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The System is Broken

I hear this phrase all the time. Hell, I use this phrase all the time. But what do I mean by it?

My short answer to people is always about overloaded and underpaid case workers, but there is so much more to it than that. It’s corrupt judges, state laws that discriminate against families with financial problems, lawyers in the field for the wrong reasons, sexual predators masquerading as foster parents, and a shit ton of prejudice against people of color and those living in poverty.

If you are interested in how all those sorts of factors play out in the lives of individual children and families? Boy do I have a book recommendation for you:

I won’t lie. It’s a hard book to get through because it’s heart breaking and a gut punch. It’s excellently researched and written by a very good journalist, and it exposes the mealy underbelly of our screwed up system. I listened to the audio book, and found myself yelling obscenities at my car stereo at one point. Most of it didn’t surprise me but even my jaded self was shaken by a few bits.

I have lots of feelings about being a part of a “system” that strips children from their parents. Most of the time I feel good about the fact that we have provided a safe and loving stopping place for kids who were going to be removed whether we were part of the system or not. I think on the whole we’ve made the system a tiny eensie bit better. Some few kids have made it out less scathed than they would have been in the majority of foster homes. And a few got us as advocates for their return home, which eventually worked out.

But. The damage this system does is undeniable.

My husband works with a woman who grew up in foster care. She speaks fondly of her final foster home, and will barely acknowledge the ones she stayed at before the last one because they were so traumatic. The woman she wound up with as a last stop before she aged out of care was “good” because she wasn’t abused there. But, she still talks about how she was fed different food than the woman’s biological children, and was never allowed to have snacks, because the foster mother was feeding the foster kids out of the stipend with cheap foods, and would save all the good stuff for her biological daughters. How screwed up is that? And that was her best foster home.

I know another young woman who was raised in foster care through her adolescence, and she lived in 13 homes total, and was sexually abused by either foster parents or fellow foster kids who weren’t adequately supervised in “eight or nine of those homes. I lost track.” That’s the majority of the homes she was in. She was also physically abused and emotionally abused and starved in various homes. She has nothing good to say about any of the thirteen homes she stayed in. She aged out of foster care as well. And as you might imagine, she struggles with maintaining healthy relationships with anyone as an adult.

Kiddo’s Mom was in foster care as a teen. She was badly abused. That’s all I’ll say on the subject.

I don’t know any adults who were in the foster care system who weren’t abused. Most sexually. That’s terrifying. We are removing kids from homes with some issues, and often putting them into situations that are worse than their home situation, but now without their families, and all while in government custody. It’s just not okay.

The statistics are scary for those who leave foster care. The damage this “broken” system does to children is staggering.

“A survey of foster care alumni showed that, by their 25th birthdays, 81 percent of males had been arrested, and 35 percent had been incarcerated.”
Shanta Trivedi, clinical teaching fellow at the Georgetown University Law Center

There is corruption at every level of this system, starting with police referrals to child protective services, up to and including a criminal justice system that does nothing to treat the PTSD and other mental illnesses that many, many former foster kids have.

So where do Seth and I fall in all this? Are we complicit in this system by being a part of it? Or are we working to change the system in the only way we’ve found to do so so far, by taking good care of a handful of kids unlucky enough to enter this system?

Arguably, both.

Now that we are not taking in new placements, I’ve got to start thinking about how else I’ll make a difference in this screwed up system. I have my hands full of kids still, but have some little bits of time to do more. I know a while ago I was signing petitions related to kinship care, and the ability of foster parents to obtain guardianship rather than just adopt and terminate birth parent rights. I’ve gotten away from such things in the general press of life, but should keep learning and watching for opportunities to shift the laws. If I find things others can join me in doing, I’ll try to share some things here.

And if you are interested in this journey my family has been on for the last 7 years and want to understand this post better, I urge you to pick up We Were Once a Family by Roxanna Asgarian. Understanding what’s broken and how is a start.

