Many months ago, I entered a Real Simple magazine writing contest. SPOILER ALERT: I lost.
I wasn't going to post my entry here for a few reasons. One, it's a little bit on the sappy side (I figured a heartfelt piece about how we came to adopt our daughter, from a male perspective, would hit those ladies -- I assume only women work at Real Simple; is that wrong? -- right where it hurts: in the heart. Strategy fail), and I've had a few too many of those in the past few months. What can I say -- I'm getting sentimental in my young age. Also, I try not to write too much about our daughter here, because no one wants to read about other people's kids (unless of course it's me reading about your kids; they're adorably hilarious! And smart!), and because some of this I touched upon in an earlier piece about the adoption.
But then I figured, screw it. I worked really hard on this, and I didn't want it to go to waste, even if it wouldn't earn me the $3,000 first-place prize and trip to New York City (I could have seen the Empire State Building!) to share a lettuce wrap with several editors who would undoubtedly scoff at my impressive catalog of silly baseball card write-ups. Bitter? Not at all.
The theme was "I never thought I'd ..." I had originally written an entirely different piece involving an encounter with grizzly bears (which will appear somewhere else soon), but scrapped it in favor of something more ... non-bear-related. As usual, I should have gone with the bears. Anyway, here it is.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
“My wife is a strong Italian woman from Brooklyn.”
This is how I began our quest for a child.
We had been foster parents for about a year as we sat there in our living room, discussing our goals with our licensing worker. At the moment we were fostering a three-year old girl and her baby brother. With no kids of our own, fostering was our first foray into the wild world of parenting. Going from zero-to-two in 60 seconds—these children had literally shown up on our doorstep just months earlier—provided us a crash course. Normally a slave to routine and organized to a tee, I sat there on this day amidst the aftermath of Hurricane Toy, sleepless and just a tad overwhelmed, with spit-up stains on my shoulder and Dora the Explorer on in the background piercing my brain with its redundancy. We get it, Map. Barn, river, then castle. You only have to tell me once!
Sure, there was a bit of naïveté in our desire to become foster parents and make a difference in this crazy world. One week into it we were jaded by the system. Our first placement, a newborn baby boy, was unceremoniously picked up by the state after being with us for just a few days. Now we were headfirst into our second placement, which was not without its own challenges.
Just days earlier, our lovely foster daughter had spit on her teacher at daycare. Good times. Her little brother, meanwhile, had somehow managed to acquire almost every treatable ailment known to man, from acid reflux to respiratory issues. Many a night was spent trying to corral a three-year old girl while tangled in the tubes of her brother’s breathing apparatus.
Still, we had no regrets. And truthfully, our motives for fostering weren’t entirely selfless, as we had also hoped, through foster care, to one day adopt. Our current foster kids were going back to their parents, which we always knew, and which—even though we loved them dearly—gave us a sigh of relief during moments of mayhem.
In fact, the kids were in the beginning stages of transitioning back home, which is why we were discussing our future. We had hoped our next placement could be more of the fost-to-adopt variety, in that we’d have at least a chance to become a permanent family. Our licensing worker urged us to work on our adoptive profile—a quick family bio that the state uses in part to determine which family is right for any child available for adoption through foster care. Her advice to me was, “You’re a writer, Mike. Spice it up! Make it stand out.”
A writer. Huh. My writing experience at that point had consisted mostly of having a blog in which I made fun of my old baseball cards. Now instead of poking fun at 80’s mustaches and ill-fitting uniforms, I’d be writing, in effect, for a child. No biggie.
And so I began, describing my wife, then myself, and then yes, our dog, in all the glorious and dramatic detail I could muster.
__________
The way it works is this. Agencies will send out emails to foster parents with regards to a child who is available for adoption through foster care. If you choose to express interest, your particular agency will submit your profile and the state will then make its selection from the candidates.
The emails themselves and the children they describe are far ranging. It could be a newborn boy with no adverse medical background, or, more likely, a 13-year old teenage girl who has moved through seven foster homes and most recently burned down a nearby abandoned building. As someone looking to adopt, you cannot have a bleeding heart, and you must know the right fit for your family.
About a month after submitting our profile, we received an email about a child available for adoption. She was a one-month old baby girl. When we began the process of becoming foster parents, our agency asked us to write down our ideal situation. If you were able to adopt, describe the child you have dreamed about. As I read this girl’s profile, it felt like our ideal situation was being read back to me. I emailed our licensing worker back immediately, expressing our interest. My wife and I, however, curbed our enthusiasm. We were jaded, remember. Plus, this was a baby. Everyone wants a baby.
Our reservations were confirmed when, after almost two months, we had heard nothing. No matter, as we were now getting ready to take our little foster kiddos back home. With freedom on the horizon, we decided we’d take a break from foster care for a while.
The week leading up to the kids’ return home was hectic and extremely emotional to say the least. I thought I’d be whistling “Dixie” as I packed up the gigantic Dora play castle that had been sitting in the middle of our living room for the past eight months, but it was difficult to hold back the tears. This whirlwind of activity and emotion was interrupted when our licensing worker called my wife. She informed her that we had been chosen as the prospective adoptive parents of that baby girl.
It had been so long since that email that my wife didn’t understand at first. Once it sunk in, she excitedly asked ten more times if it was really true. It was. Out of twenty-one families, we were chosen.
We wouldn’t be taking a break after all. Just days after reuniting our foster kids with their family—a bittersweet moment that was helped immeasurably by the realization that we may have a family of our own on the horizon—we’d be traveling to go meet our new daughter.
After a sleepless night spent fretting over what-ifs and marveling at what-could-be, and now with jitters from both nerves and strong coffee, I took a deep breath as we entered a drab conference room full of caseworkers and adoption liaisons. Our eyes passed them all in our frantic search for her. There she was, her big brown eyes looking upward as she took her bottle. I’d always had a picture in my head of what she’d look like, and miraculously, she matched that image perfectly. Everything faded to white noise as I held her, and I looked at my wife, now a mom. Pure joy. Still, that voice in my head kept asking, “Why us?”
As the conversation wrapped up, and we prepared for our life as new parents, the meeting’s coordinator asked if we had any questions. I did, in fact. I turned to the caseworker and said, “I just have to ask—why did you choose us? We heard twenty other families were interested. What was it about us?”
She leaned forward, looked at us and said, “Honestly? It was the first line of your family profile. After I read the rest, I knew you guys were the ones.”
I guess it stood out. Wow. I never thought I’d write my way into fatherhood.
I can’t be sure what it was, exactly, that sold her. This woman was not Italian and was, in fact, a southwest native. So she wasn’t playing favorites. Had she been drawn in by the acknowledgment of a strong female presence, and a husband who vouches for her? Had another prospective father touted his strong Greek wife from Queens, but not followed up with the appropriate prose? It should also be mentioned that our profile, at the time, was bereft of our photo and additional family specifics, so it was our brief bio and only our brief bio that seemed to suffice. Indeed, it seemed, it was plenty.
I like to believe it was my writing that literally brought us together as a family. We were trying to conceive, yes, but little did I know what wonders the simple technique of placing my fingers on the keyboard would do.
Of course, I’d be a fool not to believe—considering the timing, the circumstances, and, well, her—that Divine Intervention played a much larger role. To that extent, we’ve stopped asking, “Why us?” Instead, we just say, everyday, “thank you.”
_____________
We officially adopted our daughter this past summer, but she had already become our everything, the center of our permanent family. Going from two-to-one wasn’t the breeze I anticipated, but it’s different when the one is the one. I remain perpetually a tad overwhelmed, but such is my new routine.
Every time I look at our daughter I’m reminded of the impact of the words I had written that night. I’ve been writing a lot more lately. What can I say? She inspires me.
That makes two women in this house who inspire me—a floppy-haired little dynamo and a strong Italian woman from Brooklyn. Without both, I wouldn’t be here.
Watching Dora.
