To adopt, or not to adopt... What exactly is the question?

Hubby and I are faced with what will likely be the most important decision of our adult lives: Whether or not we should adopt the two babies we’ve been fostering since January and February. Today, the birth mom told the caseworker that she is considering surrendering her rights. We think she’s pregnant again, which is why we think she’s considering surrendering—if she gets social services out of her life, she has a better shot at keeping number three.

Reasons aside, how do you know if you’re making the right decision? Hubby wants to sit down and do a pros and cons list, and have a conversation about it. I know we need to, but when I think about making this decision, all I want to do is cry. And I don’t know what that means.

I’ve always been a “gimme a sign” kind of girl. We have known without a doubt that we were supposed to adopt every other time we have, and I’ve been praying and hoping for the same clear signs this time, but so far, nothing. And I don’t know what that means.

When I think about the future with these babies—as little kids, as pre-teens, as teenagers, as young adults—and I see three very different paths. I see them with their bio mom. I see them with us. And I see them with someone else—usually, in all honesty, someone who looks more like them than we do. People younger. People less jaded.

I think of how hard it’s been with Marie and Dawn and Danae and Leigh, and I wonder what impact that has had on the babies, what impact it would have on them in the future. I know Leigh is a horrible influence, and that Danae would be devastated if we don’t adopt. And I still can’t decide.

I think of their beautiful big brown eyes and their faces smiling into someone else’s face and calling someone else mom. And I cry. Then I think about getting to pick them up and take them fun places on weekends as grandparents and I don’t cry as much.

I think of all the time I spend with them, that I spend doing for them, and wonder what I did before, and what I would do after, if they leave. I think about their bio mom crying, looking at the photo album we gave her and her saying, “They look so happy.” And I wonder if them being adopted by someone else would ruin the happiness we’ve worked so hard to help them find.

Will they remember us five years down the road? Ten years? Twenty years? Or will we be there with them, at our own retirement ages, as they graduate and go to college. I can’t decide which picture has the stronger pull, and I don’t know what that means. Or if it means anything at all.

Sometimes, I think the fact that I’m even struggling with this decision is a sign. But a sign to keep them or let them go? Are we being selfish to want to keep them? I know there are hundreds of young couples who are where Hubby and I were ten years ago—eager and breathless and full of hope and anticipation, waiting for the phone call that is the beginning of labor pains for them. But then I wonder if maybe the dark road we’ve traveled with our four older girls has been a test, and the babies are the reward.

Are we being selfish to consider letting them go? I miss my husband, and the marriage we had before we had kids. I miss spending time with him without kids around, and we have reached the light at the end of the tunnel with the older ones, and we starting to plan on what to do with the extra space in our empty nest. Plus, with Leigh being so completely special, we need more time with her. But what impact will it have on the babies if they leave us for another family? What impact will it have on the four who are already ours?

And what does it mean that I can’t answer a single question I’ve posted here? And that I don’t know what any of it means? And that I’m crying as I type, with no clearer perspective?

And I still don’t know which one would hurt less.

Weekly Wrap-up (sort of) July 11

I'm on vacation this week, and was able to leave a few days early, thanks to Hubby's successful juggling of the schedule, so here are some random tidbits from the week...

1.  Our caseworker was genuinely shocked that we wanted to take the babies with us on vacation.  Apparently, a great majority of foster families do not take their foster children on vacation with them when they go.  If you've read me for any length of time, you know what I think of THOSE people.

2.  We drove from 3 PM Wednesday to 6 PM Thursday.  We made it.  No one died.  Except the potato chips in the back seat.  From the crumbs left, I'm pretty sure it was a horrible death (that's where the teenagers were.)

3.  We're staying at my mom and step-dad's, near one of the Great Lakes. 

4.  That particular Great Lake is AMAZING to swim in.  Cold, but amazing.

5.  When you have a child (Danae) who will bait her own fishing hook, but will not take the fish off, what do you do?  And if you're the mom who refuses to do either, do you really have any moral ground to stand on?

6.  What do you call it when a fish whaps Leigh across the face as she's trying to remove it from the hook?  You got fish slapped!!

7.  Where we are, there just aren't many people other than the pale variety... a point that is driven home any time we go out in public.  My step-dad is oblivious to the stares, we're all used to them, but my mom was pretty shocked. She thought that poeple would look and then get on with life.  Eating out with us is an excercise in ignoring people gaping at our paleness and the dark cuteness that is our children. 