Kiddo Love Story

I love my kids. All three of them. So stinking much. But each kid is different and my love for each kid is a little different. It’s an interesting thing to stand back from and observe, really, though it sometimes makes me uncomfortable like I should love them all the same. My beloved therapist – mother to two and stepmother to two – assures me it’s always different for each different kid, because by definition, they’re different people.

Kiddo is the oldest, and I love age 11. I’ve loved every age with her except 4 (the “eff you fours” ran strong with that one!) but 11 is truly my favorite so far. She understands so much more now and is using the understanding to the greater good.

She’s turning out to be a great “big sister” to the other two girls, though she hates being called a sister to them. Tonight, when we picked Kiddo up, she gave sticks of gum to the other two, which was nice of her. I gave them a stern admonition that they are to spit their gum out into a tissue when they are done with it. A few minutes later, Kiddo was blowing bubbles with her gum, and Sprout tried to mimic the big kid and do the same. She immediately shot her gum out of her mouth and it is *somewhere* in the back seat of my car. God help me, I can’t find it. It will show up at some point and we’ll all be full of regrets.

But anyway, Sprout was worried she’d be in trouble for not spitting her gum out into a tissue, and was sad she’d lost her gum. I reassured her she wasn’t in trouble but begged her not to blow bubbles yet. Kiddo looked over, saw Sprout’s tears, looked at the single remaining piece of gum in her hand, looked at me, looked back at the gum, and handed the last piece to Sprout to stop the tears.

It’s the little things like that that reassure me that I’m co-raising a kind kid.

Kiddo is also very protective of me. She knows I have some health issues, and hates it when the littler kids push their luck behavior-wise. She’ll tell them to stop misbehaving, and they listen to her because she’s the big kid and they look up to her. She wields that power appropriately and it’s much appreciated.

I love the increased understanding that she has. She surprised me when I read the 1619 Project children’s book Born on the Water to her and she cried. She recently listened to Dr. Martin Luther King’s “I Have a Dream” speech with Sunny and me and engaged in very intelligent conversation about racism. And tonight? She learned about autoimmune diseases. Here’s how the conversation went:

Seth: “Miss Holly isn’t feeling very well.”
Kiddo: “Why?”
Seth: “She got a cold so she had to stop taking her medication.”
Kiddo: “Why did she have to stop taking her medicine when she got a cold?”
Seth: “Well, her immune system doesn’t work right. For most people their immune system fights off colds and bugs and keeps them healthy. But Miss Holly’s immune system attacks her body.”
Kiddo: “Whoa. That must suck. So she didn’t take the medicine when she got the cold so her immune system could fight it off, but that means it starts attacking her body again?”
Seth: “Spot on. That’s exactly right.”
Kiddo: “That is terrible.”
Seth: “So be nice to Miss Holly tomorrow.”
Kiddo: “Yeaaaah…”

And she will be. She’ll be solicitous and kind to me while still having raucous fun with the littler girls. She’ll help me keep the house from looking like a tornado ripped through it by being conscientious about cleaning up after each crazy idea she has for an activity.

Sometimes I feel guilty that a beloved kid has to worry about my health. I hate that. But honestly? I also think it’s helped shape her into the kind and super cool human she’s become.

Snow Day Updates

It’s a snow day across much of the northeast. The snow started off slow overnight, but it’s coming down in buckets now, and I’m glad the kids are home and not on the roads.

However, I’m trying to get some work done for the Planning Board for which I am secretary. Ha! Silly me, not doing it until there’s a snow day.

This is how it’s going. Props to my friend JW for summing it up succinctly with a link. 😂

So, I’m doing other things that require less concentration. Like blogging.

There’s a little news to report.

School district love continues

Let’s see. For starters, I still love my school district more than life itself. I asked for some testing of Sunny to determine if she qualified for services through our State’s Office of People With Developmental Disabilities. The general feeling, based on language in the IEP she got from her old district and based on how she’s doing in school and at home, is that there’s a good chance she will qualify, and we want to give this kid every chance in life and if there are more services she qualifies for? We want to utilize them!

Per their usual, my call with the school psychologist was so positive. Yes, they’re happy to do the testing because the services could help her. Yes they’ll work on it right away. Yes they think they can even get it done before the end of the school year, and she was apologetic that it might take that long. Dude. I was praying for before the end of the school year so they’re within the bounds of my hopes!

Hip Hip Hooray, Therapy!

Next up on the news list is that Sunny now has a therapist. She was deeeeeeply skeptical about the idea when I first suggested it to her. She remained just as wary for the months we stayed on the waiting list, right up through the time the new therapist asked me lots of questions about Sunny, and until the therapist took her to the play room and played a few ice breaker games with her. Then gales of laughter started pouring out of the play room. By the time the therapist left, Sunny pronounced she couldn’t wait until next week when she comes again.

I’m thrilled to bits. For starters, my family believes in therapy wholeheartedly. Hubby has a therapist. I’ve just graduated from therapy but had been in it with a wonderful therapist for about 9 years. And we’ve gone to a couples therapist from time to time when issues crop up between us. Sprout had a therapist when she was a little younger, even. Therapy has helped us all tremendously.

Sunny has Big Stuff going on internally. I don’t know for sure but I’d guess those feelings might be about the separation from her Mama, anger at her Mama for failing her and her winding up in foster care, feeling of betrayal in developing a bond for her new parents, terrible trepidation because she doesn’t know what her future holds, and frustration with her annoying little sister who pushes all her buttons (it happens the other way ‘round too).

I think therapy will be so helpful for Sunny. She can’t tell me a lot of things without feeling like she’s betraying someone she loves. A neutral party can hear and hold sacred all her fears and frustrations, and help her learn coping strategies. Maybe she’ll start to sleep better. Maybe she won’t have whole grumpy days when she pushes us all away. Maybe she’ll be able to concentrate on school work better. I figure there’s pretty much no way therapy is going to hurt, and myriad ways it could help.

CH…what?

Finally, exciting news: we know what the girls have! Their form of dwarfism has been elusive to track down, but between their old geneticist in the neighboring city, and their new geneticist at Nemours, we finally have an answer: they have CHST3 related skeletal dysplasia. There are fewer than 100 diagnosed cases of it in the world, and we know three of them! There have apparently been known families with it in Oman and Pakistan.

Does knowing change anything? Previously we thought it was Spondyloepiphyseal Dysplasia congenita (SEDc), and CHST3 related dysplasia is related closely to SEDc but is it’s own distinct category. That there are so few people known to have it is a challenge because there aren’t that many studies to rely on, but there are people who have it and there are some studies, so we know more than we did a few days ago. It’s helpful to be able to predict what will happen to them growth wise, and joint wise. That knowledge will shape their treatment.

We are allll geared up for our pitch to Sunny’s new insurance carrier that she needs to go to Nemours like her sister. The geneticist nearby and Nemours have written letters to help persuade the insurance carrier that it’s medically necessary for her to go. April 1, we plan to start the push! I fully expect it will happen and Sunny will get to go to Nemours hopefully early this summer.

Off to go make some snow day kids some hot cocoa, and try to finish my actual work before my meeting tonight!

Finding the Helpers

“When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’”
Fred Rogers

Foster care is full of darkness. It’s full of abuse, heartbreak, and tragedy. It’s full of underpaid and overworked social workers, and it’s full of people doing the wrong things for the wrong reasons. The “system” can be maddening, frustrating, and so overwhelming that good people run away screaming.

But the longer I do foster care, the more I’ve learned that there are Helpers, just as Mr. Rogers said. They tend to be quietly working away at their jobs, but when you look closely, you realize they’re hidden gems, a wealth of knowledge, and oozing caring all over the place. You just have to figure out how to find them, and hang onto them once you do.

The Medical Care Sitch

As anyone who reads my blog regularly knows, we have been fighting tooth and nail to get Sunny the medical care she needs. In sum, Sunny and Sprout both have Medicaid and are both in foster care, but had different insurance carriers. One carrier has been great to work with, and the other has sucked. One carrier approved taking Sprout to Delaware to Nemours Children’s Hospital for specialized treatment for complications from her form of dwarfism, and the other carrier denied the request and a subsequent appeal.

