “but what if we make the world a better place for no reason?!” This is how I feel about working to improve my condition for children. I may be doing it for the sake of my daughter, but in so doing I benefit enormously. It’s almost direct enough to be selfish, Robinia’s just an excuse. But excuses are necessary and important.

It has struck me that to do so much work and to take such pains to make a place good for children, and to then make it available to three or four of them, or even ten of them, is a bit of a waste, a bit strange. It makes me want to foster children, which sounds terrifying. I know of two families that have fostered with any directness, both of whom had their lives utterly ruined by the experience. Granted, a lot of that was their own fault, but still. It’s complicated.

I don’t think I’ll even begin to really ponder on it until Roby and her siblings are grown, it’s just too much of a chance to introduce into her life, and there are loads of other ways to volunteer my time.

I just need to actually do it.