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Explaining Black Lives Matter to a nine-year-old

We have lots of fun things on our refrigerator. I have a Michelle Obama bumper sticker that say “When they go low, we go high,” and an Elizabeth Warren one that says “Persist.” I’ve got a flyer from Dai Bosatsu Zendo that has New Years wishes on it. There are magnets from Glennon Doyle that say “We can do hard things,” and “We belong to each other,” and “Love wins.”

And we have a big sticker that says Black Lives Matter.

This past weekend, Kiddo looked at that sticker and said “Don’t white lives matter too?” I said “Of course they do, but…” and she interrupted me, saying “My brother says they don’t.”

Well that’s a can of worms for a dinner topic.

Seth took over, explaining that the reason we say “Black Lives Matter” is that some white people treat Black people like they don’t matter. And we believe that’s very wrong. So we say Black Lives Matter to remind people that they do.

And then I explained that some Black people are so angry about the way Black people are treated that they’re just plain mad at white people, like I know her brother is, and that’s understandable.

Kiddo took all that in and nodded. Then changed the subject to how much she loves shrimp cocktail.

Race has to be a topic of conversation in a household with kids. ALL kids, not just Black kids. We talk about race constantly. We talk about things that happen in the news in a way kids can understand. We talk about skin color and melanin and hair texture and style, and why Black folks can wear hairstyles that white folks should not wear. We talk about our kids’ books that address race. We talk about why the US is harder for BIPOC people than white people. And because we talk about race all the time, it’s a comfortable topic for Kiddo and it’s getting more comfortable for us white grown ups.

Blue lives matter was harder to explain to Kiddo. We were going for a walk around our little conservative village one day when people had just gone on a “blue lives matter” frenzy and tied blue ribbons around every tree and telephone pole. She innocently asked why there were blue ribbons everywhere and I hesitated, wondering if I could really explain it to a child. Then I realized I was really obligated to answer Kiddo’s question honestly.

We had a much longer talk about race that day, starting with my explaining that sometimes police are really helpful, but that there are some police out there who are too quick to use violence against Black people, either because they’re afraid of Black people or because they deep down don’t like Black people. And that sometimes Black people get hurt and killed by police, and that some people have been protesting that lately. But that some other folks are tying blue ribbons on trees to show they support the police.

She asked why people would support “bad” police officers and dayum. I had a hard time answering that question. Because some people do support “bad” police officers. And I don’t get it. My bleeding heart just really doesn’t understand why. I mean, I get that racism and privilege drive it, but how can any person support an individual police officer who has a history of repeated incidents of brutality? GAH. I wound up telling Kiddo that I have a hard time understanding it and it hurts my heart, but that it does happen.

While I pride myself on having frequent conversations about race with Kiddo, we are failing on teaching her about same sex relationships. We talk about it all the time because we have a lot of friends who are in same-sex relationships, and I’m not straight myself. Kiddo used to be chill about it. But lately she’s started saying “ew” about all things queer because the kids at school and daycare say it’s gross. It breaks my heart especially since Kiddo has moved back and forth on the gender identity spectrum a lot, and based on how she talks about her, I’d guess she’s got a crush on a girl in her daycare. Sigh. Peer pressure is killer. We’ve got some rough roads ahead I’m afraid.

All we can do is keep talking about these topics and answering questions when they arise and hope Kiddo will come to us with her questions and worries. We encourage her Mom to have these conversations with the kids, though even though she’s in a relationship with a Black man, she has a hard time with the topic of race when it comes to breaking things down for kids.

And for good measure, we say some prayers that Kiddo will not have any encounters with police, and that she’ll come around on all things queer with time.

Worst Drive Ever?

I’m not someone who minds driving in the snow. I always have all wheel drive vehicles and snow tires, and don’t mind slowing down and taking it easy. In fact, if it weren’t for other drivers, I would love driving in the snow. A little drifting is great fun!

That said, even I have my limits, and my limits are about visibility. If I can’t keep my windshield clear I get grumpy and anxious and frustrated. But, we live in Central New York so snow and days where visibility is an issue are a fact of life.

One winter afternoon, back when Kiddo was still placed with us (she was 5), I looked out my office window to see it coming down in buckets. I couldn’t see the buildings across the street at all and figured I should leave work while it was still daylight as darkness would make it even worse.

So I made my way to her daycare… with great difficulty. It was snowing so hard that the city streets were barely passable. I could creep my way along but had to legit dodge cars that were sliding backwards down hills. It took me 45 minutes to go a distance that typically took me about 10. I was getting worried.

