A Chance to Thrive (Part III)

A New Start

“You need to hold my hand in the parking lot, Sweetheart.” 
“Hey Buddy!  Don’t run in the store!” 
“Whoa!  Stop touching, Big Guy!  You might break something!”

No one who sees the lively, active, energetic three-year old today would ever possibly guess that he had experienced a difficult, almost unthinkable infancy.  That just two short years ago, his chances for survival were next to impossible.  It’s like looking at a “before” and “after” make-over photo; you have to look twice to believe it’s the same person, and even then the resemblance is barely recognizable!

A Chance to Thrive (Part II)

The Discharge

Nothing, not any experience or doctors’ descriptions, could have prepared me for seeing this little boy for the very first time.  Underneath all of the wires, tubes, probes and bandages, I could just barely catch a glimpse of the frail body lying limp in the hospital bed.  His yellow-hued eyes barely glanced at me listlessly as I greeted him in my sing-song voice that I tend to use when talking to babies.  He gave no reaction whatsoever when I attempted to stroke his stick-like arms and legs.  I now understood what “Failure to Thrive” looked like.  And I was instantly afraid.  What if he died before an organ became available?  What if he did get the transplant that he needed and healed physically, but remained emotionally damaged because of all the trauma and lack of nurture during the first year of his life?  What on earth had I just agreed to?

A Chance to Thrive (Part 1)

The Dilemma

“I’m sorry, but there’s nothing else we can do.  Our goal now is to make him as comfortable as possible until the end.”  The doctor stood at the child’s bedside, uttering the words as gently as possible, terrible words that no parent ever imagines hearing.  The tiny, frail little boy had just celebrated his first birthday  - if you can call lying in a hospital bed hooked up to monitors and tubes a celebration – and had long ago been labeled “Failure to Thrive.”   The disease that raged through his fragile body during his first year of life had simply been too much of a struggle for him to continue fighting.  He had given up on his desire to live, and now, apparently, the doctors were giving up as well.

A "Real" Family

“We don’t really consider him to be a part of your family.”  When my daughter heard those words recently, referring to the foster child who has lived with us for 2 ½ years, she wept bitterly.  And why wouldn’t she?  She, herself, had once been a part of the foster care system before she had been, by God’s grace and providence, adopted into our family.¹  What message was this respected adult now communicating to her?  “The only reason we consider you a part of a family now is because a judge signed a document and declared you to be.  Before that day, it didn’t really count.  You didn’t really belong.”

My heart aches and I can’t help but cringe when I hear people, even upright, God-fearing people make comments like that.  You know that feeling when someone makes an unexpected remark, and you have the perfect response?  Three days later?  Here’s what I wish I would had the clarity to articulate at the time:  If we aren’t “really” his family, then who is?  The mother who rarely showed up all those months of his infancy that he spent in the hospital, and who hasn’t seen him at all in almost two years?  The grandmother who will only agree to fill that role if she is financially compensated to do so?  It’s not his fault that he was born into a family who were unable to care for him, only to then be stuck in a flawed system that continues to delay making a permanent decision about his future.  He didn’t ask to be raised in these circumstances, with the title of “foster child” perpetually hanging around his neck.  

And if all the things that mothers do for their child – getting up with him when he’s struggling to breathe in the middle of the night; snuggling with a well-loved book after a bubbly bath and a creamy massage; teaching him the proper way to hold a fork and insisting that he eat his peas before getting dessert; training him to pick up his toys at the end of play-time; hearing the little voice declare, “I love you, Mama!” as I’m preparing his favorite snack – if doing those things don’t qualify me to “really” be his mother, then what does?

Teenagers: My Reluctant Calling

Taking in teenagers?  No way!  They are unpredictable, impossible to control, and maybe even dangerous!  I am more than willing to care for babies and toddlers, and I would consider fostering school-age kids, but definitely no teenagers!  Such was my perspective when my husband and I first began our foster parenting journey almost 17 years ago.  And actually, who would have blamed me?  Getting used to being a mother is challenging enough, but at least when you have a baby, you get a chance to become secure in your parenting role as the baby grows and matures through the different stages of childhood.  But to jump right into the parenting experience with a teenager?  That would have been incredibly overwhelming for even the bravest adult!

Okay, so this is, like, so lame!  You would think that after spending most of my 16 years in this stupid foster care system, that changing homes and getting to know different families would be no big deal.  But really, it’s not like it’s getting any easier.  I mean, how am I supposed to even know what to expect any more?  Is this placement going to last just a few months like the last one?  It’s such a bummer that I won’t even get to stay at the same school this time!  And I hate my social worker!  She didn’t even let me say goodbye to my boyfriend!

