Fostering: A Memoir of Courage and Hope

Disclaimer: This book contains adult content, including sexual violence, domestic abuse, and graphic language. Names and personal information throughout this book have been altered to protect the privacy of those involved.

PA R T I

BEGINNINGS

CHAPTER 1

THE CALL

It was 2020. Almost a year had gone by since we had gotten approved as foster parents, and suddenly Julianna called.

I was at a work conference call, and without even apologizing, I interrupted my coworker: “I have to get this. My foster care agency is calling!”

I didn’t even let them respond and put myself on mute while they signaled it was okay to go, as if their approval was even registering in my mind.

At that precise second, I couldn’t care less. It wouldn’t have mattered if they would have said, “Hold on one second; the CEO wants to talk with you.” All my attention was on the caller ID, fearing it would go to voicemail and we would lose the opportunity to bring a child home.

Because it had already happened. And it happens all the time. If you don’t respond right away, you could lose the chance to change your life forever. It’s intense. It’s a first-come, first-served type of situation, but with people’s lives!

This is how it works: The county social worker usually calls or emails their direct contact list and the agencies and shares a small paragraph about the child. It’s sad to think a few lines are intended to describe the essence of that kid, basically “sold” in one sentence. The agency in turn will look at their available foster parents and email or call them. If you don’t answer, they go on to the next one on the list and the next one until someone responds. The county’s goal at that time of crisis is to place that child. And if more than one person responds, they pick the “best candidate.” It sounds extremely impersonal because it is. It’s like speed dating.

A few months back, after a few failed calls, we got a request for a ten-year-old girl named Valerie, “concurrent” it read, “quiet and good-tempered.” “She has an Individual Education Plan (IEP) at school, and is doing well,” they added. I had no idea what “concurrent” meant. I didn’t remember that term from our training. But the training had been so overwhelming who knows; maybe we had a full two-hour session about it, and I simply forgot.

“What does ‘concurrent’ mean again, Julianna?” I asked. All this terminology was so confusing.

“Concurrent to adopt means she is already or may be open for adoption soon, and you need to be willing to adopt,” she answered.

I remembered. We had a few hours of training focused on adoption and its process. Concurrent was used when the biological family had lost their parental rights or when it was likely the judge would terminate their rights soon so the child was—or would be—open for adoption. And by “soon,” it could be months or years, as the family could appeal and the process could be delayed. It was always unknown.

Foster to adopt? I had not even thought about that possibility. We were in favor of reunification, and Steve and I hadn’t talked about adoption since our first date, not even during our foster parent certification process the prior year.

At that second, we were forced to reconsider, and we both felt compelled to say yes. It feels unreal now. But we did—in one phone call that lasted maybe five minutes.

It felt right, despite the potential educational delays and not knowing how she was going to interact with us at home. We didn’t want to lose our chance. I don’t know why, but at that moment it felt like it could be our only chance.

That night we told our kids a ten-year-old girl was going to come the next day. Her name was Valerie, and she could potentially stay with us a long time, maybe forever, maybe not. We didn’t know. The kids asked all the questions you would usually expect: “What’s she like?” “What does she look like?” “Where are her parents?” “What grade is she in?” and “Does she know how to play video games?” We couldn’t answer anything, but we had instantly fallen in love, the same love we had when I found out I was pregnant. We were excited and nervous. Simultaneously, we were aware of the terrible loss she had suffered if she was available for adoption.

We got ready to pick her up the next day, and it fell through.

Julianna called and shared we had not been selected. I was shocked. We had accepted all the unknown conditions, including the possibility to adopt right on the spot.

I couldn’t believe it.

The only thing we asked was if we could change her to our school district. We couldn’t drive her to a different town at the same time we had to drop off our two kids. Julianna thought it wasn’t an issue, but she was going to talk with the county social worker, who was the ultimate decision-maker. “She is doing so well with her current IEP they don’t want her to change schools,” Julianna explained.

We understood. Getting an IEP to a point where it works for a child can take a lot of time and effort from all parties. It’s another move for her, away from her new support system.

Yet, my heart broke a bit.

I found out later you could ask for help, for someone to drive the kids back and forth to their appointments or their schools. I learned the county approved volunteers who would do this if the foster family has scheduling conflicts. We didn’t know this was an option.

Over a month went by after Valerie, and we hadn’t received any calls. Although my mind was saying that’s a good thing, I was filled with insecurities. Why didn’t they offer a driver if one was available? Are we not suitable to do this?

They rarely give you an explanation on why we didn’t get “the job,” so I decided to call Julianna. One of her roles at our agency is to review the incoming requests from the county and determine which of the foster parents could be a good fit. “Julianna, could I please get feedback on why we didn’t get Valerie? Is there something we could be doing better?”

There wasn’t a particular reason.

With 250,000 new children needing homes every year, across all ages, I struggled to reconcile why there weren’t an abundance of calls (AFCARS, 2020).

I realized the more restrictive your requirements are, the more difficult it is to get a placement. We thought we were very open; we signed up for only one girl around Gema’s age— who was seven at the time—with no race, sexual orientation, or religious background restriction. It turns out this is very limiting because about two-thirds of the kids in foster care have a sibling who is also in the system, and it is ideal to keep them together (Adopt us Kids, 2021).

If you are not open to sibling groups, to kids with dis- abilities, to those with sexual abuse history, or if you simply limit the ages or race, it’s more challenging. Our foster agency, which operates as our lawyer, tries not to call us if the kids are not close to what we signed up for. It was almost a year since we had been approved as a foster family, and we had gotten very few calls.