8.  Thank GodAllahBuddha for minivans, diet coke and laptop computers.

9.  Did you know a Bobble Head isn't just a cute, annoying little doll whose head moves back and forth?  It's now an insult of a type of person known for head bobbing behavior...  well hell. It's what you call people who give blow jobs.  Frequently. 

10.  Lesbian joke of the day:  My hubby and Danae were walking, and saw a boat for sale.  The boat's name is, I kid you not, the Hootchie Bobber.  Hubby told Danae she should buy it someday. She agreed, but that she'd have to change the name.  He said, "To what? The Cootchie Bobber?"  Oh yeah.  Gotta love my completely blunt kind of family.

11.  I'm supposed to meet up with an old HS buddy later this week.  I'm a little nervous--lots of reasons I guess, but the bottom line is that I'm not sure I want her kids to meet my teenagers.  It's that whole appropriateness thing--since I can't ever predict if they'll behave, I'm not sure I want them to go. At the same time, I want hubby to go, which means we take the babies, which doesn't bother me a bit.  They behave like they're supposed to.  The teens, not so much.

On my agenda this week...  more fishing. More swimming.  More hanging with Mom.  More attempting to convince MoMo that swimming is not evil.  More attempting to convince Danae that just because there are no black people here doesn't mean everyone around her doesn't like black people.  More attempting to convince Leigh to pull her $%^&* pants up because we DO NOT want to see her crack while she fishes. 

On the other hand, Hubby and I are on the same shift all week which is oh-so-wonderful.  I miss having him around. I hate second shift.

More later!

What a day, or why I have a lumpy forehead

From 4 PM until about 9:30, I had a really crappy day. At 4, we had a caseworker visit. This was our first of what are supposed to be monthly visits with our new caseworker. This is caseworker number 9 since January, and while we've never met in person, we've talked on the phone. She remembers me from Dawn's adoption, but I don't remember her. (And since January, she's only the second caseworker to do the home visit.) Caseworker visits are to make sure that A. the kids are alive and well. B. the home is reasonably safe. C. the home is reasonable clean and D. the chaos is at least contained. We chit-chat. It was going well. Then she asks to see the babies' room. We walk in, I yoink the cord to turn the light on, and the soccer ball-sized, thick glass globe from the light fixture falls off, bounces off my forehead, and lands in the laundry basket. While I'm holding NaNa. A friend of mine who dropped by, trying to be helpful said, "It knew you just finished the school year and that it was time to be dusted!" Yeah, that went well. There's an imprint of the globe's striped pattern on my forehead and a large lump. And it's 11:08 PM and I still have a headache. Ugh. So then, there was in-home therapy at 6:15 PM--our first home visit with our third therapist since October. Today, I asked Danae to keep the babies in her room, while I worked with the therapist and Leigh, since this is court ordered for Leigh. Five minutes into our session, my phone starts ringing. I kill the sound and ignore it. Then the house phone rings, so I kill the phone again. We're in therapy here, people! Stop calling. And the only people who would do that would be one of my children, my husband or my brother. It was Danae, calling from her bedroom. She wants me to bring her a drink. But I don't know this until she stomps into the kitchen, slings open the the fridge and grabs a drink, pausing only to say in that level of sarcasm that only teens can exude, "Thanks so much for answering the phone, Mom." We're. In. Therapy. DUH!! One does NOT answer the phone while in THERAPY! After the therapist leaves, I ask Danae what her malfunction is. Her: She'd only been there five minutes, and it's not therapy for you anyway. Besides, the baby could have been choking and died and you wouldn't know it because you didn't answer the phone. Me: I'm pretty sure you'd have been yelling. Her: Whatever mom. Wait! Is that a win for me? I think it is!!! YYYYYEEEEEESSSSSSSSS!!! Point for me! Lumpy forehead and all!!