Showing posts with label foster parenting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label foster parenting. Show all posts
Friday, February 11, 2011
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Letting go of what might-have-been, pondering what is
Note: This column appears in the 1/20 issue of The Glendale Star and the 1/21 issue of the Peoria Times
Note II: SAPPY ALERT! Proceed with caution
Exactly two years ago they came to pick up our first foster placement.
We don’t know where he is now, or how he’s doing. His caseworkers never responded—our inquiries as to his well-being were ignored, then forgotten amidst system turnover, budget cuts, and issues more pressing than keeping his foster parents of 10 days in the loop.
I’ll never forget that day when my wife called to say, through her tears, that CPS had called her, and that he was going back to some distant relative, his only kin, apparently, with a clean record. A song that played from a CD on my drive home that day is now etched in my brain as a reminder of that day and those feelings. It was only later I realized the name of the song is “Innocent Son.”
I wish I could say that I think about him everyday, but the circumstances life has brought on since then have kept me, thankfully, preoccupied. When I do think about him, which is quite often, and remember to pray for him, it tugs at my soul in the same way it did to watch him leave, sleeping, carried off into the unknown by an employee of the state just doing his job.
Those were tough days, and we questioned whether or not foster care was the right way to go. It wasn’t fair, to him we would say; to us we would secretly feel. Maybe it was because he was our first foster kiddo—a cute three-day old child in a house with none. Maybe it was because he was truly special. Either way, the connection was sudden and strong, as was the impact of his departure.
My wife emailed me at work last week to remind me that, somewhere, he turned two-years old. I couldn’t believe it.
Not long after we had adopted our daughter through foster care, it struck me what a blessing it was, for us, that he left when he did. Ten days with him only to watch him go had just about drained us—any longer may have destroyed us. Two years ago it seemed like an epic setback to forging a family, but it was his departure that opened up that very lane, not to mention many others.
A few nights ago during dinner with my in-laws, we sat around the table discussing the way things manage to work out. Had this person not done this, this never would have happened. Each of us had tales that seemed unfortunate at the time, but which led us to that very moment of sitting together. Some stories involving elder generations I had never heard, and I was left nodding my head in humbled disbelief.
Two years ago the big picture seemed far, far away, and out of focus. Sometimes only retrospect confirms that God knows what He’s doing. In the short-term we’re left with doubt, fear, and pain. Even proper perspective is fleeting. Sure, maybe He knows what He’s doing, but I still don’t know how he’s doing. Though, I guess, it’s entirely possible that the same person looking out for us is looking out for him.
One day I’ll know how he’s doing, of that I am certain. In the meantime, happy birthday, J.
Note II: SAPPY ALERT! Proceed with caution
Exactly two years ago they came to pick up our first foster placement.
We don’t know where he is now, or how he’s doing. His caseworkers never responded—our inquiries as to his well-being were ignored, then forgotten amidst system turnover, budget cuts, and issues more pressing than keeping his foster parents of 10 days in the loop.
I’ll never forget that day when my wife called to say, through her tears, that CPS had called her, and that he was going back to some distant relative, his only kin, apparently, with a clean record. A song that played from a CD on my drive home that day is now etched in my brain as a reminder of that day and those feelings. It was only later I realized the name of the song is “Innocent Son.”
I wish I could say that I think about him everyday, but the circumstances life has brought on since then have kept me, thankfully, preoccupied. When I do think about him, which is quite often, and remember to pray for him, it tugs at my soul in the same way it did to watch him leave, sleeping, carried off into the unknown by an employee of the state just doing his job.
Those were tough days, and we questioned whether or not foster care was the right way to go. It wasn’t fair, to him we would say; to us we would secretly feel. Maybe it was because he was our first foster kiddo—a cute three-day old child in a house with none. Maybe it was because he was truly special. Either way, the connection was sudden and strong, as was the impact of his departure.
My wife emailed me at work last week to remind me that, somewhere, he turned two-years old. I couldn’t believe it.
Not long after we had adopted our daughter through foster care, it struck me what a blessing it was, for us, that he left when he did. Ten days with him only to watch him go had just about drained us—any longer may have destroyed us. Two years ago it seemed like an epic setback to forging a family, but it was his departure that opened up that very lane, not to mention many others.
A few nights ago during dinner with my in-laws, we sat around the table discussing the way things manage to work out. Had this person not done this, this never would have happened. Each of us had tales that seemed unfortunate at the time, but which led us to that very moment of sitting together. Some stories involving elder generations I had never heard, and I was left nodding my head in humbled disbelief.
Two years ago the big picture seemed far, far away, and out of focus. Sometimes only retrospect confirms that God knows what He’s doing. In the short-term we’re left with doubt, fear, and pain. Even proper perspective is fleeting. Sure, maybe He knows what He’s doing, but I still don’t know how he’s doing. Though, I guess, it’s entirely possible that the same person looking out for us is looking out for him.
One day I’ll know how he’s doing, of that I am certain. In the meantime, happy birthday, J.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
How 'hopefully-soon-to-be' came to be
Note: This column appears in the 6/24 issue of The Glendale Star and the 6/25 issue of the Peoria Times
You know how you always have a picture in your mind of what someone is going to look like before you meet them? Usually we soon discover that those visual images were way off.
When my wife and I began the process of foster care with the hopes of adopting, our agency asked us to write down our ideal scenario, right down to the details. We both preferred, if ever given the opportunity, to adopt a baby girl, and any other detail seemed silly considering it was all make believe anyway. Nevertheless we listed an ethnicity, age, personality attributes…all that. Our excitement at imagining this was tempered by the reality that things almost definitely wouldn't happen that way. After all, foster care has more horror stories than fairy tales.
If you had asked me to describe what our daughter was going to look like, I couldn't have told you. But I nevertheless had a distinct picture of her in my mind. So when we walked into that room on a late November morning and met her for the first time, I mean…it was her. Amazingly, it was her.
She was now our hopefully-soon-to-be-daughter. In our hearts she was our daughter from the moment we were made aware of her, but things need to be put to paper in this world. Our reservations as to when, and how, and if this would officially happen were a result of silly superstitions, our deep familiarity with the system and a general east-coast-imbedded skepticism. That everyone involved viewed this as a seamless transition proved more disconcerting to us than reassuring. We would take nothing for granted and we wouldn't rest easy for an indefinite amount of time.
The process of making things official did little to quell our concerns, as people move slowly or not at all within a system that moves slowly or not at all. Meanwhile we were raising our daughter and watching her make real a story we had made up. Still, and more so with each passing day, the thought of the unthinkable was always in the back of our minds.
Luckily for us, our allies in the process overcame our obstacles. Last week we officially became parents of our daughter. When the judge issued his decree, a feeling rushed over us like a wave of relief and joy and peace. All of our doubts -- though so real at the time -- seem so unwarranted in retrospect. She was, after all, always our daughter.
Why things work out the way they do is beyond my explanation. Nobody gave her a name when she was born, and now she is the center of our universe. She has big brown eyes and smiles all the time and looks like my wife. Go figure.
I can't help but think back to that day years ago in a conference room in Phoenix, filling out paperwork about an imaginary person. What would be your ideal scenario? That I can now say "this" is extraordinarily humbling and amazing. We are resting easy.
You know how you always have a picture in your mind of what someone is going to look like before you meet them? Usually we soon discover that those visual images were way off.
When my wife and I began the process of foster care with the hopes of adopting, our agency asked us to write down our ideal scenario, right down to the details. We both preferred, if ever given the opportunity, to adopt a baby girl, and any other detail seemed silly considering it was all make believe anyway. Nevertheless we listed an ethnicity, age, personality attributes…all that. Our excitement at imagining this was tempered by the reality that things almost definitely wouldn't happen that way. After all, foster care has more horror stories than fairy tales.
If you had asked me to describe what our daughter was going to look like, I couldn't have told you. But I nevertheless had a distinct picture of her in my mind. So when we walked into that room on a late November morning and met her for the first time, I mean…it was her. Amazingly, it was her.