I first met her at a family event that our agency had planned.  She had recently moved in with a foster mother that I knew, a fairly inexperienced single woman who had agreed to take this difficult-to-place teenager.  When we were introduced, I could tell from the girl’s sullen expression, her arms folded tightly across her chest, and her mumbled responses, that this party was the last place on earth she wanted to be. 

My heart gave a brief flutter of compassion when I learned of her sad life in the foster care system, her birthmother always doing just barely enough to prevent her parental rights from being terminated, but never quite enough to prove she could be responsible for raising her daughter.  

It’s so annoying when people ask me personal questions.  Like I really want to talk about the fact that I’ve never had a permanent family.  Sometimes when I’m by myself I try to remember how many different homes I have been in, but I’ve pretty much lost count.  Maybe 10, but it could have been 12.  Anyway, who cares?!  And I really hate answering questions about my mom.  People always think she’s some loser who couldn’t take care of me, but I know she’s really been trying.  The last time I heard from her she said that she has a new job, so maybe soon I’ll be able to live with her again.  Ugh!  How much longer do I have to listen to these people?  I really wish we could just leave so I can go back to my new room and be left alone.

Despite that small stirring of sympathy I felt for her, I mostly remember thinking how brave that woman was, welcoming this aloof, sulky teen into her home.  Wasn’t it uncomfortable always trying to make conversation with someone who obviously didn’t want to talk?  Thank God I’m not in that situation!  I truly love my little foster kids, and I’m even learning to relax about the tantrums and messes.  I’m just really glad that God has called OTHER people to care for the bigger kids!

My Village

 

My girlfriend’s kitchen.  Over the years it has been used to strengthen my body and, more substantially, to nourish my soul.   Its walls have eavesdropped on my stories of drama, heart-break, frustration, and victories.  The box of tissues on its countertops have faithfully stood at attention, waiting to absorb my sudden, unexpected tears.  In addition to the kitchen’s frequent role of providing comforting food and steaming cups of coffee, it has also been the venue of wise counsel humbly dispensed, earnest prayers sincerely offered, and warm hugs eagerly supplied.  It has gradually become my haven, the place where my heart runs to find refuge.  My girlfriend’s kitchen is like a protected sanctuary in my little village, a place where I can relax, refuel, and be reenergized for another day in the foster care jungle.

The ancient African proverb accurately and succinctly states:  “It takes a village to raise a child.”  While I don’t necessarily support the modern-day principles that have been applied to that proverb (i.e., that parents need government-funded programs and so-called early childhood development “experts” to correctly raise well-rounded children), I whole-heartily agree that we as parents need the support, encouragement, and wisdom from others in our community, in our “village.”   

Is Love Enough?

 

From her earliest memories, she recognized that she was not quite like other people.   Somehow she knew that childhood is supposed to be full of laughter and wonder and joy, yet she experienced none of those things.  Mostly she felt lonely, but where was the instruction booklet on how to make friends?  Her mother’s tone of voice just then . . . was she being honest or sarcastic?  That expression on her classmate’s face . . . what did that mean?  While other girls her age were experimenting with make-up and giggling about cute boys, she found herself getting lost in an intriguing sci-fi book or sketching elaborate animals that had human-like faces.  Her inability to connect with people left her feeling isolated, but she never could quite figure out what to do about it.  Eventually she just accepted the fact that the dark cloud hanging over her life was there to stay.

As a young woman, the thought of bringing a newborn baby into this sad, confusing world was unthinkable.  However, because of her strong belief that God created the life that was growing inside her, placing her child for adoption with a stable, loving family was her only option.  The only way she could think of to give her child an opportunity to live a normal life.  It was entirely possible, of course, that the child would inherit her unique characteristics, her Nature if you will, but she sincerely hoped and prayed that the right Nurture in the right environment would be stronger than the genes that were being passed along to her offspring.  That love would be enough.

Through nine long months she persevered in her commitment to offer her child a better life than the one she had experienced.  Battling her doubts and fears, trying to comprehend the deep loss she knew she would feel, and turning a deaf ear to her mother’s plea to keep the baby, she remained resolved.  And when that day finally came when the new life entered the world, she wrapped him carefully in a tiny blue blanket, and with a mixture of grief, relief, and hope, placed him gently into my waiting arms.

"Are You Planning to Adopt Him?"

“Are you planning to adopt him?”  It’s an innocent question that is often directed my way by well-meaning friends and curious strangers alike.  He regularly rides in the shopping cart that I push through the local market, obvious to everyone who sees us that we belong together.  He sits on my lap during the church service every week, clearly a part of our family for the past 2 ½ years.  He perches comfortably on my hip during every conversation, plays near my feet while I’m working in the kitchen, and sits at the table coloring during our homeschool hours.  Undeniably, we are every bit as connected to each other as any other mother and child.  The only difference is that he is black and I am white, which makes it instantly evident to every observer that we do not share the same gene pool.  Yes, it doesn’t take long at all for people to ask, “Are you planning to adopt him?”  I frequently hear that question, but oh, how I cringe when I do!

Your Honor

Your Honor.

Although the chances of meeting you in person are very slim, possibly non-existent, I often think about you and the powerful impact you have in the lives of the foster children who are in my home.

I am not an attorney or a legal assistant or even a court reporter, nor am I personally acquainted with anyone who is.  In fact, I don’t know very much about the legal system at all.  Whenever a court hearing is scheduled for the families of my foster children, I sit expectantly by the telephone at home, sometimes unsuccessful in the virtue of patience, waiting in anticipation for news of the hearing’s outcome.  My opinion will not be taken into consideration.  My perspective of the situation has minimal significance.  So I must completely entrust the lives of my little ones into your capable, knowledgeable hands.  Hands that hold the gavel as it decisively bangs onto the bench, setting in motion decisions that will have permanent ramifications.  I have no say or influence in those decisions, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that I am silent.  I often use my voice to pray for you.

Unanswered Questions

The boys and I wait patiently at the county social worker’s office, watching the clock slowly ticking 5 minutes, then 10, then 20 minutes past the appointed visitation time.  In anticipation of seeing their birthmother, the 12-year old had proudly brought his report card with straight A’s to show her, and his 10-year old brother brought some artwork that he had drawn, complete with hearts and a stick-figure boy holding hands with his stick-figure mom. 

Every Wednesday afternoon we sit in this room with its outdated furniture and bilingual public-service posters on the wall, the boys squirming in their seats with excitement about seeing their mom, me wondering what to think and feel.  I know that if she doesn’t come, they will be terribly disappointed.  Should I gently remind them not to get their hopes up?   If she does come, they will be loaded up with candy and cheap toys, and their mother will be unable to prevent their unrestrained energy and boisterous behavior from getting out of hand.  Should I calmly admonish them beforehand to be on their best behavior?  Either way, whether their mother comes for her weekly visit or not, experience has taught me that I will be facing some behavioral challenges for the next few days:  either from their anger at being broken-hearted once again, or at their frustration and confusion from being reminded that they cannot live with the woman they love.  Unfortunately, there isn’t a single thing I can do to change the situation.  So I wait quietly with them, saying nothing.

Never Forget

Although I knew that this moment was inevitable, I was still somehow startled when the phone call finally came.  Your social worker, letting me know that you would be leaving our home.  I hung up the phone with a heavy hand and a sinking heart, my mind numb with trying to comprehend what this is going to mean.  How can a mother possibly brace herself to say good-bye to her child?

There is no way I can explain this life-changing event to you, because you are too young to understand good-byes.  One moment you will be in the security of my familiar embrace, completely content and sheltered.   And in the next moment, you will unexpectedly be in the arms of a new, unknown mother.   Will you be scared and confused, wondering where I am?  Will you grieve the loss as much as I will?

Fostering His Potential

The toy figures are all carefully lined up in formation on the coffee table, as if they are waiting in anticipation for what will they will be asked to do next.  The young boy in front of them holds a stick in his chubby hand, the expression on his face every bit as serious as an orchestra conductor at the start of a complicated musical masterpiece.   Evidently, the symphony is about to begin.  Over the next few minutes, his little voice sings perfectly on key the tune to Beethoven’s Fifth:  “Dun dun dun duuuuuun. Dun dun dun duuuuuun,” while the stick alternates between being a conductor’s baton and a violin bow.   I watch and listen with admiration, wondering,  “Will this three-year old boy grow up to be a famous musician?”

Unfortunately, I may never know the answer to that question.  In spite of the fact that he has been my son for 2 ½ years, I don’t know how much longer he is going to live with me, how many more days that I will have the privilege of being his mother.  I only know that I have this one day to make an impact on his life, to teach him the things that truly matter, to foster his potential.

Loving the Unlovely

The first thing I noticed when she entered my front door was the stench.  Her greasy, unwashed hair smelled like stale cigarette smoke mixed with an adult’s foul body odor, and the smell wafting from her feet suggested that nobody had changed her filthy socks and shoes in way too long.  She may have been hungry or ready for a nap or in desperate need of a hug and reassurance, but I didn’t offer her any of those things.  My only thought was to throw those disgusting shoes into the outside trash bin and to get her dirty body into a warm, sudsy bath.

Where are the Lifeboats?