The obvious thing to do was change Sunny’s carrier to Sprout’s carrier. Buuuut it’s foster care, and that’s easier said than done. After several months of working on it and mounting frustration, I was finally today able to get on the phone with the right person, and bam! Just like that, she switched carriers for Sunny! She was kind, knowledgeable, and efficient. I just wish I’d found her sooner!

The change doesn’t take effect until April 1, and then we still have to go through the pre-approval process, but in theory, Sunny will be able to go down to Nemours sometime early this summer.

It’s going to be life changing for Sunny, who lives with chronic knee and back pain that can get pretty intense. She’s going to have a team of specialists, and an orthopedic surgeon who specializes in pediatric patients with dwarfism. He knows what he’s doing. And I’m fairly convinced there are some things that can be done to improve Sunny’s mobility and quality of life, or at least prevent them from getting worse. I’m so excited!

Anyway, my first instinct when I got the change made was to call the woman at the pediatrician’s office who has handled all the insurance paperwork. She worked incredibly hard to make Nemours happen for Sprout and fought long and hard with the insurance company for Sunny. When I got her on the phone, she was nearly as excited as I am. She’s been hanging onto Sunny’s files hoping we could make something work out for her, and is all over the process of requesting pre-approval from the new carrier. This woman has put sweat and nearly tears into this process for two little girls she barely knows. She’s definitely a Helper.

The case worker is the next person I told, and she sent me back a quick email filled with celebratory emojis. She’s been nearly as frustrated as I’ve been trying to figure out how to make this happen. She’s one of the seriously overworked and underpaid, but is definitely also a Helper. She’s been great through everything.

The third person I told is the case manager at Nemours who wrote a supportive letter to try to get the insurance carrier changed for Sunny. She’s a fiery advocate for her pediatric patients, but also kind and loving with them. She’s most definitely a Helper. And she’s thrilled we are making this happen.

THEN I told my group of three friends from college that I talk with on Messenger daily, and they’re thrilled. They’re not Helpers inside the system, but they do keep me sane, grounded, and healthy enough to keep fighting for the kids. Yep, definitely Helpers.

Then I told my husband, who arguably I should have told first. He’s having a rotten day, and was happy to get some good news.

So hooray for all the Helpers I’ve found in this crazy Medicaid dystopian world! And hooray for getting it done, finally!

The School Sitch

I think I’ve raved about my school district before on this blog? But if not, let me do so now.

I’ve got two kids with IEPs and different educational needs. Sunny’s educational needs are pretty darn intense. She’s got lots of extra services and is in an inclusion classroom and is still struggling to learn to read at age 9. Sight word memorization isn’t really working for her. I’m trying phonics at home. But she’s really struggling with the basics still.

There are at least four distinct reasons for the struggle:

For starters, she definitely has some learning difficulties.
But second, she is learning English now, while she’s learning everything else. Her native language is a Burmese dialect. She knows some Arabic. But English is a learned language for her, past the age where language learning is super easy for the brain.
Third, she has had very little sustained educational instruction until this year. Her prior school district basically wrote her off, and put her in a “life skills” class rather than one that emphasized academic instruction, so this year, in 2nd grade, she’s getting sustained and focused academic instruction for the first time.
And finally, her school attendance was abysmal prior to this year. I mean, she went to school less than half the required days when she was at home. Sigh.

My district dove into the above challenges headfirst. They got her in the right classroom right off the bat, with an amazing teacher. The class has a whopping 8 kids in it, with a teacher and three teaching assistants. They got her in PT and OT right at the start, and the occupational therapist is amazeballs. The whole team surrounding this kid is working their tails off to help her learn. Her first report card looked grim; “not likely to meet goals” was the theme. But by the winter report card, they’d gotten her to “likely to meet goals” across the board. She’s working hard, which I didn’t expect out of her (she’s been pretty discouraged throughout her life about her ability to learn and accomplish things).