She was now our hopefully-soon-to-be-daughter. In our hearts she was our daughter from the moment we were made aware of her, but things need to be put to paper in this world. Our reservations as to when, and how, and if this would officially happen were a result of silly superstitions, our deep familiarity with the system and a general east-coast-imbedded skepticism. That everyone involved viewed this as a seamless transition proved more disconcerting to us than reassuring. We would take nothing for granted and we wouldn't rest easy for an indefinite amount of time.
The process of making things official did little to quell our concerns, as people move slowly or not at all within a system that moves slowly or not at all. Meanwhile we were raising our daughter and watching her make real a story we had made up. Still, and more so with each passing day, the thought of the unthinkable was always in the back of our minds.
Luckily for us, our allies in the process overcame our obstacles. Last week we officially became parents of our daughter. When the judge issued his decree, a feeling rushed over us like a wave of relief and joy and peace. All of our doubts -- though so real at the time -- seem so unwarranted in retrospect. She was, after all, always our daughter.
Why things work out the way they do is beyond my explanation. Nobody gave her a name when she was born, and now she is the center of our universe. She has big brown eyes and smiles all the time and looks like my wife. Go figure.
I can't help but think back to that day years ago in a conference room in Phoenix, filling out paperwork about an imaginary person. What would be your ideal scenario? That I can now say "this" is extraordinarily humbling and amazing. We are resting easy.
Monday, November 23, 2009
On giving thanks for not giving up
Note: This column appears in the 11/25 issue of The Glendale Star and the 11/27 issue of the Peoria Times
We’ve had a few “I can’t do this anymore” moments as foster parents.
The first of these moments occurred when CPS came and rather suddenly picked up our first foster child just ten days after we met him. The next moment occurred when two children –- a two-year old and a three-month old –- arrived at our doorstep. There were a few moments after that as well, but one in particular sticks out very vividly in my mind.
We were about a month into our placement and had yet to really settle in. My parents were visiting from back east, and the quality time we were used to spending with them on their visits was lost amidst the chaos of having two foster kids. I got back from work that Monday feeling very sick, only to discover that our foster daughter most likely had pink eye. I felt terrible for my parents, but my wife and I were going to have to bring her to urgent care. We also needed to decide who was taking off the next day, as I had taken off work one day the previous week because the baby was sick. We were completely overwhelmed.
I sat in the doctor’s office and thought about what time in the morning I should call CPS to have someone come get the kids. I was dead serious. We were done.
This too shall pass. Luckily, that feeling of dread did just that. Shortly thereafter, something clicked. We just completely settled in. We had our routine down pat, and nothing could stop us. We were like a machine –- a machine working on 20 hours of sleep per week and stained with spit-up and urine –- but a machine nonetheless. Before we knew it we had potty-trained a child, took her on a cross-country trip back east, helped diagnose some lingering health issues for a vulnerable baby, and then watched him develop into a little boy.
One of my favorite truths goes like this: “God doesn’t call the equipped. He equips the called.” We had no equipment –- we didn’t even have a crib! Seriously -– but we did it. For almost eight months, we did it.
I thought of these things as we made the drive up north to officially return our two little foster kiddos to their family last weekend. The fear and uncertainty of their arrival at our house, which had morphed into the anxiety of them being in our house, had now become a deep sadness at the reality of them leaving our house.
After an emotional farewell, we returned home to a quiet, clean house, and had a chance to reflect on eight months that felt like three years, that felt like three days. What overwhelmed the emptiness inside was the feeling of gratefulness I felt to be a part of their lives. I was so unbelievably happy that we never caved to the pressure.
I’m also grateful for the confidence this experience gave me. Going from zero to two kids was almost more than we could handle, but like I told my wife the other day -– I now feel like I could spin one kid on my fingertip like a basketball. One kid? Pfftt.
That said, I think it’s time for a little break. We have a ton to be thankful for this year, so I think we’ll especially enjoy Thanksgiving this week.
And besides -– we need to clean the machine.
We’ve had a few “I can’t do this anymore” moments as foster parents.
The first of these moments occurred when CPS came and rather suddenly picked up our first foster child just ten days after we met him. The next moment occurred when two children –- a two-year old and a three-month old –- arrived at our doorstep. There were a few moments after that as well, but one in particular sticks out very vividly in my mind.
We were about a month into our placement and had yet to really settle in. My parents were visiting from back east, and the quality time we were used to spending with them on their visits was lost amidst the chaos of having two foster kids. I got back from work that Monday feeling very sick, only to discover that our foster daughter most likely had pink eye. I felt terrible for my parents, but my wife and I were going to have to bring her to urgent care. We also needed to decide who was taking off the next day, as I had taken off work one day the previous week because the baby was sick. We were completely overwhelmed.
I sat in the doctor’s office and thought about what time in the morning I should call CPS to have someone come get the kids. I was dead serious. We were done.
This too shall pass. Luckily, that feeling of dread did just that. Shortly thereafter, something clicked. We just completely settled in. We had our routine down pat, and nothing could stop us. We were like a machine –- a machine working on 20 hours of sleep per week and stained with spit-up and urine –- but a machine nonetheless. Before we knew it we had potty-trained a child, took her on a cross-country trip back east, helped diagnose some lingering health issues for a vulnerable baby, and then watched him develop into a little boy.
One of my favorite truths goes like this: “God doesn’t call the equipped. He equips the called.” We had no equipment –- we didn’t even have a crib! Seriously -– but we did it. For almost eight months, we did it.
I thought of these things as we made the drive up north to officially return our two little foster kiddos to their family last weekend. The fear and uncertainty of their arrival at our house, which had morphed into the anxiety of them being in our house, had now become a deep sadness at the reality of them leaving our house.
After an emotional farewell, we returned home to a quiet, clean house, and had a chance to reflect on eight months that felt like three years, that felt like three days. What overwhelmed the emptiness inside was the feeling of gratefulness I felt to be a part of their lives. I was so unbelievably happy that we never caved to the pressure.
I’m also grateful for the confidence this experience gave me. Going from zero to two kids was almost more than we could handle, but like I told my wife the other day -– I now feel like I could spin one kid on my fingertip like a basketball. One kid? Pfftt.
That said, I think it’s time for a little break. We have a ton to be thankful for this year, so I think we’ll especially enjoy Thanksgiving this week.
And besides -– we need to clean the machine.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
One three-year old’s tactics prove difficult to overcome
Note: This column appears in the 11/19 issue of The Glendale Star and the 11/20 issue of the Peoria Times
Our foster daughter has recently begun employing the strategy of reminding us that she loves us when she’s in trouble.
For example, last week, after being reprimanded for the third and final time for sitting way too close to the television, she sullenly walked over to me, hugged my leg and said, “I love you, Michael.” (Fyi: She calls me Michael. I tried in vain for months to get her to call me Mike, but she prefers Michael. She’s very formal.)
This is a very shrewd tactic, especially for a three-year old girl who, when asked what she wants to be when she grows up, consistently replies: “a Care Bear.” It’s so obvious and transparent in its efforts, yet still so disarming. For one thing, it’s funny. I also feel obliged -– no matter what other disciplinary schpiel I delve into –- to remind her that yes, I love her too. Both of these factors take the edge off of any anger or frustration that I am presently feeling towards her.
We also do not know where she learned this from. Between preschool, daycare, and her weekend visits with her biological family there are certainly enough opportunities for her to absorb new things, even if “absorbing new things” isn’t necessarily her forte. And I think that’s what makes this so endearing – most days she cannot tell me what she had for lunch. That she possesses a survival-instinct-type tactic for getting out of trouble makes me smile.
Her strategy however, was put to the test a few days ago. While I was playing with her and her brother outside in the backyard, she inexplicably jumped on the dog. Like, full on jumped on him, as hard as she could. I could barely contain my anger as I immediately sent her to the stairs for a timeout. She cried uncontrollably (another tactic) as I informed her that she lost her television privileges for the evening and her nighttime story.
I was left incredulous at what she had just done. As sweet and good-natured as she is, she can also make us wonder what is going through that head of hers sometimes. When the dust eventually settled, I explained to her why she was wrong, why a true Care Bear would never do anything like that, and made her – yes – apologize to the dog.
A few minutes later, she walked up to me, tears still in her eyes, hugged my leg and said, “I love you, Michael.” But this time was a little different, and I started to wonder.
When she came to us she had barely ever experienced discipline before. It is still the case now that when she’s not with us, she runs the show, and although it seems great to her to at the time, it physically and mentally drains her. As she stood there clutched to my leg, I wondered if she was genuinely thanking me for providing her the discipline and structure that she inherently craves.
Hmmmm…
Nah. She was probably just trying to get back on my good side. Either way, I'm pretty sure she mans it. And that makes me smile.
Our foster daughter has recently begun employing the strategy of reminding us that she loves us when she’s in trouble.
For example, last week, after being reprimanded for the third and final time for sitting way too close to the television, she sullenly walked over to me, hugged my leg and said, “I love you, Michael.” (Fyi: She calls me Michael. I tried in vain for months to get her to call me Mike, but she prefers Michael. She’s very formal.)
This is a very shrewd tactic, especially for a three-year old girl who, when asked what she wants to be when she grows up, consistently replies: “a Care Bear.” It’s so obvious and transparent in its efforts, yet still so disarming. For one thing, it’s funny. I also feel obliged -– no matter what other disciplinary schpiel I delve into –- to remind her that yes, I love her too. Both of these factors take the edge off of any anger or frustration that I am presently feeling towards her.
We also do not know where she learned this from. Between preschool, daycare, and her weekend visits with her biological family there are certainly enough opportunities for her to absorb new things, even if “absorbing new things” isn’t necessarily her forte. And I think that’s what makes this so endearing – most days she cannot tell me what she had for lunch. That she possesses a survival-instinct-type tactic for getting out of trouble makes me smile.
Her strategy however, was put to the test a few days ago. While I was playing with her and her brother outside in the backyard, she inexplicably jumped on the dog. Like, full on jumped on him, as hard as she could. I could barely contain my anger as I immediately sent her to the stairs for a timeout. She cried uncontrollably (another tactic) as I informed her that she lost her television privileges for the evening and her nighttime story.
I was left incredulous at what she had just done. As sweet and good-natured as she is, she can also make us wonder what is going through that head of hers sometimes. When the dust eventually settled, I explained to her why she was wrong, why a true Care Bear would never do anything like that, and made her – yes – apologize to the dog.
A few minutes later, she walked up to me, tears still in her eyes, hugged my leg and said, “I love you, Michael.” But this time was a little different, and I started to wonder.
When she came to us she had barely ever experienced discipline before. It is still the case now that when she’s not with us, she runs the show, and although it seems great to her to at the time, it physically and mentally drains her. As she stood there clutched to my leg, I wondered if she was genuinely thanking me for providing her the discipline and structure that she inherently craves.
Hmmmm…
Nah. She was probably just trying to get back on my good side. Either way, I'm pretty sure she mans it. And that makes me smile.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Professor graybeard, old age on line one
Note: This column appears in the 8/20 issue of The Glendale Star and the 8/21 issue of the Peoria Times
Ever since I could grow it, I have had facial hair. In one form or another.
As a young teenager it was the wispy mustache and patchy beard. Later on it was the goatee. In college I rocked the thin-beard plus goatee combination, which I only now realize made me look like a rejected member of the Backstreet Boys. Besides appearing dangerously older to members of the opposite sex, another important attribute of this early facial hair was my increased ability to buy beer.
To this day I sport the facial hair. Currently I am enjoying the beard that is not fully a beard, but more like a “third day on ‘Survivor’” beard. This look was popularized by Don Johnson and Bruce Willis in the 80s, so obviously I am up to date fashion-wise. The irony of it all is that this look is supposed to say, “Hey, I don’t care…shave, don’t shave, whatever, man,” but I actually have to trim it to keep it that way which requires effort and is evidence that I do, in fact, care what I look like.
Which makes it all the more traumatic that I recently discovered some gray hairs mixed in near the chin area.
To be honest, I am not exactly certain that they are, indeed, gray stragglers. My facial hair has a way of, when reflecting in a certain light, looking bleach blonde. This is what I have been telling myself. My wife is convinced they are grays and has not let me forget it.
Scared off by a potential disaster in which I am mistaken for a college professor or an elderly member of the Backstreet Boys, I have, on several occasions over the past few months, shaved completely. They were very uncomfortable days in which I felt facially naked and oddly adolescent. On one occasion I was actually carded while buying beer, which was kinda cool considering I’m over 30, but not really. Without facial hair I am just another white guy walking down the street.
I partly believed that if I shaved completely, my facial hair would grow back normal and grayless, as if the gray was an aberration or a temporary genetic hiccup. As I have restarted my half-beard from scratch, I now realize this is not the case.
Now I am torn. What do I do? For me personally, my facial hair has been a strong indicator –- maybe the only indicator –- of my masculinity. I don’t know anything about cars, I can’t fix or build anything, and I hate AC/DC. My facial hair is my only defense mechanism, the only thing that says, “Hey, you might not want to mess with this guy. He doesn’t care about shaving, so who knows what he’s capable of.”
Yet I am certainly not ready for grayville and a life of buying Just For Men beard formula at Walgreens. I’m only 31, for crying out loud! My wife tried to comfort me the other day by informing me that George Clooney has a graying beard. This was unconvincing, as the rest of George Clooney’s features look like George Clooney, and also George Clooney is 48.
I also do not think it is a coincidence that I noticed this a month into our latest foster placement. I have aged seven years in the past four months. That is why I am buying so much beer.
Inside he is crying. Trust me.
Ever since I could grow it, I have had facial hair. In one form or another.
As a young teenager it was the wispy mustache and patchy beard. Later on it was the goatee. In college I rocked the thin-beard plus goatee combination, which I only now realize made me look like a rejected member of the Backstreet Boys. Besides appearing dangerously older to members of the opposite sex, another important attribute of this early facial hair was my increased ability to buy beer.
To this day I sport the facial hair. Currently I am enjoying the beard that is not fully a beard, but more like a “third day on ‘Survivor’” beard. This look was popularized by Don Johnson and Bruce Willis in the 80s, so obviously I am up to date fashion-wise. The irony of it all is that this look is supposed to say, “Hey, I don’t care…shave, don’t shave, whatever, man,” but I actually have to trim it to keep it that way which requires effort and is evidence that I do, in fact, care what I look like.
Which makes it all the more traumatic that I recently discovered some gray hairs mixed in near the chin area.
To be honest, I am not exactly certain that they are, indeed, gray stragglers. My facial hair has a way of, when reflecting in a certain light, looking bleach blonde. This is what I have been telling myself. My wife is convinced they are grays and has not let me forget it.
Scared off by a potential disaster in which I am mistaken for a college professor or an elderly member of the Backstreet Boys, I have, on several occasions over the past few months, shaved completely. They were very uncomfortable days in which I felt facially naked and oddly adolescent. On one occasion I was actually carded while buying beer, which was kinda cool considering I’m over 30, but not really. Without facial hair I am just another white guy walking down the street.
I partly believed that if I shaved completely, my facial hair would grow back normal and grayless, as if the gray was an aberration or a temporary genetic hiccup. As I have restarted my half-beard from scratch, I now realize this is not the case.
Now I am torn. What do I do? For me personally, my facial hair has been a strong indicator –- maybe the only indicator –- of my masculinity. I don’t know anything about cars, I can’t fix or build anything, and I hate AC/DC. My facial hair is my only defense mechanism, the only thing that says, “Hey, you might not want to mess with this guy. He doesn’t care about shaving, so who knows what he’s capable of.”
Yet I am certainly not ready for grayville and a life of buying Just For Men beard formula at Walgreens. I’m only 31, for crying out loud! My wife tried to comfort me the other day by informing me that George Clooney has a graying beard. This was unconvincing, as the rest of George Clooney’s features look like George Clooney, and also George Clooney is 48.
I also do not think it is a coincidence that I noticed this a month into our latest foster placement. I have aged seven years in the past four months. That is why I am buying so much beer.
Inside he is crying. Trust me.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
One doctor’s specialty: indifference
Note: This column appears in the 8/6 issue of The Glendale Star and the 8/7 issue of the Peoria Times
Two weeks ago our foster daughter woke up crying in the middle of the night yelling “I sick!” We took her temperature and it read 103.5.
It wasn’t that surprising to us, as she had felt a little warm when we put her to bed that evening. Also, things had been progressing too healthily over the past few days for something like this not to happen. My wife and I compromised: she would stay home with her that day, but I was going to take her to the pediatrician’s office before work. This was obviously going to be a fantastic day.
Because of the circumstances we could not go to our regular pediatrician, but we had been to this office before when our foster daughter had pink eye. I remember because it was like “Children of the Corn” in the waiting room, with kids walking around like zombies. Some were crying and others sat silent with breathing masks on. My only retreat from the horror was wiping away the constant stream of gook oozing from our foster daughter’s eyes, which was gross, but better than surveying the surrounding scene. And even though we waited for what seemed like three years to get called in, the doctor was nice, professional, and our little one was better a few days later.
This time was a little different.
Besides burning up, she had been saying that her “mouth hurt,” which we translated to mean that her throat was sore. When I told the nurse this, she placed her down to swab her throat. Now, I am 31 years old. Getting my throat swabbed is probably the most uncomfortable thing in the world this side of a rectal exam, which I may or may not have experienced before. This girl is 3-years old. It was not pleasant.
She was still crying when the doctor stormed in a few seconds later. The first thing he said to me, in a huff, was, “I was just about to go home.” Apparently, I was supposed to feel guilty about my foster daughter waking up with a 103.5 temperature as his shift was about to end. My bad, doc.
Without any coddling or small talk whatsoever to make a sick and scared three-year-old feel more comfortable, he started jabbing her with things and talking to her like she was my age. "What hurts?" he asked bluntly, and incredulously, as if this was all one big scam. Our little one, still crying and now confused, said her eye and head hurt. Then the doctor condescendingly quipped, “Yeah, sometimes the story changes on the ride over here, huh?” He then told me to give her children’s Motrin and rushed out of the room.
I was made to feel like an overbearing parent that overreacted and inconvenienced someone who is paid handsomely to treat children. Our little one was left dazed by the whole experience. When I went to complain at the front desk, no one was there.
Luckily for me, I just so happen to write for the local paper, where I can embark on personal crusades under the guise of public interest. So let this serve as my official complaint.
If you’re reading this doc, you know who you are. Maybe I caught you on a bad day. Maybe you are just bad at your job. Maybe you watch too much “House.” Whatever the case, see you again the next time our kid gets sick? I’d rather have a rectal exam.
Even Dr. Nick would have been better...
Two weeks ago our foster daughter woke up crying in the middle of the night yelling “I sick!” We took her temperature and it read 103.5.
It wasn’t that surprising to us, as she had felt a little warm when we put her to bed that evening. Also, things had been progressing too healthily over the past few days for something like this not to happen. My wife and I compromised: she would stay home with her that day, but I was going to take her to the pediatrician’s office before work. This was obviously going to be a fantastic day.
Because of the circumstances we could not go to our regular pediatrician, but we had been to this office before when our foster daughter had pink eye. I remember because it was like “Children of the Corn” in the waiting room, with kids walking around like zombies. Some were crying and others sat silent with breathing masks on. My only retreat from the horror was wiping away the constant stream of gook oozing from our foster daughter’s eyes, which was gross, but better than surveying the surrounding scene. And even though we waited for what seemed like three years to get called in, the doctor was nice, professional, and our little one was better a few days later.
This time was a little different.
Besides burning up, she had been saying that her “mouth hurt,” which we translated to mean that her throat was sore. When I told the nurse this, she placed her down to swab her throat. Now, I am 31 years old. Getting my throat swabbed is probably the most uncomfortable thing in the world this side of a rectal exam, which I may or may not have experienced before. This girl is 3-years old. It was not pleasant.
She was still crying when the doctor stormed in a few seconds later. The first thing he said to me, in a huff, was, “I was just about to go home.” Apparently, I was supposed to feel guilty about my foster daughter waking up with a 103.5 temperature as his shift was about to end. My bad, doc.
Without any coddling or small talk whatsoever to make a sick and scared three-year-old feel more comfortable, he started jabbing her with things and talking to her like she was my age. "What hurts?" he asked bluntly, and incredulously, as if this was all one big scam. Our little one, still crying and now confused, said her eye and head hurt. Then the doctor condescendingly quipped, “Yeah, sometimes the story changes on the ride over here, huh?” He then told me to give her children’s Motrin and rushed out of the room.
I was made to feel like an overbearing parent that overreacted and inconvenienced someone who is paid handsomely to treat children. Our little one was left dazed by the whole experience. When I went to complain at the front desk, no one was there.
Luckily for me, I just so happen to write for the local paper, where I can embark on personal crusades under the guise of public interest. So let this serve as my official complaint.
If you’re reading this doc, you know who you are. Maybe I caught you on a bad day. Maybe you are just bad at your job. Maybe you watch too much “House.” Whatever the case, see you again the next time our kid gets sick? I’d rather have a rectal exam.
Even Dr. Nick would have been better...
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Local resources prevent foster parents from losing minds, wallets
Note: This column appears in the 6/18 issue of The Glendale Star and the 6/19 issue of the Peoria Times
Every day, it seems, we are discovering more and more about foster care. I have been amazed by the resources available to us.
No matter how many training classes you have taken, and no matter how prepared you think you are to be a foster parent, the fact of the matter is that one day a child –- or maybe two –- will arrive at your door, and then you will be left wondering what the heck you are supposed to do. By the time you are giving one child a breathing treatment while the other child is pooping in her pull-up in the corner and the dog is barking and the phone is ringing, it becomes that much more difficult to find the clarity to hearken back to your training days for guidance.
You feel like you’re on an island sometimes. And you’re always three seconds away from sending out a smoke signal.
But you do settle in. For us, it’s been during this settling in process that we have –- mainly through the invaluable help of our foster parent friends –- discovered how much support we really do have. Like, right here.
A couple of weeks ago I mentioned how we took our foster daughter back east to NJ with us. Not only did we want her to experience the thrill of a plane ride and the chance to meet new people and to see the ocean, but we also did not want to leave her behind in yet another unfamiliar environment. But we weren’t quite sure if we could afford the airfare.
It was then that our friend told us about Arizona Friends of Foster Children, a non-profit organization that helps fund activities to enrich the lives of the 10,000 foster children right here in Arizona. I reached out to them –- they have an office right here in Glendale -– and, after filing the necessary paperwork, they paid for our foster daughter’s trip. All they asked for in return was a “thank you” letter from her, and for us to spread the word about what they do. We were happy to oblige.
Besides physically and emotionally, being a foster parent is often financially exhausting. Of course, this is true of all parents, but never being parents ourselves, we needed everything to get going. Combine that with the cost of daycare, the gas and mileage for family visits, and important items like scrapbooks, and things were getting scary.
Little did we know that all foster children in Arizona are eligible for WIC services. WIC –- Women, Infants & Children –- is a federally funded program that provides residents with nutritious foods, education, and referrals. They too have offices right here in Glendale, and after one meeting with Gracie over at the Thunderbird Road office, we had formula, milk and juice for the next six months.
It amazes me sometimes that we live in a country not only where a thing like foster care exists, but where it thrives, thanks to the government programs, non-profit organizations, and generous donations of so many private citizens.
So yeah, sometimes, as a foster parent, it does feel like you’re on an island. But when you take the time to look around, you realize -– it’s a big island, and the locals are pretty darn helpful.
To donate or to find out more about Arizona Friend of Foster Children Foundation, visit www.affcf.org; to learn more about WIC visit http://www.azwic.gov/
Every day, it seems, we are discovering more and more about foster care. I have been amazed by the resources available to us.
