Tag Archives: birth family

One Week

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In order to foster with the local Children’s Aid I needed a landline. The idea is so archaic, I decided to kick it completely old school – a corded phone and answering machine. Thursday, August 15 my handy pad of phonepaper was finally filled with details of a child. At first she was 11 – then suddenly almost 14 (the social worker’s math is clearly as bad as mine since she was determining age based on year of birth). A one week respite placement. The child came into care a week ago. Her foster parents had already booked this week off. Nearly 14 with some history of drug use and a tendency to sneak out. Maybe not a problem at my house since she’d be far from friends. It was my first call. I took the risk.

Carlin* arrived Sunday afternoon. Her foster mom was guardedly positive when we spoke on the phone the day before. “I have two 16yr old foster girls and they love her – want her to stay.” The other girls were off to camp. Carlin ended up with me because it was too late to register her for camp.

Sloane* and Elise* welcomed her with exuberance. After lunch we made play dough. Carlin was quietly helpful. Copying my actions, she kneaded the dough. For a while she played – cutting out pink hearts. She remained eerily quiet. This, no doubt, was exaggerated by the fact that I’m unaccustomed to quiet people. Her foster mom said she was quiet and just wanted to text all the time. That evening I left Carlin on her own.

The next day, with Sloane & Elise at daycare, we went to Starbucks. Somehow this always ends up being the first place I take kids. I didn’t get any pictures of Carlin, but do have one of Sloane. I bought Carlin a Caramel Macchiato. She’d never been to Starbucks and was overwhelmed by the adjoining Chapters. “There’s so much stuff,” she whispered.

1st outing with Sloane

1st outing with Sloane

Later that evening, with the little ones in bed, I suggested we watch a movie together. Carlin agreed, informing me “I don’t really watch movies.” I wanted to make an effort. It’s not like we could sit around talking. Conversation didn’t go anywhere. She was quiet and guarded. I’m no good at small talk. My questioning pulled out a disjointed family history. Carlin’s mom had only been 14yrs old when she had her. Later she married, someone other than Carlin’s father, and had the two little ones. Their paternal grandparents rescued them from foster care that day. But no one came forward for Carlin. She had to be sad. Normally people share with me quite freely. “I’ve never told this to anyone” is a phrase I commonly hear followed by a number of revelations from childhood abuse to secret dreams and desires. I was getting nothing from Carlin. She answered my questions with facts, no feelings.

It was a week of first for Carlin. After her mom didn’t show up for a visit we went to Fabricland (memories of my sister demanding candy for accompanying me fabric shopping flooded my mind). Then we went out for Vietnamese. “Thank you,” Carlin said as we left the restaurant. “That was really good.” Her manners were impeccable. She seemed sincerely grateful for my meager offerings.

Later in the week, it was Ikea. “It’s big,” was all she had to say at the end of it. The silence is something I never got used to.

On our final evening, I introduced her to Wes Anderson – whom I love. We watched Moonrise Kingdom. “It’s weird. But I like it,” she said. “When you’re older, you must watch the other films,” I implored.

By the end of the week she was humming along to Jon Thurlow as we drove around.  IHOP Kansas City was playing continually in the background at home. I resisted the urge to launch into prayer counselling. But I did bless her spirit using Arthur Burk’s book at night while she slept.(If you’d like a copy, let me know. I just got a shipment in.) Sloane tried to convince Carlin to stay with us. Even when her foster mom came to get her, Sloane pleaded her case.

Shortly after she left, Carlin text me. “Thank u for having me!!!”

“It was my pleasure. Feel free to stay in touch if you want. Praying all goes well for you!” was my response.

“okay I will and thanks 😀  u cook really good food too I never ate like that before”

I can’t recall most of what I made – teriyaki chicken with rice, apple cinnamon bread for breakfast one day, peach pie that turned out below par.

“I’m sure she means it,” a fellow foster parent assured me. “She didn’t have to text you. She’d already said goodbye.”

Goodbye –that’s the hard part. Some kids you’re happy to see go. Others burrow deep into your heart. I doubt Carlin will ever return to my home. But, for now, she remains on my heart. I’m still praying for God to break in on her situation. I’m blessing her, via Arthur Burk’s exceptional prayers, to move past the pain and into the Father’s love. But, sadly, this is where the story ends.