While we waited for a stable placement, we decided to open ourselves to do respite. Respite is when a foster child is placed with another approved caregiver for a short period of time, usually less than seventy-two hours, as requested by the child’s current foster family (California Department of Social Services, 2021). Respite is a great way to help without a long-term commitment.

A few weeks went by, and I called our main social worker Shonna to ask if there was something “wrong” with us. She explained 2020 was an unusual year because of the pandemic, which was unfortunately detrimental to foster kids in several ways. In some cases, biological parents saw less of their kids as visits had gone virtual, and mental health services and court hearings were delayed. In some states, there was an influx of foster placements, but foster parents were concerned with taking kids exposed to the virus.

Mandated reporters, professionals who interact with children such as teachers or doctors, submit about 70 percent of the reports of neglect or abuse (Child Maltreatment Report, 2019). With the country in a pandemic lockdown, these professionals weren’t seeing kids with the same frequency, so the number of reports had diminished.

It was becoming evident the lack of calls didn’t imply abuse or neglect wasn’t happening. Denise Mann explains in a 2021 US News article “Study: Child Abuse Rose During COVID Pandemic” school-aged children’s physical abuse tripled in the pandemic. It makes sense: higher stressors, children locked down at home with no one to see them or speak on behalf of them until it was too late, and a system not prepared to support them during these times.

How devastating!

In the meantime, foster parents like us, available to help, weren’t receiving calls.

It’s terrible to admit, but when Julianna called this time, my heart started racing and I felt the butterflies. This is the duality of fostering: You get excited when you get a call, and you also feel extremely guilty for those butterflies since you know that child has gone through a terrible ordeal to be in foster care.

“Hi there, I think we finally found the right one. She needs a home for about four months. She has weekly visits with her mom and separate weekly visits with her dad, and the placement is not concurrent.”

“Not concurrent? Just to be clear, she’s not up for adoption?” I was automatically relieved I didn’t have to make a life-changing decision at that second.

“Not at this time. Let me read you a bit of her description: ‘Five-year-old girl. Loves to sing, dance, and color, likes to help around the house, folds laundry, is very active and energetic. She is a bit defiant at times.’ She will be six next month.”

That’s much more information than we’ve ever gotten!

More butterflies… my heart was racing even faster. The memory of meeting six-year-old Anya, my stepdaughter, rushed into my mind.

Steve invited me to his house to meet his kids for our second date. Despite our amazing first conversation when we shared our dreams, I had doubts about dating someone with four children. I wasn’t prepared for that type of commitment. But somehow Anya changed everything in an instant.

Lacking what my grandma thought was common sense, I drove an hour to his town, found his apartment, and parked almost a block away. Steve was outside playing ball with them, and they seemed to be having a blast.

I hadn’t even finished parking, and this little one simply stopped playing, walked a few feet, and looked at me intensely. She was simply adorable, cute as could be. Her brown hair came to just above her shoulders, and she was wearing a striped pink and blue shirt and mismatched aqua leggings. I looked at her, she looked at me, and out of the blue, she gifted me with the most beautiful smile. The sky was cloudy that day, everything was gray and gloomy, but I could swear the sun came out just as she smiled. And those butterflies came rushing out of my heart. At that precise moment, I knew without an ounce of doubt we were going to be in each other’s lives forever.

And that’s how I felt right then, with Julianna’s call, listening about this five-year-old girl needing a home. The same butterflies I felt with Anya. Like it was meant to be.

“One second Julianna. Let me call Steve.”

I’m so glad I was on mute because the whole neighborhood heard my scream; I would have burst Julianna’s eardrums.

“STEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEVE, STEEEEEEEEEEEEEVE, come over. It’s the agency on the phone!”

Steve came running upstairs, and I’m still not sure if his face was showing excitement because he heard me saying it was the social worker or if he was concerned someone was being murdered by the way I was screaming. His expression was impossible to read.

Either way, Julianna didn’t have to wait long.

Unmute.

“Julianna, could you please repeat everything you said?” If she was annoyed about repeating herself, I couldn’t tell.

She had the patience of a saint.

And while Julianna started over, I muted the cell again and without taking a breath, I started rambling over at warp speed.

“She’s five. We will have her for more or less four months, but who knows.” I went on without letting space for any interruption. “She’s perfect. She likes to paint, and she sings, and she dances. She will be perfect for Gema; they have so much in common. She is a little bit defiant, but what five- year-old isn’t? She will fit right in. If she gets reunified, maybe we can stay in touch. Maybe she won’t and we can adopt her. I’m getting ahead of myself. If you don’t say yes, I don’t think we will get another call. We have to say yes. Ask her when we can pick her up. We need to tell the kids, call the kids! No, no, no. Don’t call them. Let’s wait. Let’s tell the kids when we know for sure. Do you think the kids will be excited?” I paused. I had to breathe.

Damn breathing. Why can’t we just go ahead and say everything we need to say without our lungs having to adapt so fast to keep up with our emotions?

I don’t think Steve heard much of either one of us, but Julianna asked, “Are you guys open to it? Should I call the county worker and say yes?”

I looked at Steve anxiously. Behind him, there was my bookshelf, and my eyes somehow found the Merriam-Webster dictionary. The golden font had faded, but the red, that velvety red, stared at me. I used to play a game with my grandma when I was little. We used to look up words randomly in that dictionary and their definitions.

Steve looked at me and smiled. I unmuted, trying to sound calm. In unison, we exclaimed, “YES!”

Courage

Noun

cour·age | \ ˈkər-ij , ˈkə-rij \

Definition of courage: mental or moral strength to venture, persevere, and withstand danger, fear, or difficulty. (Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary)