We had court for Sprout this past week. It was her routine permanency hearing, which happens every 6 months. The issue of guardianship versus adoption came up in the midst of the court proceeding.
The attorney for the child brought up that we have been considering guardianship as opposed to adoption, and the judge nodded along and agreed that that was a good route. I had to interrupt the proceedings and state that we had consulted with an attorney who had informed us that it was not legally possible for us to pursue guardianship. I explained that there was a statute prohibiting us from filing a custody petition because we are foster parents. Then I explained that there is another statute that prevents us from being deemed kin because we met Sprout when she was placed with us as a foster child.
There was a bunch of murmuring and confusion. Then the county attorney chimed in that his understanding was the same as ours, and that it is not legally possible for us to pursue guardianship. I’m so glad someone else there was aware of the legal limitations!
It’s astonishing to me that this doesn’t come up more often such that everyone in the room would be aware of these legal limitations. I’ve read the statutes and they are absolutely clear and not confusing at all. It’s black and white.
I wish I could reform the system. If I ruled the world, it would be possible for foster parents to file a custody petition 1) after the child had been with them at least a year, 2) with the consent of the biological parents, and 3) with the consent of the attorney for the child. It seems to me like those are sufficient controls to prevent abuse in the form of foster parents filing custody petitions.
Alas. I do not run the world. I don’t even run my household. The spouse, kids, and cats do that! Ha!
If I ran the world I would also stop the revision of birth certificates at time of adoption, at least for kids who are coming out of foster care where the birth parents’ identities are already known by all involved. It should be that way for all kids honestly, if we start focusing on the rights and experiences of the adoptees instead of the adults. Which we should.
I know, once they’re 18 in New York they can apply for their original birth certificate if their parents have signed up for a registry that makes them findable. But for Sprout with her non-English speaking Mom who can’t navigate computers, how is she going to sign up for that registry? I’m so worried Sprout will lose her original birth certificate for good, even though ALL involved already know who her birth Mom and Dad are. It’s a bit absurd. Maybe Sprout will be one of those adoptees who doesn’t particularly care about her original birth certificate because she’ll already have a relationship with her Mom. But I can tell you that if I were an adoptee, I’d want that thing telling the truth in black and white in my possession.
Now that we are talking about my ruling the world, there would also be a ton more funding for foster care! We seriously need to pay caseworkers more and hire more caseworkers. If there were more money for caseworkers we could be more discriminating with regard to their quality. And if there were more caseworkers there would be less turnover and more experience among the working caseworkers. This seems like such simple math to me, but everyone here seems to want to cut the budget for foster care every succeeding year.
While I’m at it, foster families are paid a pittance – unless they are denying the child basic necessities they are not making money off of being foster parents. Foster parents should be paid enough to cover the basic expenses of raising a child.
Would that lead to more people being foster parents for the money? Maybe. This is where things get dicey and I need more data. I genuinely believe no one should be prohibited from being a foster parent because of the cost of raising the foster child. But I don’t want the system being abused more than it already is. I’m not sure what the solution is. If I ran the world, there would be some studies done about the quality of the foster care being provided to kids, correlated with the amount of money that is being paid to those foster homes. I haven’t been able to find any data on that. If there are any data out there, pop a link below in the comments! I’d love to know more.
A little over a month ago I posted a general update about my health, and all the myriad things I have going on with it. I’ve made progress on a few things, had a few setbacks, and I’m slogging away at others.
The Ankle I Did In
Let’s start with foot and ankle surgery. I had it done on April 5. The surgery itself went great according to my MD’s notes. He’s very optimistic about a full recovery. So yay!
The nurse who was with me in recovery from anesthesia noted, however, that I had an itsy-bitsy problem with continuing to breathe during the surgery. I guess I kind of freaked some people out. Apparently my asthma kicked into high gear during anesthesia. I’ve had asthma since I was a kid but it’s extremely mild and I never really have issues with it so I’m surprised it cropped up. I woke up with a rescue inhaler on my bedside table and feeling wheezy.
The actual recovery from the surgery itself is pure suckage. I went three weeks in a splint with no weight on my foot at all.
My pretty splint.
They then told me I could start walking in a fancy new boot.
Snazzy, no?
Attractive though it is, it is not giving me miraculous walking powers. I’m still on crutches, and using them for about half my weight, and using a knee scooter to get around the house to avoid having to deal with crutches all the time. I’m sure I’d be doing better if I weighed less – I’m trying to put significant lbs on it. I’m pretty miserable honestly, because I can’t do anything around the house. I have ADHD, and can’t get up and pick up the house and clean and organize and do all the usual things I do to address my urge to move. Frankly, I’m downright cranky. Am I making progress? Surely I am. I can go a little further now walking with the crutches than I could a week ago. But this recovery process ain’t a picnic. Or maybe it is a picnic, but one with mosquitoes and ants and bad food and a sudden downpour.
Want a look at the gruesome Frankenstein’s monster foot? Be warned it’s gross!
I took this after they had removed half the staples. Pretty, no? I also have three other major seams that were stitched, on my heel and the back of my leg and the other side of my foot.
Anyway, I have about four more weeks left in this boot. Or rather a boot, since I need to have this one replaced because it is defective. It is most of the time refusing to hold air, and although I already went back once to have it checked and they got it working, it has since failed again. They will have to warrantee the thing and get me a new boot which I will have to break in all over again. At least it will smell fresh, which this current one does not! TMI?
Creaky Joints
Moving on to my psoriatic arthritis, I started Humira on the 15th of April. The first thing it did was knock me flat out for two days. Legit. I slept for 2 days straight. Then I felt amazing! I had more energy and less pain by the end of the 2 weeks when I was due for another shot. Then I was knocked flat out again for another 2 days. And so on.
Buuuut like with all things in life, my feeling great has a catch, and that’s that I’ve developed pitting edema in my hands and feet. I expected it in the foot I had surgery on so I’m excluding that, but hot diggety, my other foot is so swollen I have sock lines where it’s digging into my ankle, and none of my shoes fit except one poor overworked New Balance sneaker because they run wide. My fingers and toes are sausagey. I broke down and called my rheumatologist today, and she said that it’s a rare side effect of Humira and that only about 5% of people have it, but that it can be serious, and tends not to go away like most other side effects. She’s taking me off it and switching me to Enbrel.
Soooo now I have to let the Humira ebb from my system and wait two weeks to de-puff then start weekly injections of Enbrel. It’s a similar drug so hopefully will work like Humira was showing signs of doing, but without the sausage toes and fingers. And maybe without the extreme two day fatigue after each injection?
My ear
I put off ear surgery until I’m more recovered from foot surgery so that will be done down the road. Getting there on crutches is too much of a pain in the butt and back and heel and armpits right now.
Depression, a.k.a. I love Pharma
I had also written about how my depression had kicked back in after about two years of remission on Effexor. I made the titrated exchange between Effexor and Cymbalta in the month of April, and it was completely effective! Mind you, I’m still cranky about my foot pain, irritable about my Humira failed experiment, and generally a grouch. But I’m not depressed! Hip hip hooray!
ASD
Since learning that I have autism, I have also noticed that some things that I have previously identified as anxiety are actually autism irritability. This feels like a huge breakthrough for me.
For example, the other morning I ordered breakfast from Grubhub, and after about two hours of back and forth with them I finally gave up on its ever arriving. By then I was hangry. Sprout was super whiny that morning for no apparent reason. And I was having a hot flash. I stood in front of my stove and what initially felt like anxiety skyrocketed. But I thought about it for a minute and realized I was completely overstimulated, between the hunger, the whining in my ears, the clinging to my ankles, and the damn hot flash.
I took a few deep breaths. Thankfully it was time to get Sprout on the bus so I did that. Then I ate food. Then I cocooned myself on my futon (I still can’t sleep upstairs in my bed because of my foot) in a soft blanket with noise canceling earmuffs for a while. Voila! No anxiety rescue meds needed. It was never anxiety at all in fact. It was sheer overstimulation, with gnawing hunger, extreme kid frustration, and a bleeping hot flash all rolled into one.
I’ve had a lot of incidents like that, and I’m absolutely fascinated by it. Do I have anxiety issues? Yes, I do. But I think they are largely controlled by my antidepressants. What’s left is occasionally anxiety when my routine is disrupted, and autism irritability around overstimulation. Does it help me to know why I am cranky? Yes, yes it does. I’m not completely sure why but it does. Just recognizing things for what they are can help eliminate some of the overwhelm and can help me identify what I need to do to feel better again.
I’m not a super heavy routine person, but I do have morning and bedtime routines. I wake up super early – around 5 most mornings. I get up. I have coffee. I catch up on Facebook and news. Then the Sprout gets up between 6 and 7 and we get us fed and her dressed and entertained until bus time at 8:30. Then I make myself presentable and face the day.
Heaven forbid anything messes with that routine! I thought I had an appointment with my orthopedic surgeon on Friday that I would need to leave for the second Sprout got on the bus. So in addition to my usual lazing about I had to get myself washed and dressed and brushed and presentable BEFORE the bus came. Not after. Ack. By the time Sprout’s bus arrived late I was a bundle of seething anxiety. But I recognized it for what it was. I knew this time that it was my ASD routine being interrupted that was causing the anxiety, and somehow that helped immensely. Once again, I avoided needing anxiety rescue meds because I knew that the underlying issue was something that was going to go away shortly and wasn’t a big deal. So overall? Yay for better self understanding!
In Sum
I am cranky as eff about my slow foot recovery, delighted that Cymbalta kicked right in, annoyed I still can’t hear out my left ear, and thrilled to be learning more about myself and what makes my autistic self tick.
Monday was Eid Al Fitr, so we took Sprout to visit her fam several hours away so she could celebrate with them. It’s a big deal for Sprout to be there for Eid because we aren’t Muslim, and while we could try to celebrate, we can’t celebrate like her family. She needs her family and her culture that day each year especially. She always gets super excited to go see them, and especially so when she needs to dress up for a celebration.
Sprout, dressed for Eid and dancing in circles waiting to leave for visiting her family.
So we drove there, dropped her off with her fam, and Seth and I went to get a long lunch. After about 2 1/2 hours we got a call asking if we could please come pick her up. We quickly drove back to their house and I watched from the car while Seth extricated Sprout from a bevy of siblings and cousins and aunts and uncles and her Mama. Sprout was sad to leave. But as she was crying her favorite brother asked her if she wanted to stay and she said “no.” But when he asked her if she wanted to leave, she also said “no.” The poor kid. Overtired, overwhelmed, overstimulated, and torn between two families. She was pushing everyone away and wiping her eyes – not sure what she wanted or needed.
When she got to the car she clung to me for a solid minute, then we put her in her car seat where she passed out almost instantly and slept the 2+ hours home.
While I was watching Seth carefully take her from her family and help Sprout say a teary goodbye, I was forcefully struck by the realization that this child has a family. A whole frigging family that she comes from and belongs to. She always will. No termination or surrender of “parental rights” can change that. No adoption can change that. She’ll never be “ours,” she will only ever be partly ours and partly her first family’s. And what a $hi##y place to be for a little kid – torn between two worlds.
We will keep our little Sprout in contact with her family as best we can but they live more than 2 hours away so that basically means monthly visits. I don’t think it’s going to get easier for her. She always wants to go and gets very excited to see her Mom and big brother especially, but she always seeks reassurance from us before each visit that we will in fact pick her up afterward and bring her back home. They’re pretty boisterous and chaotic and she’s used to a more orderly life now, and they overwhelm her. Plus their sights and sounds and smells are all different to her now, and like all little kids, she craves familiarity. It’s heartbreaking to think that her family are part strangers to her, but they are. And then when we come to pick her up we have become part strangers to her again too. What a horrible emotional ride for a little kid.
When I saw her having trouble leaving her family I understood – didn’t condone but understood – why some women want to do foreign adoptions so they can “have” their kids to themselves. If they’re adopting an “orphan” from overseas they don’t have to share Mother’s Day with another Mom. They can be the only Mom in their heads.
It’s a fiction of course. Every adopted child has a first mom whether there’s contact or not. And often, the “orphaning” of a child for adoption in a foreign country is corrupt and fictitious (topic for another post, but true). Adoption = sharing a child. End of story. Even if it’s just in spirit because there’s no contact with the first family, adoption doesn’t erase the first family’s existence, blood ties, influence, shadow. We prospective adoptive Moms will always have to share and the sooner we come to terms with that the better.
So I grieved for a minute until Sprout was in my arms. Then I realized I’d happily take raising this amazing kid and sharing her as best I can with a first family who loves her because she’s worth it. But I’ll bring it up with my therapist that I felt a little grievey. There’s clearly something there I need to work on.
Kiddo
Things are very different with Kiddo but not entirely different. She’s still torn between two worlds.
We now have Kiddo every weekend because that’s what she’s decided she wants, and her mom needs breaks, and she doesn’t want to spend weekends with her Dad and brother. But raising a child on weekends only with no legal rights or decision making authority comes with challenges. I’m not her Mom. She has one of those. I’m her Miss Holly, and while I mother her, and she’s “my kid,” I’m not her mother. It’s a weird place to be when I think about it.
We get along well with Kiddo’s Mom and her SO. Her Mom openly admits we are all raising Kiddo together – it’s a group effort – and I am humbled by and appreciative of that acknowledgment.
Kiddo’s Mom is juggling full time college and working full time and taking care of her SO who has major health issues, and her son who has major behavioral and mental health issues, and the latter causes incredible stress and frustration. She’s stretched THIN. As the “easier” kid, sometimes Kiddo doesn’t get as much attention from her Mom as she wants.
Kiddo is asking to spend “a lot” of time with us over the summer. I think her Mom’s stress is contagious, and her brother’s issues are so stressful for her too. Plus she can’t play outside at her house and can at our house.
We will make summer fun at our house happen for her as best we possibly can. I’ve got lots of plans. This is the first summer I will have to spend with kids while I’m not working, so I’m going to get a membership at our local pool, which has a giant swimming pool with a slide, a splash park, a concession stand, and a playground. I will take them to the local swimming hole a bunch too, which is a small lake with a sandy beach and great picnic spots. There are always things like the zoo and the science museum, which has a brand new planetarium we are all excited to check out. Sprout is going to get horseback riding lessons through an organization that does riding experiences for kids with special needs. She’s over the moon about it. She also has a week of summer camp at my old private school, and Kiddo might be jealous of that, but I’m thinking perhaps a special “just us” week with Kiddo would be lovely.
We are also on the market for new bikes for both kids. They both love riding their bikes. We have a new saucer swing in the back yard, and a suction cup bow and arrow set that can go out there, and balls, and stomp rockets, and a new hose attachment for playing in the sprinkler (courtesy of our awesome neighbors). Some water balloons will surely make an appearance at some point too.
In short, it should be a great outdoorsy summer, capped off with a coastal camping trip in DownEast Maine and then a trip to Ireland (if the County approves it for Sprout) in the latter half of August.
How much of that can we have Kiddo for? Hopefully a lot of it but I don’t really know. I know she’ll miss her Mom when she’s here but she also will get outdoors play time here which makes up for it a little. Keeping her running around and enjoying summer weather and staying off electronics seems like a good goal. She loves it and it’s a joy to watch. We know her Mom is fine with camping and Ireland so that’s great. But I haven’t broached the subject of the rest of the summer yet. Perhaps 3 day weekends all summer? 4? Should we take it one week at a time or plan in advance? I’m not sure how to share this kid through the summer knowing she wants a lot of time here but still needs her Mom time.
This sharing kids thing? It’s a hell of a challenge. It’s made up of constant balancing, readjusting, asking permission, testing, hoping, and more than a few prayers. I don’t think it will ever stop humbling me and I know it won’t ever stop challenging me.
We already talked about ADHD, now why is there a blog post about autism in a blog about foster care? Still partly because it’s my blog, and my story, and I feel like sharing. Boom. It’s also because there are plenty of neurodivergent kids in foster care too, so this might help a foster parent understand a kid they’re caring for a little bit better. Or maybe it will help someone understand themself better. Hmmm.
Also batten down the hatches, pop some popcorn, and get a cup of coffee. This is a long post!
Frankly I’m scared to write about this topic. But I’m a stubborn pain in the a$$, and when I’m afraid of things I tend to try to tackle them head on. Unless it’s making a phone call. Texting? Fine. Actually picking up the phone and calling someone? Seventh level of hell stuff.
I want to preface this tale with a little basic info about autism. There are different levels of it:
The DSM-5-TR has a new definition of autism and it requires deficits in three categories of social communication and interaction, and restricted, repetitive patterns of behavior in two of four categories. You can find the full DSM-5-TR definition Here.
Sensory Issues
I have long known that I have significant sensory aversions. Certain sounds – like our Milwaukee portable vacuum and my husband’s radar detector – make me absolutely crazy. Overstimulation makes me crazy. The feeling of cotton sheets touching the dry skin on my hands and feet makes me crazy. The slipperiness of counter cleaning with spray cleaner and paper towels makes me twitch. And so on.
But I just thought I had a sensory processing disorder and 🤷🏼♀️ that was that.
👀 Contact
I’ve also long known that I have a problem with eye contact. Namely that I hate it. When I’m having a conversation with someone, nearly half of my brain space is occupied by trying to navigate the appropriate amount of eye contact to make in order to make it seem like I’m paying attention, but not make that person feel uncomfortable, and not push the limits of my own discomfort too far. I’m constantly calculating when to look away, and when to look back at the person. Can I look between their eyes and not have it be obvious? Which eye am I supposed to be looking at anyway?
The other half of my brain space when I’m in a conversation is planning carefully what should come next. When is it going to be my turn to speak? And what am I going to say to make it sound like I’m engaged and interested, but keep them talking so I don’t have to? I get so wrapped up in my thinking about how to make the conversation seem “normal” that I often miss what the other person is saying. I’m incredibly bad at this when making small talk with neurotypical strangers.
Just a few months ago I started talking with Seth about my eye contact and conversation conundrums, and he was incredulous. How can anyone’s brain be working that hard to make small talk? “You don’t just… you know… converse?” Nope. No I don’t. I strain and struggle and hate every minute. Small talk is evil. I want to talk about something meaningful and real! And not with a stranger!
The conversation with Seth was eye opening. I started researching on autism. I bought some books on adults with Level 1 Autism Spectrum Disorder. And I started watching “neurospicy” TikTok to get some info about people’s first-hand experiences living with autism as adults. It felt like… well. Like I found my people. I related So Darn Hard.
Friendships
Mulling things over, I asked my sister if she thought I could be autistic and she answered that it always seemed like I had friends, so she didn’t think so. Weeeeell, first that isn’t exactly an autism test. But second, my friendships growing up were sporadic, and either quirky or troubled, and I think showcase how autism affected me as a kid.
To the extent I was “friends” with any kids on the fringe of popularity in elementary and middle school, they were frenemies who were horrifically mean and bullying, but I stuck around because I wanted their attention because I wanted friends.
To the extent I was friends with other kids during that time, they were the quirky kids, or other outcasts. Some of those friendships were genuine and I treasure two of them to this day. But honestly? Most of those kids were probably neurodivergent too, whether they know it or not yet.
Sent to me by my newest neurodivergent friend.
There was so much bullying. I have a traumatic memory of being chased across the playground field by every single girl in my class, threatening to beat me up. I was terrified and running for my life and it stung most because the two girls in the class who were most emotionally challenged/badly dressed/socially awkward were part of the gang. I’d always thought they, at least, were not superior because they were mocked as much as I was. But no – I was officially low girl on the grade school totem pole.
I spent my entire grade school and middle school years feeling like a terrible outsider. I was lonely, isolated, and felt like I didn’t fit in anywhere. I was depressed. I felt like an outsider in my family too, not just at school. I grew so shy that I would blush furiously anytime anyone would talk to me and expect a response.
As I reached high school I finally hit my stride with friends. I switched to a private school where being a nerd was acceptable, and quickly developed a close group of delightfully weird and loving friends, including a bestie I still adore to this day, and whose parents saw so much of me they unofficially adopted me and still call me their “other daughter.” But my friends were largely guys, and somewhat idiosyncratic ones at that. Studies have shown that autistic girls often function as well as allistic (non-autistic) boys, and I found that very true. The guys expected less of me social-formality wise and I could relax with them.
And my bestie? She’d been bullied a bunch growing up too, and wore a crescent moon drawn on her forehead in blue eyeliner to represent her Pagan beliefs. She’s not neurodivergent, but she was not exactly un-quirky, and was so open minded that she welcomed me and my own brand of eccentricities with open arms. We were inseparable.
College was the same pattern all over again. The “popular” conventional kids shunned me and my queerness, my haircut, my fashion, and my lack of social cue catching. I had two popular roomies my first year and it was hellacious. I found some peeps, though. Deliciously wonderfully awesomely quirky, genuine people, three of whom keep me going on a day-to-day basis still. Why did it work with those three and why does it still work with them today? Because they’re The Real Deal. They are truly open minded, and take my weirdness in stride. We laugh together about my quirks and theirs. I got so lucky.
Masking
Why did my friendship skills progress over time? Because I progressed in masking skills.
What the hell is masking? I can’t explain it better than this:
Masking, which is also called compensating, is a social survival strategy. How it looks will vary from person to person, but masking can include behaviors like these:
forcing or faking eye contact during conversations
imitating smiles and other facial expressions
mimicking gestures
hiding or minimizing personal interests
developing a repertoire of rehearsed responses to questions
scripting conversations
pushing through intense sensory discomfort including loud noises
disguising stimming behaviors (hiding a jiggling foot or trading a preferred movement for one that’s less obvious)
I do all of those except mimicking gestures. And you know what’s exhausting and a hell of a lot of hard work? Masking. It costs autistic people in so many ways and can lead to autistic burnout. It prevents us from being seen as we really are, prevents people from learning about autism, prevents us from going through life in a genuine way. But it’s critical.
My greatest masking was at the law firm. Holy Hannah did I have to work hard at masking there! There was ONE attorney out of like 65 who was comfortable with me as myself and the rest I put on a show for. Yet despite my best, most exhaustive efforts, I was always on the outside. I never was part of the “in” crowd. I wasn’t well liked by management. I wasn’t advanced by management for a variety of reasons but I’m certain my social skills were part of it. I tried so dang hard but no one there shared my quirky obsessive interests, and people would take offense to statements I’d make and I’d be so confused as to what I’d said wrong. I made friends with staff members who were genuine and likable people and that was a social faux pas too. As a social experiment, life at the law firm was a debacle.
15 years there led to my being depressed, discouraged, exhausted, and burned out. Leaving was the biggest relief I’ve ever experienced in my life.
Diagnosis
I want to be VERY clear about this: diagnosis with autism or ADHD as an adult is a PRIVILEGE. It costs a fortune and is hard to come by. There aren’t enough specialists who work with kids, let alone adults. And there are even fewer specialists who are not focused on the tests that have been developed over the years for white boys. Self diagnosis with autism based on research and online tests is VALID.
That said, I wanted the real deal. Not that we could really afford it because it costs a goddamn fortune, but we prioritized getting me a proper medical assessment by a true specialist because I felt like I needed a specialist to listen to everything and test me and analyze me. I know I will get pushback from a lot of folks. I wanted a nice thick written report spelling it all out so I would not doubt myself when challenged.
I got my initial result last Tuesday: solidly level 1 autistic. She has no questions or doubts about it. I’m still waiting for the written report and will be fascinated to read it.
Congrats, you’re autistic!
It’s funny, the woman who did my assessment congratulated me with a grin when she told me my initial results. When I first told my therapist – who knows me best in this world second only to Seth – that I suspected I might be autistic, she grinned at me too with this knowing look she gets when I’ve finally figured out something for myself that she’s suspected for ages. She too congratulated me.
And the funny thing is? It feels GREAT. So many mysteries have been explained. Why I had such trouble with social skills and friendships growing up. Why the law firm sucked the life out of me. Why I hate small talk. Why I stim and why I have to have noise cancelling ear muffs. I’m loving understanding myself better and just starting to untangle how autism has shaped every aspect of my life
Why is there a blog post about ADHD in a blog about foster care? Partly because it’s my blog, and my story, and I feel like sharing. It’s also because there are plenty of neurodivergent kids in foster care too, so this might help a foster parent understand a kid they’re caring for a little bit better.
About 2 years ago-ish I started to recognize I might have ADHD. I’m now 46 years old. I’m not sure what triggered the realization. It was like a slow dawning based initially on my extreme difficulties doing work at work. Then I also gradually started noticing how my household functions, and together the indicators seemed like they might add up to something. I talked to Seth about it, then brought it up with both my therapist and psychiatrist, who both agreed they thought it was a distinct possibility. I then hired a specialist to evaluate me. Lo and behold, the evaluation came back that I quite clearly have mixed type ADHD – it wasn’t a borderline determination.
For quite a while before I was diagnosed, I thought I could not have ADHD because I always did well in school. But on a whim one day I started doing some research and learned that’s not entirely uncommon, especially in girls who are fairly bright.
School cost me very little work or focus. It came naturally to me. I was a curious kid who liked learning, except math, so classes often held at least some of my attention. By the time I got to a demanding private high school I learned hacks to my studying, which largely came down to studying for exams in study groups so the activity of the exchange would keep me focused. I did EVERYTHING at the last minute and adrenaline would power me through, but it was enough. After my demanding high school, college was a cinch, especially since I could take classes I was interested in. I majored in English and I can hyperfocus on reading, meaning I can read for hours without any issue, and I churned out good last minute papers under pressure of deadlines. I graduated with a ton of honors and Phi Beta Kappa. It wasn’t until law school that ADHD presented a problem for me because frankly I wasn’t that interested in the course material. But the adrenaline generated by the Socratic method and natural ability carried me through a top-tier law school somewhere near the middle of my class. I barely even studied for the bar exam and passed on the first go round. I’m shite at plenty of things, but academics have always been a cinch for my weird little brain.
All that said, I’ve always been seriously quirky, and ADHD is a part of that. Looking back on my childhood now that I know my diagnosis, I recognize signs of ADHD throughout it. In fact, I have a few memories that make me laugh now that I know my diagnosis, but which puzzled me for years.
My second grade teacher was terrible. Truly. She cared about her horses and nothing else. She didn’t like teaching so she didn’t DO teaching. She just handed out reams of busywork papers that didn’t teach nor demonstrate our learning. I hated them because they were boring and didn’t demonstrate my acumen and get me positive attention, so I quit doing them. Just up and quit. I started stuffing those papers crumpled up into my extremely messy desk, and forgot about them. I just added to the mass of wadded paper each day, and pretended it wasn’t there. I legit remember the shoulder strength it took to shove the papers in there once it got super full. Ha! Instead of doing the papers I would sit and engage in my favorite activity: daydreaming.
Eventually a parent teacher conference came around. In preparation, each kid was given the opportunity to clean out our desk, and they brought in a big gray garbage can for the occasion. I dutifully cleaned because I was under pressure, and dumped all the forgotten wadded assignments in the trash. I then went home and sweated.
I waited up that night for my parents to get home from the conference figuring I was about to get it for not doing my work. Imagine my shock when my parents came into my room to say good night and told me my teacher only had positive things to say about me! I still remember the feeling of the blood pounding in my ears after they left and my panic started to subside. My report card later completely confirmed my suspicion: my teacher was keeping us busy and wasn’t even grading all those papers. Because I was “good” in class she gave me a good grade.
In retrospect? The chronically messy desk, the lack of attention available for work that didn’t interest me, and the daydreaming were all indicators, but since my teacher didn’t care and ADHD wasn’t really a thing for well-behaved girls back then, it was entirely overlooked.
Another memory that makes me go hmmmm… my childhood bedroom, or as my parents likely would have called it, hell. Thankfully I had my own room as a kid because no one would have wanted to share with me. It had pink carpeting underneath mounds and mounds of discarded clothing, papers, books, and toys. My bed was never made. There was little in my closet, my dresser drawers were nearly empty but never shut tight, and there was a narrow pathway from the door to the bed.
I was content in there. My mother was very neat as a housekeeper so the rest of the house was clean and orderly. But my room looked like bombs (plural) had gone off at the same time a cyclone hit. Now I realize a couple of things about that room: 1. It matched the chaos inside my brain, 2. Cleaning didn’t interest me so I didn’t do it, and 3. Even when I wanted to clean it because of parental pressure, my executive dysfunction prevented me from getting very far.
Eventually during my late teen years I made enough progress on executive dysfunction that I managed to get it clean… by hyper focusing on it. I cleaned and cleaned and cleaned and cleaned and did nothing else until I’d actually scooped everything out from under the dressers, which had previously resembled my 2nd grade desk. I folded and organized and trashed and actually managed to create an orderly room.
Even today my bedroom tends to be the worst room in the house. I recently heard a joke (I forget the source and apologies to the person who said it) by a woman who said her husband always seemed to be raptured out of his clothing, as it would sit in neat shed piles on the floor. Eh hem. I’ve been raptured a few times in my adult life. Like a lot. God bless my patient husband! I get distracted during the getting dressed part of things and somehow don’t notice I’ve still got clothes on the floor.
Cleaning is still something I really struggle with. I can hyper focus when I’m in the right mood and get through a ton of organizing, but it’s infrequent. Most of the time I’m forcing myself to get cleaning and organizing done under pressure of a deadline: case worker, friend, or family member heading toward my house. I create doom boxes (“Didn’t Organize, Only Moved”) until the cows come home. Doom boxes are for holding all the odds and ends we don’t want to get rid of but don’t know what to do with or don’t feel like putting away. I have one in nearly every room. They’ve gotten fancy now: pretty decorative boxes with magnetic lids, or fancy wooden boxes. And yes, they look better than the clutter they hide and give the appearance of order, but are still just chaos under pretty wraps.
The doom boxes in my living room. All 4 of them. They’re themed, but still totally doomy.
I’ve mentioned hyper focus a few times and it’s another major sign of my ADHD. Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder is such a misnomer. It’s not really attention deficit that’s the issue, it’s attention regulation. So while we with ADHD can have extreme trouble focusing on something we are not interested in, we can focus to the exclusion of everything else when we are really engaged. I hyper focus on art. I can be so zoned in that Seth can walk into the room, tell me something, offer me yummy food, and leave again and I will have no idea he was ever there. THAT is hyper focus. Bless him, he takes it in stride and isn’t offended.
When I was a kid my primary hyper focuses were art projects and reading. I could focus on a book to the total exclusion of even fundamental bodily needs. And I remember doing the same with art projects, such as the Valentine’s Day cards I made for my entire class in first grade. I totally remember doing them – construction paper animals – to the exclusion of everything else and feeling such satisfaction while I focused on them. Somewhere there’s a picture of me, with a little blond bowl cut and the cards proudly displayed across the living room floor on a blanket.
Coming back to the present, ADHD causes me a lot of problems beyond my messy house. As an adult, I chose a career path of that didn’t particularly interest me because I thought it was “impressive enough.” I chose law. I practiced law for 15 years at an excellent law firm in a nearby city, and then practiced for about a year and a half as a solo practitioner. Throughout that whole time, I struggled terribly with initiating tasks, multitasking, interruptions of what I’m working on, and completion of tasks. When I have a deadline I do outstanding work. I know that the litigation papers I have filed in quite a few cases were extremely good. I always wrote them at the last possible minute, driving my colleagues bananas. But if I didn’t have a deadline on a particular project it would drag on for ages, sometimes despite pressure from colleagues or even sometimes clients. It’s a big part of the reason why I got out of the law firm. I was slowly failing there, and my ADHD and its executive dysfunction were a huge part of why I wasn’t doing well.
As someone who spent the first 25 years of my life excelling academically, a slow grinding failure at work really took a toll on my self-esteem and mental health. I am still working on crawling my way out of that hole. I’m getting better. Recognizing that my work patterns were not necessarily my fault has helped tremendously. But figuring out my next career move with the awareness of my ADHD-driven work habits in mind is proving to be a heck of a challenge.
My last tidbit to share is what I’m doing now to treat my ADHD, and that’s a drug called Strattera. I didn’t want to take stimulants because they are addictive, their efficacy can wane, and they can have significant side effects. So I started off with a drug that is a norepinephrine reuptake inhibitor. It basically causes the brain to have more of the chemicals it naturally produces that cause stimulation. I know it doesn’t work for a lot of people, but Strattera has been a miracle drug for me. My house is neater. I lose things less often. I’m able to focus on tasks much more. I drive my husband far less crazy. Has it solved all my problems? Oh heck no. I still have significant executive dysfunction. But the improvement has been very noticeable and I’ll take it.
So that’s my ADHD tale so far. Please feel free to pepper me with questions in comments if you have any. I’m an open book!
This morning’s conversations with almost-four-year-old Sprout have me seriously thrown. I kind of want to curl up in a corner and cry, honestly.
Sprout: “You hate my Mommy [name]?”
Me: “What? No! I love your Mommy! She’s so sweet. And I love anyone who loves you like she does.”
Sprout: “Really?”
Me: “Really really. I love your siblings too. Don’t ever doubt that baby.”
To my amazement and horror she burst into tears, saying she missed her Mommy [name] and thought I hated her. It never occurred to me that I had to tell her that I love her first family. The poor kid has been carrying that weight around!
Four is a challenging age for me, and for a lot of people. Sprout is 4 in a few weeks and she’s already acting like Kiddo did at that age and is trying every single inch of my patience with her ‘tude. She flatly refuses to do almost anything we ask her to, by either rudely refusing or standing with her head hanging down like a statue. The statue pose is something she could hold for a whole day if challenged, I swear.
I’ve heard of the Terrible Twos, and have heard of Threenagers, but Seth and I are great with ages 2 and 3, even with kids who have experienced a lot of trauma. We have no problem with tantrums or lack of being able to verbally express what they’re needing. But the F U Fours? Dude. They Push. Our. Buttons.
Some reading on child development is on my immediate horizon because I don’t understand what happens when little brains turn 4. Kiddo nearly broke us at that age. Flat refusals to cooperate and colossal sulk fests peppered the year, along with, of course, evidence of the extreme trauma she’d endured to that point. My memory tells me she was either sulking or hiding behind furniture screaming at the top of her lungs because she’d been triggered by something. It was a hellish year.
Sprout has a couple of fairly healthy years under her belt to build resilience that Kiddo didn’t have (Kiddo came into foster care at almost 4) so we have sort of been expecting her trauma behaviors to be less than Kiddo’s were. But it turns out they’re just different.
Sprout: “Why am I here?”
Me: “Instead of with Mommy [name]?
Sprout: nod
Me: “Oh baby. Mommy [name] loves you very very much but she was having a hard time taking care of you. You were very very sick and she didn’t know what to do to make you better. She wants you with her but she can’t take good care of you. She can’t get you to school and doctors. So you’re here with us to make sure those things happen.”
Sprout, bursting into fresh tears: “But I don’t want to break her heart!”
Me: “Honey, none of this is your fault. You have done NOTHING WRONG. Nothing. The situation is breaking your Mama’s heart because she loves you and misses you but YOU aren’t doing anything to hurt her.”
Sprout has had a break in therapy because her old therapist abruptly left his organization and they didn’t replace him or close out her case. But we’ve put in a request to restart therapy because lord knows we need all the help we can get. Tricks and tips from an experienced therapist are so welcome right now!
Me: “How would you feel if I cut my hair short?”
Sprout, looking worried: “But would you still be my Mommy?”
Me: “Of course! I’ll just look a little sassier. I’ll always be your Mommy – don’t ever worry about that.”
It’s like all my beloved kid’s fears have come tumbling out of her in one morning. And such massive fears – ones no child should ever have to carry.
Me to Seth: “Miss feisty doesn’t want that sweatshirt, she wants the pink one.” Pause. “Oh shoot! I forgot. She doesn’t like being called ‘feisty’! Sorry baby!”
Seth: “She doesn’t like being called ‘feisty’?”
Me: “Nope. She told me that the other day.”
Seth: “I didn’t know that.”
Me to Sprout: “How about beautiful? Can I call you that?”
Sprout, emphatic head shake “no.”
Me: “Why not? You are beautiful! I tell you that all the time!”
Sprout, in a fresh flood of tears: “No I not!”
Me: “Oh baby, you have the prettiest face! You have eyes like warm tea that kiss in the corners, and shiny black hair like your beautiful Mama, and the softest, loveliest skin. You’re gorgeous.”
Dear god. All the trauma, all the huge fears, are shaking my lovely girl’s self confidence to the bone.
Now that she’s told me all these big fears this morning, she’s chipper in a way I haven’t seen in weeks. Clearly these things have been weighing on her in a massive way, and I think just saying them out loud and getting a little reassurance has helped a bit. Until the next enormous fear no little kid should have to hold comes to the surface, anyway.
I had something happen yesterday that was a bit frustrating and also a bit concerning. Before I explain it I need to explain a little about court proceedings for foster kids.
Types of court proceedings for foster kids
When kids come into foster care, there is an emergency hearing where a judge has to authorize the removal of the child from their family. Sometimes it happens before a child is even removed, but more often in my experience it happens right after the child is removed – within the next day.
During that removal hearing, typically the permanency hearing is scheduled for the child. Permanency hearings have to happen within eight months of a child’s first being placed in foster care, and then every six months after that. They are intended to provide big picture overview of what is going on for this child and their family. Is the child going to be returning to the family? That is the stated goal for a very long time. Even once a child is likely going to have their parents’ rights terminated, the goal is typically still return to parent in my county, or sometimes it is a contingent plan stating that the goal is return to parent, but if that’s not possible then adoption or guardianship.
There can be lots of other court proceedings that are not permanency hearings. Sometimes a judge will schedule an interim appearance between permanency hearings to check on a parent’s progress, or the county’s progress with regard to a particular issue that the child is facing. As a child gets closer to going home, there may be a number of appearances to modify the court’s order governing the child, so that a gradual return home can be accomplished: first unsupervised visits in the home, then overnights, then weekends, etc.
In my experience to date, foster parents have been welcomed into the courtroom by the judges for all appearances except the initial removal hearing. However, it is actually the law that foster parents are parties to permanency hearings, which means by law they have to be invited to attend. For the other appearances it is left to the judge’s discretion as to whether the foster parents will actually be invited into the courtroom.
This makes perfect sense to me. We want foster parents to be informed and prepared with regard to the overall direction a case is taking. Is the child actually likely to return to their parents? If so, we want foster parents to be emotionally prepared for that inevitability. If not, and the child is going to need to be adopted, we want the foster parents to be prepared for that. And if a child needs to be adopted but the current foster family is not an adoptive family, then everyone needs to be on the same page with regard to moving the child to a pre-adoptive home.
However, sometimes foster parents lose sight of the big picture goal of returning a child to their parents. My husband and I have never lost track of that goal, but there are families who become foster parents because they want to adopt a child and can’t afford private adoption. Because they are longing for “a child of their own,” they can resist returning the child to the less-than-perfect family they came from and to which they still belong. I wish those families could be screened out so that they never become part of the foster care system, because we need foster parents to be on board with reunifying families. But there is such desperate need for foster parents, and many prospective foster parents know exactly what to say to be allowed to become foster parents, that there are still many families that go into foster care with the sole goal of adopting an infant or toddler.
What we don’t want is those folks who are fighting to keep a child who is not theirs being disruptive or overly emotional in the courtroom while bio parents are trying to get their child back. So I think it is indeed best left to a judge’s discretion as to whether any particular foster parents are allowed into the courtroom during proceedings that are not permanency hearings.
That was a lot of background – sorry. Now to my story.