No matter how many training classes you have taken, and no matter how prepared you think you are to be a foster parent, the fact of the matter is that one day a child –- or maybe two –- will arrive at your door, and then you will be left wondering what the heck you are supposed to do. By the time you are giving one child a breathing treatment while the other child is pooping in her pull-up in the corner and the dog is barking and the phone is ringing, it becomes that much more difficult to find the clarity to hearken back to your training days for guidance.
You feel like you’re on an island sometimes. And you’re always three seconds away from sending out a smoke signal.
But you do settle in. For us, it’s been during this settling in process that we have –- mainly through the invaluable help of our foster parent friends –- discovered how much support we really do have. Like, right here.
A couple of weeks ago I mentioned how we took our foster daughter back east to NJ with us. Not only did we want her to experience the thrill of a plane ride and the chance to meet new people and to see the ocean, but we also did not want to leave her behind in yet another unfamiliar environment. But we weren’t quite sure if we could afford the airfare.
It was then that our friend told us about Arizona Friends of Foster Children, a non-profit organization that helps fund activities to enrich the lives of the 10,000 foster children right here in Arizona. I reached out to them –- they have an office right here in Glendale -– and, after filing the necessary paperwork, they paid for our foster daughter’s trip. All they asked for in return was a “thank you” letter from her, and for us to spread the word about what they do. We were happy to oblige.
Besides physically and emotionally, being a foster parent is often financially exhausting. Of course, this is true of all parents, but never being parents ourselves, we needed everything to get going. Combine that with the cost of daycare, the gas and mileage for family visits, and important items like scrapbooks, and things were getting scary.
Little did we know that all foster children in Arizona are eligible for WIC services. WIC –- Women, Infants & Children –- is a federally funded program that provides residents with nutritious foods, education, and referrals. They too have offices right here in Glendale, and after one meeting with Gracie over at the Thunderbird Road office, we had formula, milk and juice for the next six months.
It amazes me sometimes that we live in a country not only where a thing like foster care exists, but where it thrives, thanks to the government programs, non-profit organizations, and generous donations of so many private citizens.
So yeah, sometimes, as a foster parent, it does feel like you’re on an island. But when you take the time to look around, you realize -– it’s a big island, and the locals are pretty darn helpful.
To donate or to find out more about Arizona Friend of Foster Children Foundation, visit www.affcf.org; to learn more about WIC visit http://www.azwic.gov/
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
You can go home again…but hurry up
Note: This column appears in the 6/4 issue of The Glendale Star and the 6/5 issue of the Peoria Times
We decided to make a last-minute trip back east over Memorial Day weekend to see our families. We even brought along one of our foster kiddos. To say that this trip was amazing and well worth it is an understatement.
The major influence behind us returning home for a few days was that we discovered some of my wife’s relatives from Italy would be there for her cousin’s graduation. On top of that, this was also the weekend of an annual popular Jersey Shore road race that we used to take part in. You may recall that this was the race I collapsed at due to dehydration two years ago. Therefore, this trip served two purposes: 1) see the Italians, and 2) redemption.
First up was the graduation party, where we got to see my wife’s Italian relatives, henceforth known simply as “Italy.” Italy was indeed thrilled to see us. But it was our little one who stole the show, and who, due to all of the attention, had assumed that the whole affair was her birthday party. It might as well have been. The night ended with a wet pull-up and a “timeout,” which is how most of our family functions end, with or without kids.
The next night we went to my sister and brother-in-law’s house to hang out with everyone again, and to spend more quality time with Italy. That is, until we discovered that Italy had opted to go down to Atlantic City instead for the evening. Couldn’t really blame them. And besides –- we’d see them again in 15 years. Also, we needed our rest, because the next day was race day.
The following morning we surprised the rest of our family who had yet to be surprised by showing up to the annual pre-race gathering at my aunt and uncle’s house. Hugs and kisses all around. My wife tried to take a picture of everyone, but half of the family had already left for the starting line. Then everyone was gone, leaving me, my wife and my cousin to walk alone, while I carried our squirmy 32-lb question machine the whole way. Only our family races to a race.
We finally caught up to everyone near the starting line. It was at this point when my father-in-law asked if we could run together. I said sure, and was comforted that I’d have a running partner, considering that, ya’ know, the last time I ran in this race I finished in an ambulance. When the gun went off I looked to my left and my father-in-law had sprinted 50 yards ahead of me. I never saw him again.
We had now been officially ditched by everyone in our immediate family and the entire nation of Italy. Quite humbling, indeed.
Nevertheless, I finished the race without collapsing, thus accomplishing the second goal of our trip. Afterwards, as our family shuffled off to the post-race party, my wife and I took our foster kiddo to the beach so she could see the ocean for the very first time.
I sat there in the sand, thankful for this time with our family and marveling at their go-go-go lifestyles. I wondered if that used to be us, and if we’ve settled into a more “laid back” Arizona lifestyle. I watched our little one challenging the waves to catch her feet, and I quickly realized that this trip had a third goal. So we stayed for a little while.
We decided to make a last-minute trip back east over Memorial Day weekend to see our families. We even brought along one of our foster kiddos. To say that this trip was amazing and well worth it is an understatement.
The major influence behind us returning home for a few days was that we discovered some of my wife’s relatives from Italy would be there for her cousin’s graduation. On top of that, this was also the weekend of an annual popular Jersey Shore road race that we used to take part in. You may recall that this was the race I collapsed at due to dehydration two years ago. Therefore, this trip served two purposes: 1) see the Italians, and 2) redemption.
First up was the graduation party, where we got to see my wife’s Italian relatives, henceforth known simply as “Italy.” Italy was indeed thrilled to see us. But it was our little one who stole the show, and who, due to all of the attention, had assumed that the whole affair was her birthday party. It might as well have been. The night ended with a wet pull-up and a “timeout,” which is how most of our family functions end, with or without kids.
The next night we went to my sister and brother-in-law’s house to hang out with everyone again, and to spend more quality time with Italy. That is, until we discovered that Italy had opted to go down to Atlantic City instead for the evening. Couldn’t really blame them. And besides –- we’d see them again in 15 years. Also, we needed our rest, because the next day was race day.
The following morning we surprised the rest of our family who had yet to be surprised by showing up to the annual pre-race gathering at my aunt and uncle’s house. Hugs and kisses all around. My wife tried to take a picture of everyone, but half of the family had already left for the starting line. Then everyone was gone, leaving me, my wife and my cousin to walk alone, while I carried our squirmy 32-lb question machine the whole way. Only our family races to a race.
We finally caught up to everyone near the starting line. It was at this point when my father-in-law asked if we could run together. I said sure, and was comforted that I’d have a running partner, considering that, ya’ know, the last time I ran in this race I finished in an ambulance. When the gun went off I looked to my left and my father-in-law had sprinted 50 yards ahead of me. I never saw him again.
We had now been officially ditched by everyone in our immediate family and the entire nation of Italy. Quite humbling, indeed.
Nevertheless, I finished the race without collapsing, thus accomplishing the second goal of our trip. Afterwards, as our family shuffled off to the post-race party, my wife and I took our foster kiddo to the beach so she could see the ocean for the very first time.
I sat there in the sand, thankful for this time with our family and marveling at their go-go-go lifestyles. I wondered if that used to be us, and if we’ve settled into a more “laid back” Arizona lifestyle. I watched our little one challenging the waves to catch her feet, and I quickly realized that this trip had a third goal. So we stayed for a little while.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Getting a second chance to make a difference
Note: This column appears in the 4/16 issue of The Glendale Star, and the 4/17 issue of the Peoria Times
It was a Friday morning not too long ago and my wife and I were looking forward to celebrating our five-year anniversary. We were going to a restaurant called True Food in the Biltmore section of Phoenix that evening, and we were going to have a romantic dinner.
A few hours into the day, I received a phone call from our agency. They had a foster placement for us. Now, we had said “yes” to several foster placements since our first and only one back in January, but had never received follow-up from the state, and they have the last say on which family will get which placement. That, combined with the slowing stream of foster kids in general thanks to statewide budget cuts had us wondering if we’d ever get a second chance to be foster parents.
So we said “yes,” and then went about our day, not expecting to hear anything else.
