The First Five Years

Five years.  Twenty-something foster children. Many parents, grandparents, a few aunts and even fewer uncles.  Eight social workers (maybe more, maybe less), three supervisors, three CASA volunteers, two GALs, four judges, three police officers, one Kentucky State Trooper, and an R&C worker.  Fifteen hours of initial training, ten hours continuing training every year thereafter.  Four organizations that support foster parents. 

A seventeen-year-old who was about to age out of the system with no plan for his future, nor with a care in the world.  A fifteen-year-old that broke my heart, not once, but twice.  A six-week-old baby who wouldn’t stop trembling.  A six-day old baby that was so little, he fit in the palm of my hand.  Two seven-year-olds that wouldn’t stop eating that first week.  A three-year-old who looked me in the eyes, held my face with her little hands, and asked “are you my Daddy?”  An eight-year-old  (or was it a nine-year-old?) who said, “I feel safe here.”  A two-year-old who held my finger (and my heart) and said “Wuv you Popsch.”  A boy who said, “I like it here; I have a bed to sleep on.”  A teenager who didn’t speak English. 

Too many diapers.  Too many toddler tantrums.  Too many phone calls in the night.  Too many we’re full, we can’t take them.  Too many doctors’ appointments. Too many trips to the hospital. Too many sleepless nights remembering the little ones who went back home, and the little ones who went to the next placement.  Too many answers that don’t quite answer the question.  Too many explanations that don’t ease a child’s pain.

So many smiles.  So much joy.  So much love.  So many “Pops is home.”  So much playtime. So many tears when goodbye comes.  So much relief when we hear that reunification is going well. 

I could tell you more, much more, about being a foster parent.  About the jolt of energy when we get the call and a new placement is on the way.  About the struggle of visits.  About the parents we were able to partner with and help them on their path to reunification.  About the parents who just couldn’t get a grip on their struggles and the pain we felt for them.  About the stipend that doesn’t ever quite seem to cover the costs of diapers and clothes and shoes and on and on and on. 

What I want to tell you is this:  it’s worth it.  Every struggle, every fear, every heartache, every tear, every penny spent is worth it.  When you see a former foster child with their parents, happy and loved, it’s worth it.  When you see that child and they run up to you and hug you and cry out “Pops, it’s you!”  It’s worth it.  You see, my heartache doesn’t matter.  My sacrifices don’t count.  What counts is that a child is safe.  A child is loved.  A child is taken care of while mom and dad get the help that they need to become the parents they need to be.  That’s what matters, and it’s worth it. 

It’s easy to sit back and complain about a broken system (parts of it does seem to be broken).  It’s easy to sit back and talk about awful foster parents who are only in it for the money (I've never met one of those).  It’s easy to sit back and complain about social workers who are corrupt and evil (never met one of those either).  Talk is cheap.  Become part of the solution.  Become a foster parent.  Get involved.  Touch a child’s life and let that child become a part of yours.  You can get started here.