I loaded up Kiddo and started the drive home. It usually took about 35 minutes to get from her daycare to our house but not that day – it was going to be a heck of a trek. Once I made it to the highway I could creep along at roughly 10 miles an hour. That’s how fast the traffic was moving. And for once I am not exaggerating an ounce. All I could see was the taillights of the car ahead of me even though it was still daylight. Everything else was just white.

And then it got worse. I started to be completely unable to keep the windshield clear. I had the defrost on high but the wipers just kept building up with snow. I couldn’t stop anywhere – we were ants marching in a line and there was one slightly passable lane and nowhere to pull over. So I found myself reaching my arm out the window and trying to grab the wipers when they came up so I could try to snap them against the windshield and get some of the built up snow and ice off. I was feeling ill from having the defrost on high – it was so hot in the car. I couldn’t see any exits whatsoever. The only way I had any clue where we were was the gps.

All of a sudden, from the backseat of the car, I hear Kiddo ask, “Miss Holly, where do babies come from?”

Bahahaha! OMG. Really?!?

Sooooo, I sucked in a deep breath of hot air, rolled down the window, snapped some ice off the wiper, suppressed a slightly hysterical giggle, and started.

“Well, babies grow in their Mommies’ bellies.”

Kiddo: “I grew in your tummy?”

Me: “No, you grew in your Mommy’s tummy.”

Kiddo: “Oh.”

Pause, during which I pray that will be the end of the questions. Alas.

Kiddo: “But how did I get in there?”

Me: oh dear gawd. “Weeeelllll… a man helps. So your Daddy helped put you in your Mommy’s belly when you were sooooo small you couldn’t even be seen.”

Kiddo: “I was that small?”

Me: “Yep!”

Kiddo: “But how did Daddy put me in Mommy’s belly? Did he cut her open?”

Me: Holy shit. She went there. “No, no one got cut open.”

Kiddo: “Then how?”

Me: “Eh hem. Well.” I rolled down the window to snap the wiper again even though I knew it was fruitless, just to buy some time. “When two people love each other sometimes they get really really close to each other. You know how most boys have penises?”

Kiddo: “Yeaaaah…”

Me: “and how most girls have vaginas?”

Kiddo: “Yeeeeaaaaah…”

Me: “Well, eh hem. Um. When people are GROWN UPS, and ONLY when they’re grown ups, a man puts his penis in a woman’s vagina. And that’s how a Daddy puts a baby in a Mommy’s belly.”

Kiddo: “THAT’S DISGUSTING.”

Me: don’t laugh don’t laugh don’t laugh “Well, kinda, yeah. I mean most grownups don’t think it’s gross, but…”

Kiddo: “I’M NEVER DOING THAT.”

Me, silently thinking “atta girl.” 😂

The rest of the drive home we talked about blessed trivialities.

Chincoteague, a four year old, and 🦟

Seth and I haven’t taken a proper vacation in 4 years now. Part of that is Covid putting the kibosh on our plans last summer. Part of it is that it can be hard to get travel permission with foster kids.

A lot of folks don’t realize that bio parents still have a lot of rights even when their kids are in foster care. A lot of those rights relate to medical decisions. Some caseworkers are great about getting all the authorizations in place ahead of time. Some are… not as great about it. I can’t tell you how much time I’ve spent in medical facilities trying to get permission for a procedure, calling parents numbers and DCFS numbers and parents’ family members, etc. It can be quite an undertaking. All with a squirmy kid who just wants out of the doctor’s office. This is one of the many reasons our county’s medical center is so great – they get an authorization for basic medical care and immunizations when kids come into care and keep it on file so parents don’t have to give permission for every little thing.

But I digress. Similarly, we can’t take a child out of state or even in the state for a vacation without getting permission from the parents or the county. Some parents give that permission very readily, and Kiddo’s parents were among those. So when Kiddo was living with us, when she was four years old, we decided to take her to the ocean for the first time. Because Seth and I are insane, we decided to camp in Virginia on Chincoteague Island so we could visit the pristine beaches on Assateague Island.

Packed into the backseat for the long drive

The insanity is not so much the destination, it’s the camping piece of things. And it’s not so much the camping, it’s the tent camping. With a four-year-old. At a busy campground. Where people party until late at night so kids can’t fall asleep until very late, and then the kids get awakened by the sun very early because of its becoming too hot in the tent.

Chincoteague has a little park with these amazing giant chairs

Basically, it was a recipe for spending a week with an extremely overtired four-year-old who already had behavioral issues when she wasn’t overtired.

And with mosquitoes. A whole hell of a lot of mosquitoes.