The sun shone brightly overhead, lending warmth to the chilly spring day.  The excitement in the air was palpable, as passengers leaned over the deck railings and waved farewell to friends and loved ones on shore.  The lively music from the band on board, the streamers zigzagging through the air, and the prim and proper crew members liberally offering champagne were all evidence of the celebration that this moment deserved: after four years of designing, building, fitting, and trial runs, the ship was finally embarking on her maiden voyage.

Some of the passengers had waited their entire lives for this amazing opportunity, saving their hard-earned wages, reading up on tour books and collecting travel brochures, and dreaming of the adventure that lay ahead.  Perhaps a few were seasoned travelers, having made several similar voyages in the past, and although there was no denying the joyous occasion, their enthusiasm was balanced with a dose of reality.   There may have even been some who felt anxiety and trepidation about the impending passage, unsure of how susceptible they are to seasickness, or how the unfamiliar food will taste, or what unknown dangers lay in the middle of the ocean when no land is in sight.   But whoever they were and whatever their personal thoughts and emotions at that particular moment, once the ocean-liner left the dock, they knew that there would be no turning back.

The birth of a newborn baby into a family is generally a joyous occasion, often celebrated, not only by the mother and father themselves, but together with friends, families, and loved ones.  It marks the beginning of an adventurous journey!  Some parents have eagerly awaited this moment with careful planning and preparation by reading parenting books or taking classes, and decorating the new baby’s room.  Other parents may be hesitant and anxious about their new role, not quite sure what to expect in the months and years ahead.  There may even be some who have stumbled upon this moment unintentionally, but instead of choosing other options like abortion or adoption, they resolve to embark on this excursion with courage and optimism.  But regardless of their individual situations and attitudes, one thing is certain: the addition of a child into one’s family is an irrevocable, life-changing moment.

The Race (Part III)

The Crowd of Witnesses

The terrain on this race was rocky and treacherous, so despite my vigilance and careful attention, sustaining injuries was inevitable.  Contrary to what some people may believe, foster parents are not secretly hiding a pair of angel wings under their running clothes.   We are susceptible to the same sprains and pulled hamstrings as everyone else.   I knew that I needed help, but I had no idea how, or whom, to ask.   My friends and family members may have been willing to help, but I didn’t know how to let them.  And although nobody ever verbalized it, I suspected everyone was thinking, “Isn’t this what you signed up for?”   I had chosen this challenging path.  Wasn’t it my own fault if I was struggling? 

Getting together with family friends or even attending church regularly was completely out of the question.  Consequently, the trail was lonely and desolate.  My fatigue and isolation eventually led to self-pity and depression.  Of course I knew that God was right there with me, but the human side of me desperately needed a crowd of witnesses cheering me on.

The Race (Part II)

My New Stride

Every runner knows that if you want to compete well, you will need to run at a consistent pace:  not too slow that you get behind, yet not so fast that you use up all of your energy at the beginning, having nothing left for the remainder of the race.  As the weeks turned into months, and I continued caring for my sweet little foster daughter, I discovered that “frantic” was my new normal.   

The Race (Part I)

I tentatively peeked around the corner into the hospital room, my three older children quietly tagging along behind me.  As I caught the first glimpse of my newest foster baby, my initial thought was, “This is the scrawniest thing I have ever seen.”  I could almost see the bones showing through her thin black legs, her tiny arms hung limply at her sides, and her facial expression was listless and flat.  And of course it was impossible to ignore the snaking tubes, tangled wires, and dripping IV’s, which were all connected to blinking, beeping monitors.  

During the drive to the hospital, I had tried to prepare my children for what we might encounter, and had warned them that no matter what she looked like, they were absolutely forbidden to use words like “gross” and “yucky.”  As I stood there those first few moments taking in the unsightly scene and trying to discern which one of the machines was making that disgusting gurgling sound, my older daughter leaned closely and whispered in my ear, “Mama, why is your nose all wrinkled up like that?”  I had to admit to myself that the sights, smells, and sounds emanating from this child were pretty repulsive.  If I had to compare the placement of this new foster child to running a race, here I stood at the starting line, and already I had stumbled.  This race wasn’t starting out very well.

Warrior Mama

"I do solemnly swear to support and defend [you] against all enemies; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to [you]; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office upon which I am about to enter; so help me God."

This is the oath of enlisted military officers, but the same words could be equally true when a foster child enters my care.  From the moment I meet my next temporary son or short-term daughter, I feel like my new mission has just begun.

I take this role seriously.  I vow to love you to the best of my ability with all of the tenderness and gentleness within me.  That’s the part of me that you will see and feel and experience. But the side that you may not ever know about, the part of me that is making a simultaneous commitment is this:  I promise to become your “Warrior Mama.”  I will fight for you.