Today I got a call from the school psychologist. She wanted to let me know Sunny had flunked the initial speech and language screening they put her through pretty spectacularly, and would I consider allowing them to do full testing on her so she can qualify for those extra services and get started with them ASAP? Durn tootin’, I would. I had been thinking just yesterday that perhaps Sunny needed speech therapy added to her roster. That they’re anxious to get services started as soon as possible is amazing to me. Frankly, they care. And I’m still surprised by their eagerness to put more services in place for this kid. No arm twisting. No effort on my part. They do all the work.

While I had her on the phone, I inquired with the school psychologist about whether we could get Sunny on the list for summer school so we don’t have a bunch of backsliding over the summer. The psychologist didn’t know but would reach out to the teacher for me. Not 10 minutes later I had a message from Sunny’s teacher about the speech and language testing, and agreeing that summer school seems like a great idea for Sunny. It was so… easy!

I can’t believe how eager this school district is to help Sunny learn. It’s an entire district of Helpers, and that’s no exaggeration. Everyone knows both Sunny and Sprout. They’re adored and protected and taught with the greatest caring and enthusiasm. I could not possibly ask for more! And when I told the case worker about the speech and language testing and the summer school, she was all excited for Sunny, too. Again confirmation that she’s a Helper who cares a great deal.

They’re out there, folks. Helpers. Sometimes they’re hard to find and sometimes they’re easy to forget about when you’re drowning in frustration. But they are there, and they’re quietly doing their best for the kids. I bet I’m going to keep finding them wherever I need them!

Healing as a “Not Working” Working Mom

There’s no secret that my time working at a law firm was painfully difficult for me. I am smart and a good researcher and writer so that part of the work was good. I wrote some kick-ass legal briefs in my time there, and won some difficult cases in part because of my research and writing skills. But I’m also autistic and had undiagnosed and untreated ADHD the entire time I worked there, not to mention myriad developing health issues.

I burned out. Hard core. My billable hours showed it. I got decent at bringing in work (a task that’s unbelievably hard for an autistic chick) but always split billing credits with the fellow attorneys who were working on matters I brought in. Therefore my stats for bringing in money to the firm weren’t as good as they would have been if I’d hogged billing credits as many of my colleagues did. And, being autistic and a devoted foster parent, I wasn’t much understood by either peers or management. I was an outsider in every way at the law firm.

By the time I left, my billable hours were abysmal and it was time for me to go. I’d already dropped to part time because I could no longer hack full time work there.

I left for a job that was horribly emotionally taxing and required all the skills I was worst at: people skills and in-court legal arguments. The things I was stellar at (research and writing) were not much required as an advocate for children. I was burned out going into my job as an attorney for the child.

I left that position a shell of myself a year and a half later. I was physically exhausted and ill with medical conditions made worse by stress, and mentally, I was beyond fried.

It’s been more than a year since I quit working outside my home. It took a solid year to recover myself mentally. Autistic burnout is no joke. Thank god I have a husband who could support me while I recovered. It’s a privilege I never for a second don’t appreciate.

At first I spent every night having work anxiety dreams, always about getting fired by the managing partner of my old law firm. I flinched easily, like someone who had been in a literal battle. I was tense, anxious, and unproductive. I watched a lot of dumb tv and tried to teach myself how to clean my house.

All that I did moderately well at first was caring for the kids. They’re tender vulnerable shoots that I always want to protect and nurture. Thank god I could still do that and love doing it. And thank god they didn’t care that the other end of the dining room table was piled sky high with junk I hadn’t put away yet.

In a lot of ways, I think caring for the kids has healed me. (Not all the kids – certain kids. Taking a newborn baby last January when I still wasn’t myself wasn’t the wisest choice I’ve ever made, and honestly, I slogged through that bleary eyed and shaky). But Sprout? She’s a healer. And her sister Sunny. And always, always Kiddo, who is such a bright light when she’s here.

How do kids heal me? Lots of ways. They’re honest as can be. No pretense. They don’t expect me to be someone I’m not. They make me laugh non-stop, especially Sprout and the hilarious sassy things that come out of her mouth. And their needs are in some ways fairly simple: food, warmth, affection, clothing, good books, play, safety, endless love, and a listening ear. Those are things I can do.