To be clear, I’m no novice when it comes to mosquitoes. I don’t have the same street cred as my dear friends who have spent time canoeing in the Arctic, where the mosquitoes have literally been known to drive humans and caribou insane, but I have experienced the mosquitoes of the Adirondacks and Downeast Maine. I remember my first time camping with Seth in Downeast Maine and hearing the ominous hum emanating out of the woods at dusk. I told him that it was mosquitoes, and he didn’t believe me. I said “See ya” anyway and dove into the tent to finish eating my dinner. Not 10 minutes later, Seth beelined it to the tent doors, swatting, slapping, and swearing as he fumbled with the zippers.

I totally said “I told you so!”

The thing about the mosquitoes in Chincoteague however, is that they didn’t give you a break during the day. They were just as bad at noon as they were at 7 PM. And they have these vicious little teeny weenie mosquitoes that can bite through anything. My god! They were evil and bloodthirsty and THERE WERE SO MANY OF THEM. 🦟

Our only places of relief were the car, and the beach. So to the beach we went.

And what a beach it is! Kiddo loved playing in the waves (when she wasn’t whining or having a meltdown). I loved collecting shells and just soaking in the sunshine and fresh mosquito-free breeze. We spent our mornings at the beach, and afternoons exploring just how close to the beach was close enough to avoid the mosquitoes.

As an aside, the trip was my first real experience with sunscreen and a biracial child. I would plaster Kiddo with 50 spf sunscreen first thing in the morning, and she would be fine for the rest of the day. She got a tiny tiny little bit more color but not much, despite hours in the sun. I, on the other hand, applied sunscreen to myself approximately every two hours and still burned the hell out of myself. Melanin is amazing stuff.

The view from the edge of the campground. I can’t look at this photo without wondering how many mosquitoes are captured in it. They were like a haze over the wetland.

I have fond memories of driving around exploring the wildlife refuge during nap time so Kiddo would blessedly sleep in the car (it being too hot in the tent). We saw the famous wild ponies. Kiddo was not impressed. We made her climb the lighthouse. She was slightly more impressed by that but not much. We found dead fish and little shark skeletons on the beach. Those she liked!

Atop the lighthouse. Kiddo was a trooper and climbed all the stairs herself but wanted to be held at the top because she was spooked by the height.

All-in-all I enjoyed the trip, though next time I travel to a tourist destination with a four-year-old we will stay in a hotel room that’s quieter and cool enough for sleep during the day.

Kiddo still talks about the trip to this day which amazes me because she was only 4 and memories made at that age usually fade. It made a huge impression on her. It remains the only real vacation she’s ever been on because people who live on the edge of poverty don’t have spare cash for vacations in exotic places like the ocean, so her mom doesn’t have the luxury of vacations. I’m so glad we do and had the ability to give Kiddo that experience.

Y’all are my Village

My two favorite t-shirts are ones that say “Be the change” and “Be the Village.”

“It takes a village to raise a child” is an old African proverb. And it’s incredibly true. As foster parents without a lot of friends who are also fostering, sometimes we feel rather like an island. We need a foster parent support group. In my spare time (ha!) maybe I’ll start one.

But the last few weeks have made me realize just how much of an amazing village we actually have. You all are my village. And more importantly, our kids’ village.

Earlier this week of course I posted about our kids’ books collection. You know what we got in the mail yesterday? TWENTY SIX NEW BOOKS! We got books with Asian characters, and Native American stories, and chapter book sets featuring Black girls (including a Black super hero that Kiddo is already totally into!). We got a book about the White House dogs, and bilingual books that are in Burmese and English. I could not believe it as I opened up the mail, package after package after package! Kiddo is soooo excited about new books.

And of course, the kids’ rooms!!

The teenager room isn’t done yet. It still needs artwork. I got the calendar in the mail that one of y’all bought us and put up four of my favorites in the 12×12 picture frames we already had on the wall.

Sylvia “Gbaby” Cohen affirmation prints. “I am genuine,” “I am empowered,” “I am authentic,” and “I am serene.”

And I’ve ordered a spectacularly beautiful print by Natalie Collins.

And I’m going to be stalking the art sale by Pink Lomein that will start at midnight on the 1st of February for something else amazing. I’ve got one of her paintings downstairs that I love.

The teenager room still has construction materials in it for our bathroom project, and a Winnie the Pooh quote on the wall, so there are no photos of it put together yet. I’ll post photos when it’s done.

But the new room for Tiny and Kiddo? It’s done! And it’s spectacularly cool!

Here’s a very messy “before” photo of the two girls crammed into the room.

