I network. During my days as a bartender, my seats were filled. When in sales, my quotas were hit and my regulars called me for new memberships. So it just seemed natural that I would do the same as a child advocate. I made myself know. I am found on websites and have even filmed an advertisement with my family for our local foster agency. It’s what I do. It’s not unusual for workers to reach out searching for homes for the children on their caseload and it was very common for me to reach out in assisting these workers. It was a networking situation that would lead me to Miss A and would change my perspective of foster care and myself forever.
A young woman was in trouble. She was 17 and currently living in a residential facility and in one year, she would age out of foster care. Alone. Without a family. And pregnant.
We live in a pretty large house. My oldest son was mostly living away at school and my baby was still sleeping in our room. We basically had an extra room and we had tons of room left in the basement. All we had to do was raise money to build another window and add a second bedroom downstairs. In the meantime, she could sleep upstairs in the extra room, while my daughter E temporarily bunked with my younger two daughters. Again, our house is large enough and the rooms are big enough and well how could we not do this?
I was a young single mom with my oldest son. I was over the moon with the idea of giving back and helping her get on her feet. She wanted to be adopted and I found myself romanticizing about being a grandmother. My sister was a Grammy. I could do this. I could really do this.
Once, my husband and I talked and agreed to throw caution to the wind, we started to make arrangements. We prepared our coming home book for Miss A and we excitedly told our children. A baby. A new baby. How exciting. A daughter , a new daughter. Me a Grandma? Wow.
So the process began. My husband and I met with social workers. Together we read case files. There were red flags all around us. We pushed passed them. Blinding our eyes to the diagnosis and letting therapists and workers smooth us over with explanations and encouragement.
I should have known better. I should have been realistic and I should have been humble. Instead I chose to be an asshole. I chose to be so self-indulgent and full of myself that I didn’t see my real self. The one who was not prepared. The one that had enough on my plate. The one that was in over her head. Hindsight.
So, the day came when we would meet Miss A, our newest family member. We were so excited. The plan was to meet at the museum and get acquainted. We were as nervous as we have been with all of our “first dates” that we shared with our children. I had only been given her name, ethnicity and age. I had no idea what she looked like and yet I was in love. In love with the idea of her. In love with the idea of us. In love with the happy ever after that I thought I had power over.
I was a bucket of sweat and nerves when she walked in the door. Her eyes were the first thing that I noticed. You could look into Miss A’s eyes and see her soul. They were big and round and beautiful Somalian eyes. Those were incredibly sad eyes. She gave us a nervous smile as she approached. She quickly embraced us. Almost too quickly. Introductions were made and we made some awkward small talk. She was about 6 months along at this point and carried her baby like a basketball tucked neatly under her shirt. She was graceful and held herself in a fashion much more mature than most 17 year olds that I know. She had obviously grown up fast. Almost a little too fast.
The day went well. We talked and got familiar with each other. Miss A had brought a picture of her ultrasound and was excited to tell us that she would be having a boy. She had shared her artwork with us. Miss A has an amazing artistic ability. I cherished the piece that she provided me; a sketch of her contemplating the future. We shared our coming home book filled with pictures and information regarding our family and our community.
Finally the day would have to end. This is always hard. We were in love with her already and hated to think of her going back to the residential facility as we drove back to our warm home. We looked forward to our next visit and hugged as we parted. We drove home giggling and planning like two giddy school children. This is the high that fostering and adopt parents feel. Runners have their euphoria and so do we. Unfortunately, there is only one first date and only one first high. That I have come to accept.
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