Tag Archives: fostering

Thinking is Hard

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“What if I bang my head with this pan?” Sabrina* asks while putting away the dishes.

Since I’ve just admonished her to think for her herself, I remain silent.

My 3yr old is not. “No, Sabrina. No!” she shouts.

“I’m tired,” the 17yr old moans, as she has been for the past 1/2hr. “Hitting myself with the flying pan might wake me up.”

Today Sabrina, my foster child with fetal alcohol syndrome and a significantly low IQ, toured the college she’ll be attending. She and the other visiting foster children completed a World Race type game to familiarize themselves with the campus. Being fairly fit, I doubt she’s tired from the extensive walking. It’s all the thinking. Sabrina shrinks back from thinking for herself. It’s become exaggerated since younger children joined our family. While I’m figuring things out for them, I might as well do it for her seems to be the approach she’s taking.

For her the question is absolutely sincere, “What will happen to me if I bang my head with this frying pan?”

This is when I cringe at all the teachers and communicators who say, “There’s no such thing as a stupid question.” Spend a day at my house and you’ll change your tune. There are stupid questions. “Will hitting myself with a frying pan wake me up?” is one.

There are stupid statements. One weekend Sabrina became completely fixated on doing her nails in the basement while watching tv. In nearly 5yr of living with me the rule has always been: nails are done in the bathroom only. Something switched in her brain after doing her nails while watching tv at a friend’s house. She could not switch back. I wasn’t going to back down, especially when I found out she spilled nail polish all over the friend’s rug while doing her nails and watching tv. Multitasking isn’t Sabrina’s strong suit. Even with me pointing out the mishap elsewhere, she couldn’t fathom doing her nails in the bathroom. I put an end to the stalemate by tossing all her nail polish in the garbage.

“This is all you’ve ever wanted – to throw out my nail polish. You’ve been waiting for a chance since I moved here!” Sabrina shouted at me.

“Really? Since you came here nearly 5yrs ago I’ve been looking for a reason to throw out your nail polish?” Sometimes when I repeat it back she can see the absurdity. Not this time.

“Yes, this is what you always wanted – to have a foster kid so you can throw out her nail polish.”

I love Sabrina dearly. She’s my first foster child. I’ve seen her blossom into an amazing young woman. Along the way she’s taught me some important lessons. Hopefully she can say the same of me. My goal was to prepare her for life. Most days she’s high functioning. Unfortunately, I’ve become less so. Waves of exhaustion hit me throughout the day. Often I end up just lying down on the couch for a minute or two while the children whirl around me. The casual observer would chalk it up to the two little ones, 3 &5, who are certainly suffering from ADHD. But it’s more than that. Thinking really is hard. It’s downright exhausting. Before it was just Sabrina and I. Now I have 5 people to think for, plan for, and speak for all day long! There’s me, 17yr old Sabrina, 11yr old Megan*, 5yr old Sloan*, and 3yr old Elise*. I have to anticipate reactions, intervene, explain, interpret for the kids as they interact with each other and the world at large. With the younger two it’s the age. For Sabrina and Megan it’s their limitations. Long before the end of the day, I’m exhausted. Maybe banging my head with a frying pan would help. Sabrina diligently prays to Jesus to heal her. I have faith for that! Imagine not being weighed down by her birth mother’s short comings. After 17 long years of trying to navigate the world with a brain hindered by exposure to alcohol, it would be a true miracle for Sabrina. I want that for her. I know my God’s capable. I’m believing! While we wait for that, the effort it takes to break down every situation is beyond me. I still help to navigate necessary concepts like the importance of flossing (both her parents have lost their teeth due to poor hygiene) or that Christmas is Jesus’ birthday. Today I let her request for the meaning of mentor slide among other things because thinking, explaining, and navigating for 5 is really hard. So if you invite me out with the question, “Where do you want to go?” don’t be surprised by my confusion. Thinking is really hard.

*name changed for obvious reasons

Happy Birthday to Me!

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Turning 36 is not a big deal. I’m now closer to 40 than 30. Deep breath. I should be dismayed. But I’m not. In my lifetime I’ve accomplished some impressive things. For five years I’ve been a foster parent. I bought a house…..a huge gift from God. I adopted two brilliant little girls – fighting the system when their social worker decided another family would be best even though they’d been with me over a year and were doing amazingly. Before a panel of three seasoned women I pleaded my case. Without legal representation I won against Children’s Aid’s experienced lawyer. Months before my victory the Ontario government introduced a subsidy for people adopting foster children over the age of 10 or sibling groups of any age. This provision allows me to remain an at home mom – currently with two foster children and two adopted children. And in November 2012 I launched a coffee & tea business which is reaching the business goals I had in mind – giving my kids work experience and providing opportunities for people to shine. A friend and her daughter recently manned my booth at the Niagara Home Show. The young lady put on her confidence and rocked the show. “The best part was having mommy and me time,” she said after the nine hour stint. When God told me I had an anointing for family, I thought that meant building my own. So glad it goes beyond that.

The big picture is really good.

However, my birthday marks the start of my 5yr on meds. Before fostering I was completely against behaviour meds for kids. Sloan* has made incredible strides in the two years I’ve had her. During that time she settled into my home, built a relationship with me, was reunited with her sister after 3mths apart, had a farewell visit with her birth mom whom she hadn’t seen in over a year, found out she and her sister were going to be adopted, found out that might mean leaving me. Sloan fought to stay. She started calling me mom. Two weeks before starting Junior Kindergarten, the review board’s decision came through in my favour. The day after her first day at school, Sloan stayed home to sign the initial adoption papers. Her last name changed. She stopped being a foster child. To a rational adult that’s amazing. For a then 4yr old it was terrifying. Who would she be if not a foster child? Wrestling with that she began grieving the loss of her birth family. Then there are five full days of school when all she wants is to be home with me. The adoption had to be processed by the courts. The social worker, who didn’t want me having the children in the first place, was still very much involved. Sloan had to go to school. Her response has been to stop using the toilet. It’s April. This began in September. I’ve tried everything imaginable. Just after getting the court documents in January, I set up a meeting for Sloan with her birth mother (more on that to follow in a later blog). She said goodbye with a better understanding of what that means. We visited my sister in Winnipeg. Sloan’s getting used to using titles like grandma and aunt for my family who she’s known from a distance. It’s been an eventful two years.

Initially, the pediatrician was reluctant to prescribe medication. The questionnaires she gave me and the teacher clearly indicate attention deficit. I said all the right things at our second appointment, leaving with a prescription. This is how I will mark my birthday: beginning my 5yr old on behaviour meds. I’m trying not to judge myself too harshly. Two years of incredible challenges and amazing gains with Sloan. I can’t recall anything about last year’s birthday but this one is certainly memorable.

Happy Birthday to Me!

*name changed

Makes Sense?

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This morning I am looking for a pork recipe in a vegan cookbook. Several pages in, my mistake is apparent. Laughing, I move on to a more likely source. These are the things I do. Tired and continually pulled upon, parenting is hard. A mistake less obvious than the cookbook was taking my 11yr old special needs foster child shopping in the US. It was her first time across the border. Along with my 17yr old foster child, we went with another mom and her three foster kids. Our crew was familiar territory for Megan*. So her anxiety surprised me. We went to McDonald’s, Home Depot, and Target. Nothing off the charts experience wise. Though Target hasn’t yet come to our area, we spend a fair bit of time at Wal-Mart which seems comparable.

Megan was clearly not coping the two days we were away. Getting home brought her a margin of relief. Then she went to our traveling companion’s home for the weekend. This is a common occurrence. Every 6wks I get a paid weekend off. My foster children go to another foster home so I can have a bit of a break.

When Megan came back she was enraged. Sitting down at the dinner table she started shouting at me. Despite a weekend off, I wasn’t ready for that. I sent her to her room with dinner. Upstairs she continued raging. After collecting myself, I went up to talk to her. Hearing me coming, Megan dashed into the bathroom.

“What’s wrong?” I asked through the door.

“I hate you!”

“Why?”

“You treat me like a baby!”

“I don’t mean to do that. Can you please tell me what I do that makes you think I’m treating you like a baby?”

“You send me to my room when I’m screaming at you!”

“If you were a baby, Megan, you couldn’t be alone in your room. So that’s not a good example.”

“Once you gave me a snack on a plastic plate!”

I do avoid plastic even with the little kids. But occasionally it happens.

“The glass plates were all dirty. Everyone had a plastic plate that day. I wasn’t treating you like a baby.”

“You make me put away my own laundry! That’s treating me like a baby.”

“Really?” I’m looking for sense in that like a pork recipe in a vegan cookbook. It’s not going to happen. But after days of searching I can’t laugh it off.

Megan continues in a hostile state. She’s proud to reveal that she’s told everyone at school I’m the “meanest mother ever”. In the compassionate culture of Canada, the tale is likely to be believed. Understandably, foster children illicit a great deal of sympathy.

“What makes me the meanest mom?” I ask Megan.

“You help me brush my hair because I can’t always do it myself,” she venomously shouts.

“What else?”

“Sometimes you give me special treats like ice cream!”

“When was the last time I took you out for ice cream?”

“In the summer at the cottage.” She’s confident of the atrocities I’ve committed.

“Well, I won’t be doing that again.”

“And you better not give me any candy for Easter. I really shouldn’t have candy because it makes me hyper.”

Given that it’s March and the last time Megan had ice cream was August, you’d be right to assume I don’t give her much candy/special treats. Our diet is pretty pure. I make most things (with coconut sugar and organic whole wheat flour). I’ve even started making my own almond milk trying to keep the kids off dairy. Rest assured, Megan’s diet involves very little candy/special treats. Yet this is the charge she brings against me. From the outside looking in it’s laughable.

Her final admission is closer to the truth. “You take me on trips! I’m never going again! I’m going to rip up my passport!”

Later it comes out that Megan was deeply disturbed by the male border guard randomly checking car trunks while we waited to cross. Already afraid of leaving Canada, this was more than she could bear. A lengthy conversation ensued. I assured Megan she had nothing to worry about. My explanation of the situation seems to have snapped her out of the fear manifesting as anger. Happy, she goes off to play with the other kids. I’m left trying to make sense of it all. From what I know of Megan’s background a border guard/police presence shouldn’t have upset her. Me tracing the logical progression of thoughts/emotions is as likely as finding a pork recipe in a vegan cookbook. It’s a hard fact to accept. But I’m trying. Most of this job doesn’t make any sense at all – the system, the social workers, the birth parents, the kids. I’d like it to. That’s the flaw in my design. Sometimes I still need it to all make sense. But it can’t. Time to laugh at myself and move on.

*name changed for obvious reasons

In Reality

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I’m operating under a false pretence. The world at large sees me as a woman with so much patience. I’m not. Granted, I once was. But somewhere along the line it ran out. I persevere but without patience.

Three years into this adventure, I’m jaded. In a way, I suppose I’ve burned out. Reality has set in. Heart-warming holidays are beyond my grasp; at the moment using the washroom without being assailed by a barrage of voices is impossible. Simple trips to the park result in pandemonium. I won’t bore you with the unbearable stress of grocery shopping. My fists are clenched just writing out a list of what we need. Mellow-dramatic? No. It’s reality. Still in the midst of my depletion, I’ve taken on a fourth child.

I don’t like her much. Saying the Lord prompted me to accept the placement is true, yet it doesn’t make it easy. I’m praying the reward of obedience is the grace to see this through.

The world of special needs is not one I intentionally entered. “I could never do it” is what I always said. Then suddenly I was. And am. Raising four special needs children is going to be challenging. Three was enough. But the fourth needed to come here. She’d broken things down at her last home. There was nowhere else for her to go. That’s what got me here. My first child was out of options as well. The new addition reminds me a lot of Sabrina. Maybe she’ll blossom the same way. Not sure. I was a different person when Sabrina first came. Patience and confidence were core pillars of my personality. In addition, she was the only child in my home. She got so much attention, the control and insecurity subsided as much as it possibly can. It’s hard to convince a child who has gone hungry that they never will again. It’s happened. I can’t change that reality. But I can consistently put food on the table so they know, at least in my house, they don’t need to worry quite so much. Still there are other houses and other people. Sloane was immensely concerned about whether or not my sister would have food as we got ready for a two week visit. “Is there food for you and me?” was the question. Seems she’s been places where there isn’t. As a gesture of good faith, my sister sent cookies with my brother who picked us up from the airport. Thankfully Sloane is exceptionally articulate. The remaining three are not. Barrages of anger and tears are now met with frustration. I don’t want to figure out what it’s all about. “Just stop!” My command falls on deaf ears. It’s so complicated and convoluted. The issue is compounded by years of pain, suffering, injustice, and loss. It’s murky. I don’t have a solution. There’s no way to eradicate the truth of a lifetime – even a short one, as is the case with my 2yr old (surprise! After returning from my sister’s Sloane’s sister, Carley, joined our home). I’m tired. I’d just like to sit down and check my emails. Sabrina, I don’t care that Sloane took your play cell phone from the dollar store. You’re 16. Why do you even need a play cell phone? In the end the toy goes in the garbage. Sloane’s lost a few items that way. It only seemed ‘fair’.

