Seventeen years.
45 different children. Tens of thousands of unforgettable moments
experienced, challenging conflicts resolved, feeding schedules perfected and complex
behavioral issues researched and figured out.
Young lives literally saved with tender nurturing and attentive
care. So where is the sure confidence I
should be feeling? Why am I unable to
find the sense of pride in my accomplishments?
Perhaps it is because I am sitting at
the well-worn table in my slightly cluttered kitchen, and across from me is a woman
I have never met before, questioning, probing, prying into every imaginable area
of my life.
“What was your relationship like
with your siblings when you were younger?”
Oh, right, do any siblings always get
along perfectly when they are growing up?
And anyways, what on earth does that have to do with who I am today?
“What age were you when you first
started dating?” What kind of answer is she looking for? If I was quite young, she might question my
moral convictions. If I was older, she
might think I was too sheltered and couldn’t possibly understand the
experiences of today’s teenager.
“What kind of parent are you? How do you plan to discipline the children in
your home?” Well, of course any kind of physical discipline is out of the question
for a foster child. I strive to be
strong yet not over-bearing, consistent but not too strict, loving and kind
without being too permissive. Is it even
possible to find that perfect balance?
The palms of my hands are a little
sweaty and I can’t help but feel nervous and insecure, as if this is an interrogation
in the principal’s office, and with one wrong word she just might yell,
“Aha! I caught you!” It’s really a simple, standard
home-study. However, in the midst of
this tedious process, I am receiving a lesson in humility.
I should be used to it by now. After all, it’s a procedure that my husband
and I complete every two years in order to renew our foster care license. In some ways, it’s almost as familiar to me
as walking down the school corridor, opening my locker, and making my way to my
next class. The county fire inspector
knows us by name and has memorized where all of our smoke detectors, fire
extinguishers, and carbon monoxide alarms are located. The woman at the Bureau of Investigation
never seems to age. She continues to sit
behind the glass window year after year with her coppery hair and perfectly
lacquered nails, scanning our fingerprints and conducting a background check to
make sure that we haven’t committed a crime since the last time we were
there. The forms we take with us when
we get our physical exams, the copy of our driver’s licenses and birth
certificates, the list of references from friends and family members who know
us. Check, check, check. Those have all become a regular part of our
relicensing routine. Inconvenient maybe,
but I have learned to accept them as necessary.
But somehow, I never have become
accustomed to the changing faces of the social workers. There is a considerable turnover rate among
social workers (as high as 90% per year),1 so I am continually
introducing myself to yet another stranger, welcoming him or her into the
privacy of my home. The majority of
them are just starting out in their careers, young 20-somethings who have far
more enthusiasm and confidence than practical experience. (I used to be like that . . . I was a great
parent before I actually had children!)
It can be especially challenging
when one comes across as condescending and authoritative, making it obvious
that she is searching for something, anything, to write in her report. The one who noted that we had no milk in the
refrigerator, even though the children in our home at that time were all
lactose-intolerant. Or the one who
criticized me for not knowing my foster child’s shoe size, when he was in a
body cast and wasn’t even able to wear shoes.
It is then that I smile, try my best not to roll my eyes, and pray
quickly for a polite reply that doesn’t sound too defensive. I try to be gracious and kind. Indeed, home-studies can be a humbling
experience that require an unnaturally calm, submissive spirit.
And the questions, oh the
interminable personal questions that I must answer! Does it really matter what my father did for
a living before he retired? Or how much
my monthly car payments are? I
completely understand that they want to make sure that I am not a criminal, but
how will knowing what sports I played as a child determine whether or not I am
a good parent today? And does testing
the temperature of my hot water really prove that my home is safe?
Oh, how I long to live in the middle
of the back of beyond, where no social worker will ever enter my door
again. A time when I can decorate a
bedroom or rearrange furniture without wondering what someone else will think
about it. When I can have a fire pit in
my backyard or even (gasp!) leave the medicine cabinet unlocked. When I can actually spend more time with my foster kids than filling out
paperwork about my foster kids. When my family will never again hear the words,
“The social worker is coming; the house needs to be perfect.”
Every rebel drop of blood running
through my veins feels like screaming, “Just get out of my home and leave me
alone!” The Free Spirit in me is restless
from so many years of being repressed.
What sane person would voluntarily subject herself to this life of
incessant scrutiny?
Well, I do. Today, even as I write, there are 424,000
children who are in the U.S. foster care system.2 Children who have suffered unimaginable abuse
and neglect. Children who need a safe
home and loving family. Is sacrificing a
little bit of pride and privacy really too high a price to pay? Are solitude and seclusion really more important
to me than a child in need?
So I will continue to do it. For the next child who may need my
unconditional love and tender care, I will continue to fill out the mountains
of paperwork and provide excessively private details to people I don’t even
know. I will continue to meet the
state’s cumbersome list of requirements.
For the child who needs me, for the
one who may need an opportunity to thrive in my home, I will continue to enroll
in the school of scrutiny. I will
continue to accept these lessons in humility.
No comments:
Post a Comment