Panel Review

Panel review was today. Definition: Group of citizens who volunteer to work along with a judge to evaluate placements and progress of kids and their bioparents in the foster care system. They also look at how the foster parents and foster families are holding up under the stress of fostering. Three people, bio-mom, the judge, two caseworkers, Hubby, the babies and my very observant Danae, sitting around a large conference table. Talking about progress. Or in this case, lack thereof. Mom says that she's finished rehab, but has no proof, and after the panel, tested positive for pot. She has a place to live-- in section 8 housing, illegally with a friend of a friend. When asked about a support system, and if the lady she is living with could be one, she replied, "I don't know her like that." She started looking for a job Friday. Five months after she lost her kids. One of the panel members asked her if she's dating. She said she has a boyfriend. The judge asked if she's sexually active. She said yes. On birth control? No. Do you want to have another baby? Not until I get my first two back. The judge very firmly told her she'd better not come back to panel review in October pregnant. The civil rights part of me wonders if that's even legal, but the practical foster mom side of me wonders if I could sneak up behind her and accidently give her a Depo shot. I'm moving my mark from "feels sorry for mom" to "what the hell?"

No Shows

So at about 4:15 this afternoon, as I'm getting ready to have the hair color rinsed from my head, the day care calls to tell me that the caseworker never showed up to pick up the babies for BioMaMa visit today. I am upset by this. First, why is it that no one bothered to tell me until NOW that the babies--who were supposed to be picked up at 2 PM--were still there.

Second, what the heck is happening?

I never delete a phone number from my phone. If you call or text me, consider it saved. Forever.

That being said, I have saved several numbers of random caseworkers over the years. There are a very few caseworkers who answer their phones. Knowing who they are is helpful, especially because social services didn't spring for caller ID.

I called the first such one to find out who our caseworker du jour is. (The babies have had NINE since January. And her last day is next Friday.)

All foster homes are supposed to be assigned to a caseworker to monitor their "home." "Home" meaning certifications, placements, stipends, etc. I don't know the last time we had one of those.

Anyway, I called my go-to phone-answerer to find out who to talk to about the complete lack of communication today.

Her very honest answer is, "I don't know. We have so few people working here right now that no one really knows who's doing what." (Thanks to furlough days, crazy caseloads, low pay and a hiring freeze.)

So I called the assistant director.

She actually knew what was going on. BioMaMa has not checked in and no one could confirm that she'd be there, so they didn't pick up the babies. And then she didn't show up for the visit, so it was just as well. For them.

I had my wonderful former student/professional hair stylist, rinse me off and send me out the door with wet hair, so I could go get the babies, and still make the rest of the day. Hair Stylist was horrified that I had to leave unstyled, which is proof that teenagers do grow up, because I can't remember her ever finishing an assignment when she was my student. Everything takes longer with babies, so the rest of my day has bitten something smelly, and left me wondering.

I wonder what would have happened had I been across town at 6 PM as planned, when the day care called to find out why I hadn't picked them up?

Luckily, I was running late, and was still nearby. Since social services decided that we shouldn't drive them to and from visitation, I try to cram as much into that three hour block as possible.

Luckily, the day care director realized that the girls were still there and called me.

Luckily for all of them I was too tired to really get my grouch on.

(Side note--we offered to drive the babies to and from visits, but this didn't help justify someone's job so they told us they'd handle it. I know. I *know.* Don't get me started on another sidebar.)

Birth Family Drama

Once upon a time, there was an exuberant young couple who were in the throes of their very first adoption, when they heard their soon-to-be-daughter had three sisters who were also somewhere in the foster care system.

At that knowledge, they set off on a quest to find them, and if at all possible, add them to their family.

It was not to be, at least not then.

The youngest, Bethany, had already been adopted.  This is confusing, but bear with me.  Bethany was adopted by her biological father's grandparents.  Her biological father, and his teenage son by another woman, were two of the men who molested and abused the other three girls. Awkward? 

The two oldest, Selena and Danae, were living with a biological great, great-aunt (hereafter referred to as GGA).  We were able to make contact with both families, but not until after we'd written impassioned letters asking a variety of social service agencies to help us bring the sisters back together. 

We were told by one of the caseworkers, prior to meeting GGA, that GGA only wanted to adopt Danae, that she didn't think she could handle Selena.  Then we met GGA, and she told us she was waffling back and forth about the situation.  She didn't want their bio mom to know she had them, and didn't want to hurt them any more than they already had been, but at her age, then 55, she didn't know if she could parent a set of 8 and 9 year-old sisters.

We told GGA that we'd asked Social Services if we could adopt all of them before we'd met her, but that we'd stopped asking when we found out that they'd all been placed for adoption.  Which was true.  At that point, we wanted the girls to be able to stay in touch--letters, phone calls, and "meet us halfway" trips across the state every month or so. 

I should have heard the warning bells go off when she said, "I don't even see my own children that often."