Stuff everywhere because it didn’t have a place where it belonged, toddler bed, mattress on the floor. Technically functional but lacking charm.

Here’s the new room, with bunkbeds and storage shelves and bedding all courtesy of YOU all!

I am so indebted to y’all, for the financial and the emotional support. I won’t feel like an “island” again because I truly have a Village helping raise these amazing kids.

Self Care and Foster Care

Foster care is a rough gig. It’s emotionally taxing x100.

On the best days when everything is going well and the kids are great my heart aches knowing it won’t last – kids go home. I flip between trying to protect my heart from the heartbreak I know is coming, and just letting myself love kids completely knowing I’ll have to cope with that much more pain down the road. I usually do the latter but have moments of doubt about whether it’s wise.

And on the bad days foster care is anxiety and stress and worry and heartbreak. I’m sad kids aren’t ok and are acting out. I’m stressed about deciding the best way to handle it. Consequences? Let them off the hook completely because it’s all being driven by trauma? The choices are hard. Child sobbing uncontrollably because she is missing parents and siblings? Par for the course. A child breaking things because she doesn’t know what to do with all the anger she feels? Also par for the course. Batten down the hatches and get through the day as best I can.

So how do I stay sane through all that stress?

1. Therapy.

I’ve plugged therapy before but here I’m going to plug it even more.

I’ve done therapy with an amazing therapist for about 6 years. We work on resolving the traumas I’ve experienced through EMDR, and we work on my parenting, among many other things.

Secondary trauma is real – when our kids are acting out because of their traumas, it can really tax us emotionally and that’s something that has to be dealt with to avoid burnout. If a child has a particular behavior that really gets under my skin, we work on identifying why it bothers me so much and try to resolve any underlying issues about it. We strategize ways to help kids cope with their issues. And when kids leave, we work through the grieving process to make sure I keep working my way through it and don’t just get stuck.

I share my joys and triumphs with my therapist too – it’s not all hard stuff. We laugh a lot too. But on the whole therapy is hard work and it costs money but I would not recommend anyone becoming a foster parent without first finding a good therapist and sticking with them. Don’t be afraid to therapist shop to find the right one – there’s magic in finding the right chemistry with a therapist.

2. Sleep – plenty of it.

I’ve needed a lot of sleep ever since I contracted mononucleosis about 6 years ago. The need for a lot of sleep has just never abated. My doctor says that’s not a real thing but pshaw, bite me, it’s totally real. I tend to go to bed around the time we put the kids to bed, which is insanely early. I’ve also come to recognize that mornings are my cheerful time so it works out perfectly. I go to bed by 8, and am up by 5:30, and I get quiet non-kid time to write and enjoy a cup of cappuccino from my Nespresso machine in blessed non-chaotic silence.

One of the other ways I deal with stress is to nap. I find things always look sunnier after a brief snooze. So on the days when I don’t manage to go to bed early enough sometimes I’ll lie down with Tiny for a bit. She loves to have me lie down with her when she naps. It’s super cute. Only problem is that lately, when she’s resisting a nap, she’ll lie there quietly for a bit and just when I think she’s dozing off, my Frozen obsessed kid will roll over abruptly and ask me if I “wanna buiwd a snowman?” It’s so cute I laugh and then we have to start the whole settling down process again.

3. Down time.

God Bless Seth. I can say to him that I’m struggling and need some non-parenting time and if he’s free-ish he readily agrees and lets me go do something by myself. I’m a pretty hard core introvert, and being with a little person 24/7 sometimes gets to me. Seth is an extrovert and doesn’t get that way, but understands that I do, and gives me room to breathe for an hour when I need it. I will say this many times I’m sure: I don’t know how single parents do it. I can’t fathom parenting without an amazing partner to have my back.

4. Writing.

Duh. This is a no brainer. I’m enjoying the hell out of telling stories and having people read them. It warms the cockles of my heart. (What are heart cockles??) My 5:30 am writing sessions bring me joy.

5. Meditation.

I have been slacking on this one lately and it’s bad for me. Meditation has been a staple of my life since I started seeing my therapist. I always thought I was just bad at meditating because my mind would not stay still. I have ADHD after all. My brain is crazy busy.

But my therapist explained that meditation is the process of letting go of those thoughts, gently and non-judgmentally. Focus on the breath. And when another thought pops up, notice it, and let it go, and then think about breathing again. Don’t be hard on yourself for having had a thought other than about breathing. I always thought that my thoughts meant I was being bad at it, not that it was the act of meditation.

Over time I have gotten better at being still physically and mentally, though some days are still rough. I practice being physically still – as a meditation mentor once told me “No one’s ever died from an itchy nose.” And my brain is *always* thinking up crazy things. But after just 15 minutes of breathing and being still and being gentle with myself and just noticing thoughts and letting them go, I find I’m far more relaxed and able to focus. I’m calmer. I’m less anxious. I feel… more grounded I guess. I get a little high off it to be honest.

My favorite place in the entire world is Oxford, England. My second favorite place in the world is Quoddy Head State Park in Downeast Maine. My third favorite place is Dai Bosatsu Zendo in the Catskills. It’s the most exquisitely beautiful setting for a Zendo, and an exquisitely beautiful Zendo, filled with wonderfully kind Buddhists Monks, Nuns, and Residents. When I’ve had enough of the entire world I like to go there for a weekend and spend my time meditating, chanting, working, walking in nature, and eating food that is to die for. I need to do a Sesshin, which is a very intense 3-7 day stint of meditation, and had plans for it, but Covid got in the way and it’s been closed to visitors for the last year. I can’t wait for my next visit there. Dai Bosatsu is like a hard reset button for me.

Famous people who were once in foster care

Simone Biles
Tiffany Haddish
Eddie Murphy
Marilyn Monroe
Rosie Perez
Colin Kaepernick
Steve Jobs
Malcolm X
Seal

A little while ago Seth and I took in a super short term emergency placement. Two little girls needed a place to go for the weekend before a more permanent foster home could be found for them on Monday when the agency reopened.

I’m a sucker for these last minute placements, much to my husband’s chagrin. When CPS calls me late at night I always tell them I can take the kids short term only until another long-term foster home can be found for them because right now we cannot afford daycare for any other kids. CPS always winds up saying that they’re going to try to find a more permanent place, calls a bunch of other people, and then comes back to me saying they’ve come up dry. Then we frantically scramble around to get beds out and pack and plays up and linens ready and guess pajama sizes and get a few stuffed animals ready to receive our little house guests, while CPS folks get the kids to us.

These two little ones were an absolute delight. They were the cutest kids, and super close to each other. One of the little girls noticed that I had a magazine with Simone Biles on the front cover, and she asked about who that girl was. So I showed the girls some videos of Simone doing her thing.

Now, Simone Biles is basically the definition of Black girl magic, and the girls were absolutely enchanted. They watched video after video after video. I have tons of videos of Simone Biles saved in YouTube because I practically worship the woman, so I had an endless supply for the girls.

After a while I found myself feeling teary about it because Simone Biles herself had once been in foster care. I wish every kid in foster care could know that, and could know the list of other famous people who’ve been in foster care, and could know that foster care does not define them and they can go on to do whatever they want in life. Life has thrown foster kids a hell of a curveball, but with grit and determination, lots of things are possible.

Representation Matters – Black Kids Literature Version

It’s the nature of our foster care system – which is full of its own institutional biases – that there are lots of BIPOC (Black, Indigenous, and People of Color) kids in the system. I’m sure I’ll write more about institutional racism in another post some day. It’s a massive issue.

Just to give you some idea of the scale of the problem, my county is 76.5% white. Out of 7 long term placements and 3 short term placements, ONE of the kids placed with us has been white. One, peeps. I know that’s just our experience and I’ve heard there are technically more white kids than Black in the county system, but I doubt it’s 76.5% white. And I don’t think my county is any worse than any other particular county.

I hate it that Black and Indigenous folks in particular are more likely to be extremely poor in this country, and more likely to be penalized for it by having their kids removed. As an Attorney for the Child I’ll do what I can to help keep together or get back together families that have had racism play a role in their family separation. But when I have my foster parenting hat on, the best thing I can do is support BIPOC kids who are with us in having a strong racial identity.

I’ll say this over and over I’m sure: Representation Matters. A lot.

I’ve written about how Kiddo struggled with her racial identity when she first came to us, and that she’s gotten more comfortable with it over time. She still struggles with it some. She prefers the two white baby dolls we have to the myriad Black, brown, and Asian dolls we have. That sets off alarm bells for me. But she doesn’t insist she’s white anymore, loves her hair, and at least to some degree embraces that she’s biracial.

One of the things we did to help Kiddo understand and feel good about her racial identity was select books about Black and biracial kids so Kiddo could see herself in the stories. Below are just a few of my favorites. This is by no means a comprehensive list – if someone puts in effort, there are LOTS of great books that feature Black kids. Less so when it comes to Asian kids – we are struggling to find good books for Tiny. Suggestions are very welcome! And we have one lonely Native American kids book and one on the way from a friend, so we are in need of those as well.

