We have decided to not be foster parents...please don't judge

Getting a Foster Parent license is hard, and not hard enough. The training really tries to prepare you for the real-life challenge of welcoming in another family's disfunction into your home. No amount of preparation would be adequate. You battle the system, you battle the judgement, you battle the placements' baggage, and you battle yourself: be more patient, give more, care more, BE MORE. In the end, it's never enough.

And Jerry and I decided that the turmoil and instability that fostering gave our family was not fair to our kids. Our incredibly lucky and spoiled rotten kids deserve our undivided attention.

We will find other ways to give to the cause of saving our community's children. I donated all the equipment I had: a crib, two pack-and-plays, years worth of clothes, toddler plates and cups, small flatware...we gave it all to those who could give more.

Sweet

I remember when Grace first came home from the hospital. Jerry was so worried about handling her. The first time I left him in charge was so I could shower. When I came out, he was walking her around the house whistling "The Star Spangled Banner." He said it was the only song he could think of....

We Have Decided to Become Foster Parents

     It was not an easy decision to make. We have two great kids. They are a handful. Seriously. If you know me or have followed this blog, you are probably questioning either our sanity or our ability as parents--possibly both.  That is fine. Jerry and I questioned the same things. Here are some answers to the most common questions we get.

What do you have to do to get a kid?

No, is not an easy process to complete, nor should it be. You are signing up to take care of someone else's kids as though they are your own. Even though some of the kids' biological parents are questionable (um, hello? The kids are in Foster Care...it's a fair statement), all kids deserve a safe and loving home. So, we've gone through an initial screening (they say its to check for space and safety; I think it's to rule out the crazies...we made it through anyway). We had to fill out 12-page questionnaires detailing our childhoods, educational experience, child rearing philosophies, state of our marriage, and career situations. Truthfully, they ask about EVERYTHING. How do we tell our kids when we're sad? Seriously? We say, "Hey kids, we're sad."

We had to take 10 hours of training. They call it PRIDE class. I'm sure it's an acronym I can't remember. It was incredibly long and incredibly not long enough. What would be really useful would be a psychology degree, a behavioral therapy certification, early education training, and some very basic medical training. There is SO MUCH to know and for which to prepare. When you have your own kids, the learning curve is pretty slow. If something is going on with your kid, you learn about it. You observe it, report it, research it, treat it, whatever. It's very learn-as-you-go. With foster kids, it seems like it's going to be a lot of guess work. You never know what you're going to get, and you may find you need to deal with something RIGHT NOW. No learning curve. Do something. DO SOMETHING!!!! So, anyway, yes, the classes are long, but I'm not complaining.

We are in the middle of a home study. You invite your agency into your home to examine every tiny detail of your life. I was suddenly very aware that our furniture was shabby. When did that happen? How can anyone expect me to take care of a baby if I can't take care of a couch! Oh wait...I HAVE kids. That's WHY the furniture is shabby. Right.

Why don't you just have another one? You still can, right?

This one is my favorite. Yes, we could have another baby. Our two kids are healthy, and I had pretty easy pregnancies. That does not mean we're ready to do it again. Child growing and birthing is insanely stressful. There are thousands of unknowns and risks for loss... why push our luck? We were blessed with two beautiful and healthy kids. We appreciate what we've got!

But somehow, we feel like our family is not quite done, and there are kids out there who need a safe place to live. As a matter of fact, there are more than 6000 kids in foster care in Florida alone. And our place is pretty safe. It's Wes proof, so....we're probably good.

You're just going to give the kids back?

If their parents follow their plan, and work out their issues, then we will have been part of reuniting a family. I'm not trying to pretend it won't be awful, but won't it also be a little great? We had a hard time with this, too, when we first started examining our decision. But then we learned that an incredibly high percentage of children who are entering the system today are children of parents who, themselves, have aged out of the foster care system. Those parents have no idea what a functional and healthy family looks like. I may not either, for that matter, but what we have works for us, and we'll share with the willing. 

IF, on the other hand, a child in our care becomes available for adoption, then we will adopt!

Aren't you scared the foster kids will hurt your kids?

Have you ever met our kids? No. They'll be fine. Also, we're only fostering kids younger than ours. 

The Second Call I Never Wanted to Make

You know how parents describe the moment a child wanders off by saying "I turned around and he/she was gone"? They say that because it really does describe the instant it takes for a kid to haul butt. Especially if the kid is Wesley.

It was a great Sunday afternoon. We were all playing outside; the weather was awesome. The kids had just finished taking turns rolling down the hill in an old plastic wagon, and it was time to go inside for baths. I walked to the trash barrel to throw away the debris created by two kids and a couple of popsicles. I turned around, and he was gone. GONE. I immediately circled the house and scanned the field next to our house. Jerry took the front of the house. No Wes. At that point, something inside me snapped. I just knew I wouldn't get divine intervention twice. I felt like I had wasted my second chance. Externally, I was calling 911 (again); internally, I was praying (again).