The sordid tale
Our foster daughter has a permanency hearing on Tuesday next week. My husband and I missed the last permanency hearing, which we have never done before, because I could not get the county attorney or the child’s attorney to respond to my request for the Microsoft Teams invitation. (Because of Covid, permanency hearings are still being done virtually). So this time I contacted the judge’s assistant to request an invitation.
The conversation did not go well.
When the assistant answered the phone, I said hi, gave my name, and said I was calling to see if I could get an invitation for my foster daughter’s permanency hearing next Tuesday. I was met with strong resistance. I was told that it is up to a judge as to whether foster parents can get called into a permanency hearing, which is contrary to the law. I was told I need to get the invitation from the county attorney. I explained that I have found this particular county attorney to sometimes be unresponsive to my request for invitations. The assistant condescendingly told me that he was in court right now and I needed to be patient for him to respond. I reiterated that he has been utterly nonresponsive in the past, and that I completely understand that he is busy during the day and I’ve given him multiple days lead time in the past but not gotten a response from him. The assistant started to explain to me that the attorneys are always busy during the day because they are in court.
I lost my temper internally and decided to “pull rank,” as it were, because I could.
I firmly told the assistant I am a former attorney for the child, that I completely understand the entirety of the courtroom process, that I would expect that a county attorney would invite the foster parents but that in the past he had failed in his responsibility to do so, and that foster parents have a legal right to attend permanency hearings.
As soon as I told the assistant that I was a former attorney for the child, the entire tone changed. It became polite, friendly, and apologetic. The assistant immediately sent me the invitation.
Is all well that ends well? For me, yes. For other foster parents? Potentially not. Giving this assistant the benefit of the doubt, I assume no one has explained to them that permanency hearings are different from other appearances and that foster parents have a right to attend them. That’s the first problem. It should be explained to all court staff but that is apparently not the case. Second of all, court personnel should not be condescending, standoffish, and dismissive to foster parents merely because they are foster parents.
What I really don’t want is other foster parents calling the court to see if they can attend a permanency hearing and being told they cannot. Foster parents have a legal right to attend and it’s beneficial to have full participation. They should not have to hire an attorney or have a law degree to be able to navigate a fairly simple court process.
I get it. I do. Those foster parents who are fighting to “keep” the foster child who has been placed with them can frustrate the process tremendously. And Lord help me, there are some horrific foster parents out there who are verbally, physically, and/or sexually abusive of the children in their care. The problem is, we need more good foster parents. And the good ones are the ones who get frustrated and leave because of the way they are treated by “the system.”
What’s the solution? Good question. More training for case workers and court personnel, first of all. And more funding to support the training. Those are a good place to start.
For quite some time now Seth and I have been discussing cutting back on fostering. I’ve always pushed to take more kids. He’s always pushed to have fewer kids and is utterly content with the two-ish we’ve got. It’s been a delicate balancing act to negotiate which kids we take, and when.
After baby Cookie went home, I agreed to a long health break. Time to get my psoriatic arthritis in check by starting Humira, get my messed up left ankle tendon surgically repaired and my foot reconstructed so it doesn’t happen again, and get my mental health up to snuff.
It’s been nine weeks since Cookie went home. In that time I’ve checked off some major boxes on my to-do list. I’ve switched antidepressants to wonderful effect. God I love pharma. Cymbalta for the win! I’ve done the foot and ankle surgery and am currently hopping around with a knee scooter unable to put weight on the foot, but the staples and stitches came out today, and I’m feeling a lot less pain, and well on my way to walking a bit on it again starting the 26th. And I take my first dose of Humira later today. Man I’m looking forward to that kicking in! I’ve also gotten better about taking my migraine preventive on schedule and have greatly reduced the number of migraines I get. Only thing left on my list is my ear surgery which I need to reschedule. I don’t feel like hopping my way to it. Soon, I’ll be able to hear again too.
What has this waiting period of no new placements been like? Honestly, so far it’s been positively delicious. I’ve been enjoying the hell out of Sprout and Kiddo. Loving every minute of their getting along and playing together. Secretly loving when they’re arguing over who gets to snuggle the Mama. Enjoying how smart and funny and sassy little Sprout is, with a sense of humor far beyond her meager almost-four years. Enjoying how much Kiddo has matured lately, turning into a good-natured, helpful, good kid I can have interesting conversations with. I love these kids more than anything in the entire world.
Doing right by them might mean no more full-time placements. It makes me sad to think of no new kids coming in, but it’s ok too. Both my kids want me to stick to just the two of them, especially Kiddo, who has ridden the wave of 12 other kids coming through our household, one of them staying hopefully for good. Kiddo has begged me to stop fostering, and I’ve listened and am granting her wish. Mostly.
This morning I told Kiddo she’s getting her old room back. we talked about colors and she settled on a lovely mature color scheme of turquoise and red and white and black.
The photo that inspired the color scheme.
She’s ecstatic to have her room back. The Guinea pigs will travel down the hall with her since she’s the one who loves them, and Sprout will get her room to herself again.
Sprout has asked for a rainbow color scheme, which is completely fitting. When Kiddo came to us her favorite color was blue, damnit. She has always been adamant that everything has to be blue. Period. End of story. It’s morphed from royal blue to a more turquoise color but never wavered. Sprout, when asked what her favorite color is, has a different favorite every single day. I love to ask her “what’s your favorite color today?” And see what her current answer is. So when she said she wanted a rainbow room it just seemed so perfect for her. She’s a rainbowy sort of kid.
We have some big travels planned with our kids. We are all going to Maine in August for 7 days camping in Downeast Maine, way up north of Acadia at a place called Cobscook Bay. It’s my favorite vacation place. Cool mossy woods and sunny rocky coastline intermingling with lighthouses and fresh seafood and scenic fishing villages. The girls have never been and I’m beyond excited to take them to my favorite spots.
Then just the day before yesterday, I had an email exchange with my bonus father (my best friend in high school had lovely wonderful parents who unofficially adopted me and affectionately refer to me still as their “other daughter.”) He lives in Ireland in the most magical spot, on hills overlooking the ocean up in the Kealties. He’s invited me to take my two beloved girls to visit him there, so they can explore his misty, fairy and sheep inhabited homeland. I broached the subject with Kiddo’s Mom who has agreed she can go and will work on getting her a passport. And I contacted Sprout’s case worker to see if we can get a passport for her before she’s adopted, because my beloved Bonus Father has some health worries and I desperately want to take the girls there while he’s still well enough to host two energetic younglings in his lovely home. He needs to read them Winnie the Pooh by firelight before bedtime like he did for me and my best friend and her brother all those years ago. He’s got the world’s best Eeyore voice. It and his magical home need to be shared with the next generation.