*name changed

Opportunity?

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After bathing the two little ones, I came down to see the three older girls applying my black nail polish to their fingers and toes. When questioned, Ainsley* was discovered to be the culprit.

“I thought she asked you,” Dana* insisted.

“Even if she did, you know your foster mom doesn’t like you wearing black nail polish.” All three of the girls are with me for the weekend only. Ainsley is a new addition but Dana and Natalie* are regulars. They know not to touch my nail polish. And they know their foster mom has forbidden black or bright red nails.

Ainsley, on the other hand, had a few things to learn. This was the second time she’d been with me. The first, last week, came unexpectedly when her foster mom called wanting to drop her off late one night. Things are falling apart in Ainsley’s world. She and her three older sisters have been in foster care nearly a year. It’s a complicated situation I lack the details of. I do know recently, surprisingly, all the criminal charges were dropped. The girls are set to return to their mom. Attempting some sort of continuity, Children’s Aid has decided to wait until the end of the school year. Ainsley is deeply torn between wanting to go home, because she loves her mom, and dreading it because she knows what it will be like. There were days without food. Times when no one cared for her. And likely so much more. Since finding out she’s going home, Ainsley’s been out of control at her foster home. I’m not sure what that looks like, but I know it resulted in her seasoned foster mom wanting to drop her off with me late one night.

Ainsley pouts at the kitchen table. I begin making the bedtime snack (a special treat of s’mores). Do I want to confront her on this? No – my evening will be much more enjoyable if I just let it go. If I do confront her will Ainsley have a melt down? Probably. Will I be able to manage that? I don’t know. Is it fair to lay down the law when she’s going through so much right now? No, but life really isn’t fair.

For foster kids parenting is like a patch work quilt. There are many influences molding these kids. Shirking my responsibility in this moment isn’t doing Ainsley any favours.

“As a guest in this home, you do not go into my cupboards and take things without asking,” I begin.

She shrugs and offers an excuse. She was in the cupboard looking for something else……not sure how that ended in applying my nail polish.

“Ainsley, as a foster child you will be in lots of different houses. Do not use or take things without asking. I’m telling you this to help you. I want things to go well for you here and anywhere else you go.”

She turns away, still pouting. Generally the children I encounter don’t know how to respond. I tend to tell them, in case they’re wondering.

“You need to say, ‘I’m sorry for taking your nail polish without asking. Next time I’ll ask if I want to use something.’”

Her back remains to me. While putting chocolate and marshmallows on graham wafers, I’m bracing myself for an onslaught of rage. This spirited little girl came into foster care with a tendency to steal. I don’t know if her birth mother addressed it. Certainly Ainsley’s foster mom has.
The screaming doesn’t come. Ainsley refuses to apologize. Silently tears stream pulling mascara down her cheeks (something else I’d warned her against earlier that day. Her older sisters tend to put makeup on her. I said, “Not at my house. You’re 8yrs old!”) Tears are a completely normal response and show some remorse! After five years of interacting with extremely volatile children I have to refrain from gathering Ainsley up in a great big hug. When she finally looks at me, Ainsley appears to understand. I pass out the s’mores. Everyone’s happy. Glad I took the opportunity to speak to her. Hoping it’s truth she’ll apply. Because really, taking things out of people’s cupboards isn’t going to endear her to anyone.

*name changed

my weekend tribe at the beach earlier that day

my weekend tribe at the beach earlier that day

Baby Birds

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bird's nest

bird’s nest

three eggs

three eggs

two babies

two babies

Misinformed robins built a nest on the railing of our deck. In early spring the skeleton vines had the potential to offer shelter. However, they were annuals I hadn’t cleared away yet. I’m sure the couple regretted their location once my children began occupying the backyard. Still three eggs appeared in the nest. We watched diligently waiting for them to hatch. One Saturday morning two babies appeared in the nest. That weekend three extra children were with me. They all came into foster care before the age of 3. Two are now 13, the other 9. They’ve been well cared for.

Panic spread through my troop of children when they spotted the baby birds. One of the 13yr olds was sure the robins couldn’t care for the babies. She quickly convinced the five other children. Having been disappointed by their own birth mothers, they believed the lie that these birds would abandon the babies. Despite my reassurance, they spent the entire day placing worms in the nest. A resounding cheer went up whenever the mother robin returned to the babies.