But I didn't.  Then they had a court appearance, at which time GGA had to sign paperwork declaring her intent to adopt both girls.  She said she wanted Danae, but couldn't keep Selena. 

Social worker and judge said, "Adopt them both, or they both go to Cappuccino's family."

That would be reason number 1 that she hates us. 

The second reason came about four years later, when she called out of the blue and wanted to come visit.  She stayed in a hotel, and let the girls stay with us. 

The girls told us about their new caseworkers...  New abuse issues: physical and sexual.  GGA had been crazy beating the girls, while GGU, her hubby, apparantly really liked the fact that they were sprouting girl parts.  They shared some details with us.

I was horrified.  And backed into my own little corner. 

As a teacher, I have no choice. I am a mandated reporter.  So I called Social Services in their county and asked to speak to their caseworker.  And guess what, they'd told me way more than they'd told the caseworker. 

And when they pulled into their driveway after they left their visit with us, a deputy sheriff, case worker and custody order was waiting for them.

And back into foster care they went. GGA called me and proceeded to call me everything but a white girl.

Reason number 2 she hates us.

After monthly calls to social services to try to get sister visitation for Leigh over the next six months, social services threatened us with a restraining order (I still don't see how a once per month phone call to request visitation, or at least a return call from a caseworker, constitutes stalking, but they have the courts and guys with guns on their side.  So I stopped calling.

Three years later, Danae found me on MySpace.  I found out that Selena had gone back to GGA, but that she had refused and was in a group home because there were no foster homes available where she was that would take teens. 

So I called Social Services again to see about visitation. They asked if we wanted her.  This was July of 2008.  Danae moved in with us in January of 2009, and we finalized her adoption in November of 2009. 

Reason number 3.

Now, all that to get to the point at hand:  Selena graduates from high school Memorial Day weekend, in a small town outside of Atlanta.  And (please, please, please GodAllahBuddha, don't let it rain on Saturday!) we'll all be there, because it is an open ceremony. If it rains, we'll have to have tickets, which is a whole other mess, but I have to believe that the Powers That Be would not do that to Danae and Selena, who have only had sporadic contact since their separation in 2008.

(We made plans for them to see each other over Christmas of 2009, we drove the four hours, and GGA canceled.  She was tired and didn't want to leave the house for the ten minute drive to the public venue we'd negotiated.  So we showed up at her house so Danae could give Selena her gifts and at least hug her. GGA was not pleased.)

Needless to say, GGA is VERY not pleased that we'll be at graduation.  I've thought about calling her, but I know it would do no good. 

My heart is hurting in advance, because Danae and Leigh want Selena to hang out with us all weekend, and I know damn good and well that GGA will not let that happen, not even a little bit.

Selena is 17, and does not turn 18 until August 1.  She has not been allowed to get a driver's license or learner's permit.  She has a cell phone that GGA occasionally lets her use, but freaks out if she sees that she's talked to Danae.  Selena has been told that she will only get to go to college if GGA drives her there every day. (Granted, all that is filtered through Danae, but I suspect that there is more truth than fiction there.)

At any rate, Memorial Day Weekend will be VERY memorable...  the question is, for what?

Shopping, Parenting and Racism

So there I was, standing in line at Hot Topic, patiently explaining to MoMo that she could get down and play after we left the store, when she hauled off and slapped me.  On the cheek.  Hard. On purpose. 

Up to that point, I didn't know toddlers did that.

Now, because MoMo is a foster child,  we can't use any physical discipline. At all.  So, I grabbed her hands, held them still, and told her, "Bad MoMo. No hitting. Bad girl."

The man in line in front of us turned around, glared at me, and said, "You can't talk to that baby like that!"

I was shocked. I've never jumped in on people and their kids, even when they desperately cried out for it.  And to have someone call me on it when I thought I was handling things pretty well shocked the shit out of me.

I responded, "Number one, not your concern. Number two, what do you want me to do, punch her?" And then I stared at him, daring me to say something else.

He got so flustered, he dropped his stuff on the counter, and stomped out of the store.

The clerk grinned. "Good for you!  I think you handled that just fine!"

Before I ask my questions, remember that I'm white and MoMo is a beautiful milk chocolate color.

Here are my questions:

1. Would the man have said anything if MoMo and I were the same race?
2. Would he have said anything if he and MoMo weren't both black?
3. Was he just being a general Mr. Buttinski, and I'm just being too sensitive?
4. Is the world really still that bassackward?