All the travel plans and healing are making things feel like perhaps we are entering the next chapter of our lives. We have taken in long-term foster placements for 6+ years pretty much non-stop. We’ve skimped on travel in order to accommodate their visit schedules. We’ve made our whole lives revolve around fostering. Perhaps it’s time to shift that and let these two kids we’ve been so lucky as to meet along the way have the peaceful stable home they’re asking for.
Will we stop entirely? I don’t think so. I think what I’d like to do is take in respite kids, and girls only. There will be room for the old trundle bed or pack-and-play to make an appearance in Sprout’s room, so we can still have the joy of meeting extraordinary new young humans once in a while. There’s a tremendous need for respite carers and I think once I’m healed we will be up to the task of taking a kid for a long weekend, a holiday, or a week at a time. That’s still a ways out – probably not until fall.
Until then, I’m going to love on these two kids and heal some more and settle into this slightly quieter but still rambunctious-enough life of parenting. We will focus on giving them amazing experiences and opportunities, and work toward adoption of Sprout (fingers crossed and prayers said and good energy sent that that goes smoothly and more quickly than they usually do). It all feels like it’s settling in the way it’s meant to.
I’ve spoken to a variety of attorneys in the last few days about the potential for making Sprout our legal ward rather than adopting her. Doing so would preserve the legal familial bond she has with her mother and siblings, and would avoid the need for her to get a new birth certificate that erases her actual birth history. However, I think we’ve hit an impassible roadblock.
The attorney I spoke with this morning was blunt: it can’t legally be done.
There is a law that prohibits foster parents from petitioning for custody of children in their care. This does make sense to me because we don’t want foster parents trying to circumnavigate the foster care system and get legal custody of children who would otherwise potentially be returned to their parents. But it sucks in this circumstance where what we are trying to do is ethical. We are trying to prevent legal severing of the family ties.
See text in the article above. Boom. There it is. And the statute itself is very clear on this point.
So what about making us “fictive kin” so we can do a kinship guardianship? Yeaaaah, we don’t qualify because we met Sprout when she came to us through the foster care system. We would have had to have known her prior to that for us to be fictive kin.
The law behind this little article clip is equally black and white on this issue.
The attorney said in some counties it is done – they just sort of ignore these legal provisions and make foster parents legal guardians. But it’s NOT LEGAL. And if it were challenged the guardianship would fail and the child would go back to the legal parent I guess? Regardless, if it’s not legally allowed it’s not a road I want to explore – too many unknowns and potential problems.
So I’m waiting to talk to the County folks again, but it looks like adoption is the only way to go. My heart is heavy with all of this. It’s not that I don’t want to adopt Sprout – I do wholeheartedly want her as my daughter – it’s just that I don’t want adoption to have to cost her so damn much emotionally down the road. Or her Mama.
In short, I need a therapy appointment or ten, and need to find a way to make my peace with an uncertain and challenging system and situation that doesn’t have any good answers. Its kind of par for the course in foster care.
On a happier note, sort of, I had my ankle reconstruction surgery on Tuesday and am home recovering. My little Sprout may follow in Seth’s nursing footsteps. She put me to bed last night by straightening and tucking in all the covers and kissing my forehead and rubbing my back. Literally. The. Cutest. Thing. Ever. To. Have. Happened. My god I love this kid! I guess the most essential thing in all this is that she’s thriving and happy and loved.
We had a home visit by Sprout’s new case worker yesterday, and my brain has been churning with thoughts ever since.
For the most part it was a perfectly ordinary home visit. She brought Sprout a new teddy bear and a fuzzy blanket that’s pink with green frogs on it. Sprout was super polite about both gifts but told me this morning she doesn’t like the Pepto Bismol pink bear, so it’ll go to a new home.
The bear Sprout calls “scary and yucky” 😂
The case worker got a tour of the house, and was afraid of the Guinea pigs and a little afraid of the cats. We chatted about how Sprout is doing, her upcoming medical appointments, and her diagnoses. We talked about Sprout’s Mama, and her new apartment, and generalities about life as a case worker.
Then she dropped areally freaking important question. She asked us if we’d be willing to be Sprout’s guardians, rather than adopting her.
I was bowled over. No one at the county had asked us that and I’ve been afraid to ask the question for fear they’d think we were hesitant about the commitment. But it’s something we’ve been stewing about for months now.
Adoption is trauma. Period. It permanently severs a parental relationship with the first parents. It causes the creation of a new birth certificate with the adoptive parents’ names on it which I HATE. Someone’s birth story is their birth story! They have parents, and particularly a mother, who was there when the child was born. The wiping out of that record seems like the erasure of a child’s truth that just adds to the loss a child is already suffering. And in our sweet Sprout’s case, it would sort of wipe out her cultural identity.
Would we be overjoyed to adopt Sprout and have her as our daughter? Yes yes yes! We love her and want her to be “ours” forever! But what we wantshould be secondary to what the child wants and needs.
Sprout is only 3, almost 4. She doesn’t understand the implications of adoption. But even so, she’s given us some signs that she doesn’t want to be severed that way from her parentage and history. She is adamant that she doesn’t want to change her name and add ours, which we will honor whichever way this goes. She understands that she has TWO mamas, not just me, and asks to visit her first Mama regularly. And asked if she wants to be a permanent part of our family she says “But I have a family. I have Mama [name], and [sibling names] too.”
So for months Seth and I have been chewing on the idea of becoming her permanent legal guardians, rather than adopting her. We can always change things down the road if she reaches an age where we feel like she understands what adoption is and suddenly wakes up wanting to be adopted. But an adoption can’t be undone so we can just be her guardians down the road. We could more easily tackle changing guardianship to adoption if she so chooses when she’s older.
I don’t know whether this is really possible. I don’t know if the Judge or County will allow it. I don’t know if the court will sever Sprout’s parents’ legal rights if we go the guardianship route.
I also don’t know what the financial implications are. I know there are potential implications for disability (Sprout should qualify, and maybe is already receiving disability payments but the County would be taking it if she is – that’s a subject for another whole blog post!). Whatever route we go needs to get us as much money that we can put in trust for Sprout as possible because she IS disabled and may struggle to support herself in the future, and we are far from millionaires so setting aside our income for a trust will be hard – we are barely squeaking by most of the time. I don’t know if I can put SSDI payments into a trust. I don’t know if we can get a county subsidy and SSDI. I don’t know… well it feels like anything!
I reached out to a lawyer immediately after the case worker left so hopefully I’ll hear back soon and can start getting some answers. But I find myself hoping that we can do permanent guardianship. It makes my guts feel WAY less squiggly than adopting a kid who may not really want to be adopted once she’s old enough to understand it all.
And really when it comes down to it, what Sprout wants is really what matters.
sprinklesonachaoscupcake.com 