September 26, 2013
Good morning, Honey!
I hope you slept well. Go ahead and have a seat. Breakfast is almost r . . . What are you wearing?
Well, I can see that you’re wearing clothes, but do you think that’s really an appropriate thing to wear to school?
What’s wrong with it? This is how I always dress.
Um, isn’t your skirt is a little short?
And your sweater is pretty low-cut.
My other foster mom used to let me wear it. I mean, she’s the one who bought it for me!
Well, you are living in my home now, and we have rules about modesty. And believe me, those clothes are definitely not modest. I need you to change, please.
I’m not going to change. Why should I even listen to you? (scoffs) Look at the ugly clothes that you are wearing!
We also happen to have rules about respect in this house. You will not speak to me that way, young lady!
Whatever. (door slams)
Gee, that went well! How did the conversation go from 0 to skirmish in less than 30 seconds? Does every morning really need to begin by engaging in a battle with the resident teenager?
September 14, 2013
“Please, please, please!” he pleaded. “Won’t you please let me try out for the baseball team?” We stood there in the kitchen, his big brown eyes locking with my own skeptical ones, trying their hardest to communicate with me how important this dream was to him. I was at a loss for an immediate reply. This was a bold request from a foster child. It would mean a significant time commitment and expense for our family. What about his schoolwork and grades? How would I juggle the other 5 children in our home who needed my attention? Would my consent be the wisest course of action?