One of our sets of book shelves. We have several. My philosophy is that it’s mighty hard to have too many kids books. And no, it won’t stay this neat. Seth just recently got exasperated with it and organized it.

I’m starting with little kid books. This is a universal favorite among ALL our little kids. It’s rhythmic and charming and has the most gorgeous illustrations by one of my favorite artists. Kids legit ask to read it again and again and again and somehow it doesn’t get old like some books do.

Here’s another sweet one that littles like. It talks about a lovely little set of brown toes and gets kids sucked right in and wiggle their toes along with it.

For older kids, this was a huge favorite of Kiddo’s. There are fewer books about being biracial and we really needed a good one for Kiddo. My friend recommended this one, for whatever reason, it really resonated with Kiddo. She loved the page describing the main character’s wild hair especially.

Speaking of hair, Kiddo and I went through quite a process of learning when it comes to her hair, and this book helped along the way. Kiddo’s favorite part was the sound the beads made clicking in the main character’s hair. Kiddo, too, loves that sound.

This last book has been a mega favorite in the household generally. Like with Please Baby Please, all our kids have universally liked it. It’s a gorgeously illustrated story of a grandma and grandson’s trip to work at a soup kitchen. You can see this one is a bit well loved at this point.

Kiddo is finally getting into chapter books and reading on her own, but that’s a pretty new thing. She got lots of books for Christmas including some with Black main characters, but I don’t yet know which will become her favorites so can’t pass along recommendations. Yet.

That said, I have found a magazine that Kiddo absolutely loves. It costs me a small fortune to get it delivered from the UK but it’s worth it. It’s written by Black girls for Black girls. It talks about hair and race and self esteem and all sorts of important things. Some of it is still over Kiddo’s head at age 9, so I’ll hold onto old issues for her to be able to read them again in another year or so. It’s a wonderful mag.

I’ll do a separate post on art in the future. And one on Christmas decorations. But I’m going to do one movie recommendation now along with my book recommendations because for some reason it’s a film that is too often overlooked.

It features Rihanna as the main character, who is a girl from Barbados who has to figure out how to save the world from adorable alien invaders. Kiddo has watched the movie dozens of times, and listened to the soundtrack at least 100 times more.

It was her favorite film for years.

Why?

Because Representation Matters.

Transference is Real in Foster Care

“Transference is a phenomenon in which one seems to direct feelings or desires related to an important figure in one’s life—such as a parent—toward someone who is not that person.” – Psychology Today

For a long time Kiddo was really angry with her Mom. It was her Mom who she had been with when she came into foster care, and for the first few months Kiddo was in foster care her Mom flaked on Kiddo pretty badly – understandably so because she was in crisis herself – but Mom missed a few visits and phone calls and Kiddo got angry. And when Kiddo gets angry she gets ragingly furious. And she does not get over it quickly.

It was fascinating and frustrating that I was the one who bore the brunt of Kiddo’s fury at her Mom for many months. Kiddo and Seth bonded well and quickly once Brother left, and they were two peas in a pod with me left out in the cold for a long time. Seth even had a talk with Kiddo at once point about why she was so mean to me. He never got an answer, but warned Kiddo she needed to start treating his wife a little better because I was being good to her and didn’t deserve the Wrath of Kiddo.

Miss Seth has a gift for silliness that cuts through kids’ defenses

Once we got Kiddo into therapy, she was inexpressibly awful to her therapist, who was also a woman. Oh man, that poor therapist! Kiddo would not let her play with the toys with her, would sometimes not let her therapist talk to her, and would say mean things to her. The therapist thought it was good for Kiddo to have someone to direct her anger at though I still sometimes wonder if we should have tried a male therapist at that time and if we would have gotten further therapeutically if we had.

We speculate that Kiddo was super into Seth and anti me because once Kiddo came into care her Daddy started showing up for her. He came to all his scheduled visits, which were frequent, when previously he had been pretty absent in her life. She wasn’t angry with him anymore, she just craved his love and affection and was getting it. So men were ok in her book. Women, according to Kiddo, betrayed her. Her mother and her grandmother had let her down in different significant ways.

It took a good solid year before Kiddo learned to trust me. And it was around the time that she started getting along with her Mom again that she started to get along with me.

Now Kiddo and I get along like a house afire. She has a good, solid, trusting, loving relationship with her Mother now, and with me. Her Mom is a super busy woman though, as she works full-time and is a full-time student, so she has a limited amount of attention to give to her kids by necessity. Kiddo only comes over to our house on weekends most of the time, and I have all the time in the world on weekends so I give her all my attention. We snuggle, we giggle, we laugh, we get in Nerf gun fights, nap together, watch horrible Disney channel tween shows together, and are generally glued at the hip.