There’s a prevailing need to grab onto things. Even imagined potential loss of possessions or food cause a hurricane of panic. In Sabrina’s mind it is the end of the world if Sloane plays with her phone and uses up all the batteries. It’s a toy. The batteries can be replaced. You’re 16. She’s 3. There’s no room for rationale. Certain items bring on bigger storms than others. The small ones I can talk them through. The big ones cause me to toss the item overboard. It’s quick. In no way painless for them or me, who has to hear the increased level of their screams. But that’s the point I’m at. It’s not the item itself, but a long chain leading back to some incident or someone somewhere. I can’t sort it out. Especially when Sabrina fails to make any sense at all. Eventually they’ll grab onto another item. It’s not a lesson learned. Yet it temporarily alleviates the problem. Once the storm’s begun, it’ll always rage around that particular item. Now it’s gone. I’ve initiated more loss, dealt another serving of injustice. This is the point I’m at.

Megan, my new addition, are you sure you know what you’re getting yourself into? Two weekends at my house made it seem so appealing. But the reality is something else.

After three years at her former home, Megan couldn’t pack her bags fast enough to get to my house. Tragic. At 10yrs of age, she’s significantly delayed. It’s not all giggles and hugs like you’d imagine. The cruelty dished out to these children comes back onto the ones who really love them and are trying to help. Sabrina ranting that she’d rather be dead than live in my house hurts after 3yrs of completely devoting myself to her. It didn’t hurt at first, but now it does.

Explaining the trials to people on the outside doesn’t convey the reality. Even in telling the stories, I can hear how insignificant it seems, “Carley really wanted to play outside while I was making dinner. She kept bringing me her shoes and the sunscreen.” Repeated “not now, later”’s resulted in her screaming the entire time and finally throwing the shoes at me. For a 2yr old with speech delays, she’s pretty quick in making her desires known. I’m failing to appreciate the miracle that she knows the necessary steps in getting to outdoor play. I just want to keep the rice from burning like it did last week.

A fellow foster parent and Christian once asked if I thought our faith made fostering easier. “Harder,” was my answer. There are so many spiritual factors and forces at war against the spirit of Christ in us. As a believer walking in a degree of healing and freedom, there are days I find it impossible. I’m not going to be dragged under by the spirit of worry Sabrina wants to saddle me with. I won’t play her game of “what if”. It builds a bond between us fuelled by a spirit of fear. “You will be fine.” “That’s not something you have to worry about.” At first we talked it all through, thinking it would elevate her fears. Instead they grew from one thing into another. We could spend all day dealing with imagined scenarios. Or we could get on with enjoying what’s good in this moment. I don’t want to live in fear or anger. Unfortunately I feel myself, at times, being drawn into that realm. Which is why, Megan, I’m concerned this may not go according to plan. Having done so well with Sabrina, the expectation is I can turn you around as well. God, this is where You need to move in. There isn’t anything in me to give. Yet You wanted me to take this on. So, here we go. Here we go.

Picture It

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Sloane arrived with one photograph – her and her sister in front of the Christmas tree at the last foster home. Sloane’s sister remains there, but she was too difficult for the family to manage which landed her at my house (the agency I work for exists for these cases). Day one I put the picture in a frame and sat it on her dresser.

It’s been confusing for her to understand the different mommies in her life. There’s her birth-mom, Becky, the lesbian couple she was with (“my two mommies” she calls them), and now me. To bring some degree of clarity, I prefer to have her call me by my first name. Recently the social worker asked Sloane her birth-mom’s name. The woman was surprised and frustrated that Sloane didn’t know. So, I’ve been working on the idea with her. It took a while – because “mommy’s name is mommy” – but she’s got it. Should birth-mom surface at any point, she likely won’t be happy that Sloane now refers to her as Becky. However, it will make things easier with the social worker.

Today Sloane asked a visiting child to write Becky’s name on the chalkboard. Again and again it was written and erased. Next Sloane asked her playmate to draw a picture of Becky on the chalkboard. Despite her best tries, the seven year old artist couldn’t get her commission quite right. “Becky is big!” Sloane kept shouting, “Make her big!”

I asked for details. Apparently Becky’s hair is short and pink. She has the same eyes as Sloane. It’s been four months since she’s seen her mom and six months since she was taken from her. At this point Becky’s not making any effort to come back into the picture. In fact she’s left the country. The social worker is having a difficult time reaching her to arrange court dates let alone visits. Sloane needs a picture. But it’s beyond my reach.

She’s not alone. Another foster child I know came into care at 2yrs. She’s not seen either of her parents since – by their own choice, not the agency’s. Now, at the age of 11, should she pass them on the street she’d never know. There isn’t even a picture for her to hold on to.

It’s an unusual request, but how about taking a picture of the parent(s) when a child is apprehended. It could be done without seeming like a mug shot. Even in temporary cases it would be of benefit, because, as in the 11yr old’s case, temporary sometimes becomes permanent. And in Sloane’s case six months is a long time without seeing your mother’s face. And chalkboard replicas just don’t cut it.