This time however, the state called. They wanted to confirm we were available for this placement. Even though I had just said “yes,” another yes would really mean yes. I gathered my thoughts -– which were many, and racing, and ranged from “we don’t have any toys!” to “how am I going to watch baseball now?” -– and just dove in headfirst. Yes, we were available.
Oh, and this placement was not for one kid, but two. Sister and brother. They were going to be at the house in a few hours.
We were not going out to dinner.
It really is funny how things work out sometimes. At the exact moment we were souring on the entire foster process, and deciding to go on with life and making plans that had no plans of being interrupted, everything turned upside down. Before I left work that day I emailed my mom to tell her the news, and she was thrilled to see us get an anniversary gift that no one else could have ever given us –- instant family.
So thank you, state of Arizona.
I think.
As I write this, my wife and I have about three weeks worth of overall foster parenting experience. That is not a long time. It has however, given us a whole new level of respect for parents in general. How many times –- in just three weeks -- have both of us wanted to scream out the window to every parent within earshot: “How do you do it???”
I think the echo would always ring back the same: You just do.
It has been an amazing experience so far, and it looks as though it’s just getting started. From the downs of messy diapers and spit-up caught in my arm hair, to the awkwardness of not being 100% sure which kid was mine when I went to pick him up at daycare (hey, some babies look strikingly similar, ya’ know?), to the extreme highs of seeing a kid’s eyes light up just because you’re there. Not to mention going to bed at night feeling pretty darn positive about doing something good for somebody else.
That Friday night, after we put our new kiddos to bed, my wife and I sat in front of the TV exhausted, eating the pizza we had ordered – true food, indeed -- and wondering aloud to each other if we can handle this.
We decided that we can. I mean, we have to.
“Do you mind if we put on some baseball?” I asked her.
It was a Friday morning not too long ago and my wife and I were looking forward to celebrating our five-year anniversary. We were going to a restaurant called True Food in the Biltmore section of Phoenix that evening, and we were going to have a romantic dinner.
A few hours into the day, I received a phone call from our agency. They had a foster placement for us. Now, we had said “yes” to several foster placements since our first and only one back in January, but had never received follow-up from the state, and they have the last say on which family will get which placement. That, combined with the slowing stream of foster kids in general thanks to statewide budget cuts had us wondering if we’d ever get a second chance to be foster parents.
So we said “yes,” and then went about our day, not expecting to hear anything else.
This time however, the state called. They wanted to confirm we were available for this placement. Even though I had just said “yes,” another yes would really mean yes. I gathered my thoughts -– which were many, and racing, and ranged from “we don’t have any toys!” to “how am I going to watch baseball now?” -– and just dove in headfirst. Yes, we were available.
Oh, and this placement was not for one kid, but two. Sister and brother. They were going to be at the house in a few hours.
We were not going out to dinner.
It really is funny how things work out sometimes. At the exact moment we were souring on the entire foster process, and deciding to go on with life and making plans that had no plans of being interrupted, everything turned upside down. Before I left work that day I emailed my mom to tell her the news, and she was thrilled to see us get an anniversary gift that no one else could have ever given us –- instant family.
So thank you, state of Arizona.
I think.
As I write this, my wife and I have about three weeks worth of overall foster parenting experience. That is not a long time. It has however, given us a whole new level of respect for parents in general. How many times –- in just three weeks -- have both of us wanted to scream out the window to every parent within earshot: “How do you do it???”
I think the echo would always ring back the same: You just do.
It has been an amazing experience so far, and it looks as though it’s just getting started. From the downs of messy diapers and spit-up caught in my arm hair, to the awkwardness of not being 100% sure which kid was mine when I went to pick him up at daycare (hey, some babies look strikingly similar, ya’ know?), to the extreme highs of seeing a kid’s eyes light up just because you’re there. Not to mention going to bed at night feeling pretty darn positive about doing something good for somebody else.
That Friday night, after we put our new kiddos to bed, my wife and I sat in front of the TV exhausted, eating the pizza we had ordered – true food, indeed -- and wondering aloud to each other if we can handle this.
We decided that we can. I mean, we have to.
“Do you mind if we put on some baseball?” I asked her.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Those in need hit hardest by economic times
Note: This column appears in the 3/12 issue of The Glendale Star, and the 3/13 issue of the Peoria Times
It’s not breaking news that we’re all living through some tough economic times. It’s one thing however to acknowledge this fact and quite another to experience its effects firsthand.
Over a month ago I wrote about our first experience as foster parents, and I mentioned our anticipation of receiving another placement. Well, we’re still waiting. Last week we found out why.
Governor Jan Brewer recently signed legislation with regards to revised budget cuts for the state. In short, due to the current economic circumstances, the state is cutting back on social service funding. Drastically.
You may not have heard about this, with all of the economic attention focused on foreclosures, struggling investment firms, and the fact that Manny Ramirez is finally (whew!) signed. But what does this mean, exactly?
What it means is this: Children in need are a drain on the local economy. The state has cut back the stipend it distributes for foster parents –- nothing special to begin with, believe me –- by 20%. Other allowances have been radically reduced as well. For example:
Special needs allowance (holidays, birthdays, special occasions) cut from $45 to $22.50 a year.
Merry Christmas, Jimmy! I know your wish this year again was for a family, but instead here is a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, courtesy of the state! Isn't that nice? Also, Happy Birthday. Because that is also your birthday present.
My wife and I, for now at least, are thankfully in a position where this wouldn’t affect our ability to provide the best care for a foster child. Other foster parents who are providing care out of the goodness of their hearts and relying on the already minimum state-funded support may no longer be able to do so.
But that may not even matter, because foster children are becoming an extinct species here in Arizona. Due to the state’s inability to provide proper financial support for those in need, Child Protective Services (CPS) has been advised to not pull children from homes unless absolutely necessary:
DES will NOT investigate 100 percent of potential risk reports made to the Child Protective Services because of CPS staff cutbacks and furloughs potentially leaving thousands of children at risk.
You can read between the lines on this one, but what it essentially means is more children being left in abusive and neglectful homes. It’s up to CPS now –- understaffed and underfunded in its own right -- to straddle the fine line between “absolutely necessary” and “too late.”
But what about children in caring and loving homes with special needs? Well, they’ve been left in the dust completely. The state has terminated therapeutic funding –- like, totally –- for children under three years old:
Services for children ages 0-3 who are approved for DDD funding because of severe developmental delays, medical issues, or risk of having long-term deficits in social-adaptive, cognitive, fine motor, gross motor, communication and/or feeding will lose all services, including early intervention, speech therapy, occupational therapy, and physical therapy effective March 1, 2009.
Fantastic. The state would rather wait until these kids reach school-level age so they can receive the minimum in-house support. Besides the obvious long-term implications, I imagine this will make school that much more enjoyable for children already struggling to adapt socially.
Believe me I realize that in these days and times everybody needs a little help, and requests for assistance are coming from all directions. Everybody wants their economic stimulus, and it can be difficult to determine who deserves it more. A simple philosophy is this: an investment in the future never hurts. A non-investment in the future always hurts.
Or, we can just wait. Wait a few years until the six o’clock news, when one of the many children left in an abusive home commits their own act of violence. Then we can direct our self-righteous anger at the criminal and not the circumstances, which is much easier. Or wait a decade or so, when there’s a feature story on the extreme need for increased educational funding because so many kids are being left back in school. In short, just wait until it’s too late.
Or absolutely necessary. Whatever you want to call it.
For more information or to find out how to make your voice heard, please visit: https://www.azdes.gov
It’s not breaking news that we’re all living through some tough economic times. It’s one thing however to acknowledge this fact and quite another to experience its effects firsthand.
Over a month ago I wrote about our first experience as foster parents, and I mentioned our anticipation of receiving another placement. Well, we’re still waiting. Last week we found out why.
Governor Jan Brewer recently signed legislation with regards to revised budget cuts for the state. In short, due to the current economic circumstances, the state is cutting back on social service funding. Drastically.