Mother issues? Turns out years of care doesn’t cure that. These kids have been raised in foster homes where the parents have biological children. That example hasn’t penetrated the lie that biological parents abandon their children. Maybe this is how foster care ends up being a generational pattern.

Praying the cycle stops with these girls. Praying their testimony will be:

We have escaped like a bird
    from the fowler’s snare;
the snare has been broken,
    and we have escaped.
 Our help is in the name of the Lord,
    the Maker of heaven and earth.

Psalm 124:7-8

We Belong Together

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In January 2012, after nearly a year, Sloane* and Elise* saw their birth mother. She knew about the adoption plan and was granted a farewell visit. Sloane returned to me annoyed. Trying to make sense of life, she’d started calling her birth mother by her first name.

“She made me call her mom. But I didn’t want to,” the nearly four year old said. That’s what she took away from the hour they spent together.

Elise, only two and somewhat delayed, didn’t seem to understand who the woman was. But that night, putting her to bed she let out a torrent of tears. For nearly 30mins she wailed with gut wrenching grief. I held her and cried. The entire situation is heartbreaking.

A year later, the adoption was complete. The girls were mine. Sloane was beginning to grieve the loss of her birth family. At first I dismissed her requests to see her birth mother again.

“Just one more time,” she pleaded. “I need to tell her I’m adopted. She doesn’t know my name anymore. She won’t be able to find me.”

That was the whole point of a closed adoption through Children’s Aid. I’m in contact with my daughters’ maternal birth grandmother. While visiting, she let me know their birth mother was living about 20mins away instead of 800kms as she had been the entire time the kids were in foster care. Her distance had made adoption the course taken. Had she been close by, willing to work with the system, the kids likely would have gone back to her. What will my girls think of this when they’re old enough to make some sense of it? Sloane loves me but would rather be with her birth mom. I get that. The biggest surprise in adopting is the sadness. My daughters didn’t come to me because of a selfless act – a birth mother recognizing her own limitations and choosing better for her child. We’re a family because of tragic circumstances. I sincerely mean it when I tell Sloane, “I wish life could have been different for you.” I wish her mom didn’t struggle with addictions. I wish she hadn’t run away when her kids were apprehended by Children’s Aid. I wish she’d gotten clean before, as she apparently is now. It’s too late for my girls.

Sloane’s requests didn’t dissipate. In January 2013, contacted the birth mother. She and I met at a coffee shop. Her new boyfriend came along. I gave her a scrapbook of the girls since they’d come to me as foster children nearly two years ago. She cried. Graciously, the woman thanked me for loving her kids. I explained a bit about the adoption process – not being chosen and fighting to keep them (see Adoption post). This deeply moved the boyfriend. The two were rough around the edges, typical of the downtown core they live in. I explained how hard things have been for Sloane.

“I’ll do anything to help her. I want her to be happy with you,” the woman exclaimed.

“She needs to know it’s ok for her to be adopted,” I replied.

We left with hugs and another meeting set up.

I carefully dressed Sloane the morning of the visit. She and I arrived at McDonald’s quite early. Her birth mother was late. When Sloane spotted her, she ran to my side. Her tiny hands clung to me. Very outgoing, Sloane is quick to run to anyone who looks her way. I didn’t expect this reaction. My heart melted. It’s been a hard go with Sloane. Most days I wonder if I’m anywhere near her heavily guarded heart. In that moment, I finally felt like she’d chosen me as her mom – where she goes to feel safe.

Gradually inching towards her birth mother, Sloane let her know, “I’m adopted. I have a new last name and middle names.” She recited her full name.

“That’s beautiful. I really like that name,” birth mother answered.

Sloane shared pertinent information about her life including the fact that her 17yr old foster sister recently got blond highlights. Months after she came to me, Sloane said she wanted to see her birth mom, “to tell her I live with you now. And I’m always staying with you.” This is something she didn’t express in the farewell visit organized by Children’s Aid. Though I knew legally the birth mother couldn’t take the girls, I worried in seeing her I’d lose the tentative grip I have on Sloane. Hearing my daughter’s beautiful description of her life with me, the fear diminished.

“You have a really good mom,” her birth mother repeatedly assured.

“Yeah,” Sloane agreed, smiling up at me.