Us back when Kiddo still hated me and adored her Seth. Notice Seth has Mike Wazowski on his hand, certainly put there by Kiddo.

Now it is Seth who is the outsider on occasion, whenever Kiddo’s Dad has done something to upset her. On the whole, Kiddo absolutely adores her Miss Seth. It verges on hero worship at times. Her own Daddy has let her down pretty badly in a whole host of ways. He’s said and done some thoughtless and even cruel things to her. In contrast, Seth has consistently been there for her for as long as she can remember. She calls Seth “Daddy” a lot of the time, and we know that she is filling up her daddy void with attention from Seth. Once in a while though, when she is really angry with her own father, she acts out against Seth. Seth takes it with grace of course, but I know it hurts. I’ve been there.

I am happy to say there is another man in Kiddo’s life, and that’s her Mom’s significant other. They’ve been together for 6 years, and he’s a Good Man. He’s consistently there for Kiddo and Brother, but he’s more formal with the kids than Seth and I are. He’s a hard ass sometimes, which Brother really really really needs. In fact, at times I think Mom’s SO is the only person in the world that Brother fully respects. I wonder if the same transference issues plague the relationship between Kiddo and her Mom’s SO, but have never asked. One of these days I will.

Kiddo needs structure and discipline like Brother does, but I think she needs Seth’s softer approach as well. Seth and Kiddo have had some deep conversations about her feelings that I don’t think anyone else could have had with Kiddo. Seth has developed an amazing way of talking her down after she’s thrown a fit about something, and getting to the root of what’s really bothering her. So occasional transference or no, the relationship between Kiddo and her Miss Seth is a beautiful thing.

Black Girls Haircare, Learned the Hard Way.

Kiddo is biracial, half Black half white. When she first came to us I had absolutely no idea how to do anything related to Black hair care.

Here’s her hair when she first came to us in its natural state while wet:

Supremely gorgeous.

Here’s what her hair was like in its natural state while dry dry dry:

I gathered quickly that I needed to do something different. I saw the other little Black foster girl in her pre-k class who had a frizzy dry mess for hair and how she stood out compared to her peers, and resolved I was going to figure out how to do Kiddo’s hair so that she didn’t look like a foster kid with a white mama. It wouldn’t be fair to her to do anything else.

I have a number of Black friends who stepped up to help me out – they took time out of their busy lives to give me advice and suggestions and critiques. And I took my own action and found YouTube. God I love YouTube. I no longer remember which videos I used but this is a *great* tutorial for beginners. https://youtu.be/-9_aGpT7CZ4 And blogs! https://blackmomsblog.com/8-tips-for-toddler-natural-hair-care/ is one great example. Those are just two samples out of HUNDREDS of excellent options.

And once I got the hang of the HOW I switched to Pinterest for ideas.

Here’s my first laughable attempt at braids for Kiddo. I’m embarrassed to show this but:

I got comments from Black friends like “I think you’re supposed to wrap the ends around the end bead and then put the rubber band on.” This from a gorgeous Black woman who knew for sure that’s what I was supposed to have done because she had it done to her own hair as a kid, but she was gracious enough not to point out that what I’d done was a bit ludicrous and clearly I wasn’t paying enough attention to the YouTube and blog posts. Bless her.

My second attempt:

Better, but it lasted a day because twists don’t hold in Kiddo’s hair because she’s biracial and it isn’t textured enough.

Eventually I mostly got the hang of what I was doing. I spent HOURS learning to do Kiddo’s hair so that it was protected from drying and breakage, was neat, and looked like the hair of the other girls in her class. To this day, though, I suck at laying Kiddo’s edges so they stay put. I still have things to learn.

One of Kiddo’s favorite styles. She always wants as many beads as I’ll allow her to have. Beads get HEAVY, that’s what ultimately limits how many I’ll use on her. This was probably more than was wise but she begged, and loved them.

Over time I learned what products caused buildup, what ones left her hair pliable and soft, what ones made her scalp itchy, and what ones made her hair dry. I spent a small fortune on products for the child, and took advantage of help offered by Sally’s Beauty Supply employees and Black women in the ethnic products section of Target (I must have looked overwhelmed because not once, but TWICE I had Black women gently ask if I needed help while I was looking at products in Target. Seriously. God bless the gracious, patient Black women who helped me). I learned how to use products so they protected her hair (I use the LOC or liquid, oil, cream method, though for Kiddo I found LCO works better). Kiddo got into the process too. She helped pick products based on smell, and started really liking her hair.