So, then, Jerry was in his truck, checking the canal side, then circling the neighborhood. At some point someone (me?) called neighbors down the street to walk in our direction to see if they could see Wes. I'm sketchy on the details.  Grace was inside. The dispatcher was counseling me to look under beds and in closets. My neighbors were all out looking. I was still on the phone with the 911 dispatcher and the dispatcher next to her got a call. Someone found a little blonde boy on Alabama Road. I must have asked 17 times if he was Ok. He was.

Five minutes later, a non-phased, happy little boy is delivered to my arms. "Mom!" he yells, "I rode in a police car!"

He reported he went for a run. I had been taking him with me on runs; he would follow behind on his John Deer PowerWheel. The cop suggested that was probably not a good idea. I concur.

A first (and hopefully a last...): I called 911

When Grace was six weeks old, she scratched herself in the eyeball, and we brought her to the emergency room. That is the end of emergency treatment for our daughter to date. The rest of her treatment from healthcare providers and emergency personnel is limited to run-of-the-mill ear infections and chicken pocks. She had the Flu once...

Wes is in an entirely different category. I have called the on-call nurse with questions about head injuries sustained while climbing. I have called poison control TWICE (once for some homeopathic thing I don't remember, and once for ingesting CAMPHOR that had been in the humidifier on the TOP of his dresser). Last Spring, we brought him to the ER for "labored breathing." A breathing treatment, two popsicles, and a chest x-ray later, we were $2000 in the hole. Whatever. Today, this boy reached a new level of mayhem.

I took Wes and Grace with two of my friend's kids to the water park in our community. Wes is turning 3 in 15 days. Grace is 4. The other boys are 5 and 7. The water park is fenced--one of those "Water Feature" things that has various ways to squirt kids in the face with water and give parents a break. I had just given the "5 minute warning" to all kids. I was talking to Grace, looked up and couldn't immediately spot Wes. This is how it went down.

Minute 1: Internal voice, "don't panic. He's in this fence. The place is fenced," while I stalk the interior of the water feature.

Minute 2: "he's not in here. Don't panic. He can't be far," while screaming at the other kids to STAY PUT, sprint out the gate and survey the landscape while chanting to myself "Orange shorts...look for orange shorts"

Minute 3: Internal voice: "Dear heavenly Father, please help me find my son." Dial 9-1-1. External Voice "I'm at Veteran's park near the water feature. My two-year-old son is gone. His name is Wesley. He has bright blond hair. He is wearing Orange swim trunks with no shirt. I haven't seen him in three minutes" while running toward the playground where he may have gone...

Minute 4: Plead with 9-1-1 operator to send someone quickly (she's assuring me several people are on the way)...

Minute 5: Blubber as coherently as possible to the nicest police officer I've ever met exactly what happened and that I have no idea how tall my son is but he weighs 40 pounds. Call Jerry and explain to him that Wesley got away from me, I have called 9-1-1, and police are searching the vicinity.

Minutes 6-five zillion: Wait at the water feature with the other 3 kids for whom I am responsible. External voice, "Dear God, I know I don't deserve any favors, but please, please, please, please, please, protect my sweet boy"...

Then kids were yelling "They found him!" and I was running. The police officer I met initially was carrying an incredibly happy Wesley, whom a good Samaritan helping search had found on a nearby baseball field playing in the sand. Wesley said to the police officer, "There she is! Mommy!" then to me, "Mom, I'm so, so dirty! Hey, did you hear the firetrucks?" I laughed. Those weren't firetrucks, buddy...they were police looking for you...

So, I guess I'll wait

Sometimes when I sit to write, the words just pour out of me. The ordinary event turns itself into a story. The details manifest themselves, and the plot and humor unfold. But not today.

My brain is full of the ordinary tasks of the weekend: the laundry, the dishes, the sweeping. It is not to say that I didn't enjoy myself. I took the kids to the water park. I enjoyed a gathering with friends. I watched a movie (readers with small children who don't go to bed appriciate this as a great feat). But I have no stories. So, I'll wait for one to come. I'm enjoying myself too much to go looking for one.

Smutty Summer Reading

Ok, I admit it. I am reading Fifty Shades of Grey. I have also covered the book in funky black and white covered contact paper, because I would DIE if I were seen in public with it. If I read parts of it outloud to my husband, HE would die. I don't like the main character...she's too....perfect. She's PERFECT. Anastasia Steele, no one is "too lanky." That's code for tall and thin. Seriously. If you want to create a character I can relate to, make her short and pudgy. Don't give her problems remembering to eat. Make her constantly struggling with at LEAST ten pounds (ok, ten pounds she'll admit to, ten more she won't).

So, why then, you may ask, am I reading it? In a nutshell, it's because I don't want to be left out! People everywhere are commenting on this book. It's a pop-cultural phenomenon. If I want to make sense of the non-sense, I have to read it, right? RIGHT?