You may not have heard about this, with all of the economic attention focused on foreclosures, struggling investment firms, and the fact that Manny Ramirez is finally (whew!) signed. But what does this mean, exactly?
What it means is this: Children in need are a drain on the local economy. The state has cut back the stipend it distributes for foster parents –- nothing special to begin with, believe me –- by 20%. Other allowances have been radically reduced as well. For example:
Special needs allowance (holidays, birthdays, special occasions) cut from $45 to $22.50 a year.
Merry Christmas, Jimmy! I know your wish this year again was for a family, but instead here is a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, courtesy of the state! Isn't that nice? Also, Happy Birthday. Because that is also your birthday present.
My wife and I, for now at least, are thankfully in a position where this wouldn’t affect our ability to provide the best care for a foster child. Other foster parents who are providing care out of the goodness of their hearts and relying on the already minimum state-funded support may no longer be able to do so.
But that may not even matter, because foster children are becoming an extinct species here in Arizona. Due to the state’s inability to provide proper financial support for those in need, Child Protective Services (CPS) has been advised to not pull children from homes unless absolutely necessary:
DES will NOT investigate 100 percent of potential risk reports made to the Child Protective Services because of CPS staff cutbacks and furloughs potentially leaving thousands of children at risk.
You can read between the lines on this one, but what it essentially means is more children being left in abusive and neglectful homes. It’s up to CPS now –- understaffed and underfunded in its own right -- to straddle the fine line between “absolutely necessary” and “too late.”
But what about children in caring and loving homes with special needs? Well, they’ve been left in the dust completely. The state has terminated therapeutic funding –- like, totally –- for children under three years old:
Services for children ages 0-3 who are approved for DDD funding because of severe developmental delays, medical issues, or risk of having long-term deficits in social-adaptive, cognitive, fine motor, gross motor, communication and/or feeding will lose all services, including early intervention, speech therapy, occupational therapy, and physical therapy effective March 1, 2009.
Fantastic. The state would rather wait until these kids reach school-level age so they can receive the minimum in-house support. Besides the obvious long-term implications, I imagine this will make school that much more enjoyable for children already struggling to adapt socially.
Believe me I realize that in these days and times everybody needs a little help, and requests for assistance are coming from all directions. Everybody wants their economic stimulus, and it can be difficult to determine who deserves it more. A simple philosophy is this: an investment in the future never hurts. A non-investment in the future always hurts.
Or, we can just wait. Wait a few years until the six o’clock news, when one of the many children left in an abusive home commits their own act of violence. Then we can direct our self-righteous anger at the criminal and not the circumstances, which is much easier. Or wait a decade or so, when there’s a feature story on the extreme need for increased educational funding because so many kids are being left back in school. In short, just wait until it’s too late.
Or absolutely necessary. Whatever you want to call it.
For more information or to find out how to make your voice heard, please visit: https://www.azdes.gov
Monday, February 2, 2009
The challenges of being a foster parent
Note: This column appears in the 2/5 issue of The Glendale Star, and the 2/6 issue of the Peoria Times
Last year my wife and I decided to become foster parents. It was a long and somewhat arduous process, but we officially received our license right before the holidays.
As a foster parent, your role is to care for whatever child comes into your home while being actively involved in returning that child to their biological family, regardless of any attachments you may establish. We knew this was going to be a challenge. We knew it wasn’t going to be easy. We had no idea.
........................................................................
It was not shaping up to be a good day. I had just found out we had a leak coming from our outdoor faucet. That morning, someone inexplicably put his car in reverse and backed into my car at a red light. When I finally got to work one of the machines we use to tie up the papers wasn’t working. I was having a terrible day. Then I got a call from our agency, Catholic Charities. It was about a newborn baby boy. Just a few days old. Would we like to take him?
Yes, yes we would! My day had just gotten a whole lot better.
As is often the strange nature of foster care transactions, I picked up the little guy in the parking lot off the freeway. He came with a file, a car seat on loan, some bags of diapers and formula from the hospital, and a “good luck.” I drove home with both hands on the wheel doing 50 mph in the right lane. He just slept like an angel.
My wife and I barely knew what to do with him. We didn’t have half the stuff we needed –- it’s hard to prepare for a foster child -- but before we knew it, several of our great friends came through with hand-me-downs and advice.
It took approximately .00003 seconds to fall in love with him. Knowing the conditions he came from made us love him even more. Suddenly, nothing else mattered. He was our first placement, our responsibility, and for however long, he was our family. Our sleep time was cut in half, but we didn’t care. In the flash of an eye, he became our world.
In an odd twist of timing, my Mom came into town to visit us for a week. That now made three of us past the point of no return. We took him down to Phoenix for the day and rolled him around town in a stroller. We gave him sponge baths. We watched him giggle in his sleep. We fed him every three hours. We took him for checkups at the pediatrician. We held him as much as we possibly could.
Almost a week to the day that we got him, we received a call that he was going back to a distant family member. They were picking him up in two days. Heartbreak is certainly not limited by inevitability.
We dressed him in the outfit my Mom had just bought for him, and the new, tiny sneakers our friends had gotten for him, and prepared to send him back to an unsure future. Did we even make a difference? He sure did. Giving him up was the hardest thing either of us has ever had to do.
Now we’re back to worrying about leaks and work on a full night’s sleep -- a sleep only interrupted by restless thoughts of where he is and how he’s doing. We’re left now with a whole new respect for foster parents, and the will to, somehow, do it again. I think this experience has made us stronger, and we wait both anxiously and skeptically for our next phone call.
We know it’s not going to be easy. We have no idea.
Last year my wife and I decided to become foster parents. It was a long and somewhat arduous process, but we officially received our license right before the holidays.
As a foster parent, your role is to care for whatever child comes into your home while being actively involved in returning that child to their biological family, regardless of any attachments you may establish. We knew this was going to be a challenge. We knew it wasn’t going to be easy. We had no idea.
........................................................................
It was not shaping up to be a good day. I had just found out we had a leak coming from our outdoor faucet. That morning, someone inexplicably put his car in reverse and backed into my car at a red light. When I finally got to work one of the machines we use to tie up the papers wasn’t working. I was having a terrible day. Then I got a call from our agency, Catholic Charities. It was about a newborn baby boy. Just a few days old. Would we like to take him?
Yes, yes we would! My day had just gotten a whole lot better.
As is often the strange nature of foster care transactions, I picked up the little guy in the parking lot off the freeway. He came with a file, a car seat on loan, some bags of diapers and formula from the hospital, and a “good luck.” I drove home with both hands on the wheel doing 50 mph in the right lane. He just slept like an angel.
My wife and I barely knew what to do with him. We didn’t have half the stuff we needed –- it’s hard to prepare for a foster child -- but before we knew it, several of our great friends came through with hand-me-downs and advice.
It took approximately .00003 seconds to fall in love with him. Knowing the conditions he came from made us love him even more. Suddenly, nothing else mattered. He was our first placement, our responsibility, and for however long, he was our family. Our sleep time was cut in half, but we didn’t care. In the flash of an eye, he became our world.
In an odd twist of timing, my Mom came into town to visit us for a week. That now made three of us past the point of no return. We took him down to Phoenix for the day and rolled him around town in a stroller. We gave him sponge baths. We watched him giggle in his sleep. We fed him every three hours. We took him for checkups at the pediatrician. We held him as much as we possibly could.
Almost a week to the day that we got him, we received a call that he was going back to a distant family member. They were picking him up in two days. Heartbreak is certainly not limited by inevitability.
We dressed him in the outfit my Mom had just bought for him, and the new, tiny sneakers our friends had gotten for him, and prepared to send him back to an unsure future. Did we even make a difference? He sure did. Giving him up was the hardest thing either of us has ever had to do.
Now we’re back to worrying about leaks and work on a full night’s sleep -- a sleep only interrupted by restless thoughts of where he is and how he’s doing. We’re left now with a whole new respect for foster parents, and the will to, somehow, do it again. I think this experience has made us stronger, and we wait both anxiously and skeptically for our next phone call.
We know it’s not going to be easy. We have no idea.
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