Her hair is now down to her butt when it’s wet and it’s a hell of a lot of hair to manage. She’s only with us on weekends now and I seldom want to take a whole day to do tiny cornrows and beads even when she asks for it. Besides, her Mom, who is white, winds up nearly in tears about halfway through taking out tiny braids and I sympathize because I’ve been there. It does suck. So I tend to stick to styles with fewer braids nowadays – like 2 to 6 braids rather than dozens.

When the twins were with us I did Jelly’s hair in a variety of styles, though eventually settled on twists with beads most often because twists were faster than braids, and the kid would take out barrettes for fun. Beads stayed put. I learned to do her hair on a frequently nodding head because when I’d start her hair she’d fuss at first, then conk out.

An early attempt on Jelly. Out cold while I finished her hair. Absurdly crooked parts because her little head was nodding all over the place as I worked on her.

At this point I’m better at Black and biracial kids’ hair than white kids’. Mouse had lovely strawberry blond curls that were so slippery.

The straightest part I ever managed to do on Mouse

They totally eluded me.

And Tiny’s lovely Asian hair has just reached her eyeballs but she won’t let me put it up out of her eyes. When I do she tells me up front that she’s going to take the band or barrette out… and she’s true to her word.

What do the kids call us?

Kiddo, who was older when she came to us, was fiercely adamant that we were not her parents. She called us Miss Holly and, eh hem, “Miss Seth.”

We think she picked up calling Seth Miss rather than Mr because most of her teachers were women and she just assumed adults were called Miss. But Seth has a tradition of being called “Miss Seth” and “Mommy” by our kids and I feel like there’s more to it than just what Kiddo called other adults. He’s such a sensitive, loving, involved parent that he strikes kids as being maternal. It’s a theme that cracks me up, but which he accepts with grace and – I think – a touch of pride. It’s certainly adorable.

These days Kiddo is way more comfortable with who her parents are and isn’t so worried we are trying to take over from them. She calls us Miss Holly and Miss Seth, but she also sometimes calls us Mommy and Daddy, and we just roll with it. Although every time she calls me Mommy my heart gives a little thump because it strikes me as being so trusting and sweet. For her it’s a term of endearment.

Gronckle didn’t talk when he went home. He was such a physical kid – walking at age 9 months and running at 11 months – that he didn’t focus on language. He was 15 months when he went home and really wasn’t talking yet. I think he may have called us Mama and Dada but don’t remember. I just remember him climbing the furniture and the baby gates and whipping the dog into a frenzy by running around her in circles, and the ridiculously adorably wrestling matches he would get into with Kiddo. Those two broke a lot of stuff! But they shrieked with delight and mischief the whole time. Kiddo still really misses Gronckle.

Mouse called us Mommy and Daddy when she started talking. We called ourselves as Mommy and Daddy when talking to her so that’s what she picked up. Was that wrong? I don’t know. It’s so hard to be a mother in all the tasks and daily duties and stresses and frustrations and joys and yet not be called “Mommy.” It’s one of the many ways foster care is hard that people don’t talk about. Mouse’s parents didn’t seem particularly bothered by it, thankfully. But I always have a twinge of wondering whether we did something wrong when thinking about it. She always called her bio parents Mommy and Daddy too. Now she doesn’t remember us and only has one Mommy and one Daddy so I guess it all worked out right in the end.

The twins called us Mommy and Daddy from the start. They were already talking a little bit and nearly 2 when they came to us and just automatically called us that. It bothered their parents tremendously so we tried to get them to call us Holly and Seth and it never clicked. We were their other Mommy and Daddy. It’s part of the reason their parents never liked us, I’m sure. And I get it. They were convinced we were trying to “steal” their kids even though we never wanted to adopt PB&J and had no say in what the court decided to do with regard to a timeline for returning the kids. I can only imagine how hard it must be to have your beloved children – your own flesh and blood – calling someone else “Mommy.”

Tiny calls us Mommy and Daddy and she also calls us Holly and Seth. It depends on her mood. She was already talking when she came to us, although she spoke Burmese. But the word for mother in Burmese is Mama so that’s what she called me from the start. We taught her “Dada” for Seth, but at some point this whip smart kid asked us what our names were and now she uses them interchangeably. She usually pulls out our names when she’s annoyed with us or particularly wants our attention and isn’t getting it. This morning I was slow getting downstairs to turn on Frozen for her, so she stood at the top of the stairs with a hand on her hip and yelled, “Holly! Come on! Fwozen!” The little stinker!