So where am I at now?

I can’t say I’m 100%. Who ever is? My health issues still plague me with joint and abdominal pain, and chronic gnawing fatigue. I’m on yet another medication (Imuran, an immunosuppressant) that may help once it takes effect, and I’m hopeful for some improvement on it. I’ve applied for disability because I could not hold down a job even part time now with my sleep needs.

Overall, though, I’m much better medicated than I had been. I’m on Vyvanse, a slow release stimulant, which makes my brain work better with the ADHD and which helps a little with my fatigue. I’m also on Vraylar, which helps with autism irritability that comes from the wrong kinds of stimulation.

Emotionally? I feel freaking great. Through years of EMDR therapy, I’ve learned to roll with things that happen in life in healthy ways. I’m no longer triggered so easily. I spend my days often outright happy, but if not happy, then at least satisfied and good about where I am in life.

I’m spending my time reading books instead of watching dumb tv, and I can feel my brain expanding and flexing again, like it forgot for a while what life was supposed to be like, but it has remembered and is stretching after a long sleep.

I’m also writing a lot. I signed up for an outstanding children’s book writing course and it has sparked something in me that has been resting quietly for 35 or so years – the desire to be a writer. I have drafted a middle grade reader about a 7th grade girl who is being bullied by peers and a teacher, and who finds the courage to do something about the teacher. I’ve got a complete draft done, and am in my first round of revisions. I’m working also on a picture book about Kiddo and her love for our old Basset hound Slimy, which I hope to both write and illustrate.

That means I’m painting again for the first time in a lot of years, too, dusting off my old pastels and some water colors. I haven’t painted humans since high school, when I was terribly disappointed in my skills at self portraiture in acrylics. So now I’m working hard at portraiture, using Kiddo as my primary model, and old photos of Kiddo and Slimy together as inspiration for the book.

I have a draft of a picture book about foster care that needs revision. I may convert it into a second middle grade reader, or may seek an illustrator for it other than myself. We’ll see which way the winds blow.

I shall shortly be starting the endless process of submitting manuscripts to publishers. I think I’m actually healthy enough to take the rejection in stride. The amazingly talented children’s book author Bruce Coville once said:

I went to school with people who were better writers than I, who will never be published. They are afraid or gave up. The key to success is bone-headed obstinance.
Bruce Coville

I’m good at bone-headed obstinance! I worked for 17+ years at jobs I didn’t belong in. I can totally be bone-headed about something that means as much to me as being an author.

Despite years at ill-fitting and soul destroying jobs, I’m glad I did them. I’m glad because I wouldn’t be where I am today financially (some day we might retire officially) or emotionally. There’s something to be said for how bright and beautiful the world looks when you’ve just crawled out of the dark.

The Exhaustion of Being Othered

I just started a book this morning. I’m 1/4 of the way through it and can barely put it down.

I didn’t expect to feel this way about it. I picked it up because there are so few books about Burma/Myanmar or written by authors from there, and I want to understand more about my children’s family, and their heritage. So when I googled for books about Myanmar, this one came up and I grabbed it. It didn’t sound novel-like or like an ordinary memoir, so I wasn’t sure I’d like it – those are the two things I usually read.

It’s breathtaking. Not in the “it’s delightful” way, but in the “oooh, goddamn. I never understood that before but probably should have” way, and in an “oh my god that’s got to be impossibly hard” sort of way.

It’s full of random family stories, then there are these moments when it’s insanely powerful. It’s weirdly written in blocks of text but I’ve adjusted to that quickly.

One of the things that hit me so hard this morning is her writing around always being asked what her ethnicity is, everywhere she goes. This is something my girls already deal with. And I mean everywhere. We get asked in stores by complete strangers, at the gas station, and at their school, and by their doctors.

“Where are they from?”

“[Our city]” I respond.

“No, but where are they from from.”

“They’re Burmese,” I always answer. I always feel obligated to answer, like it’s somehow the asker’s right to know. But I always feel yucky about it, like I’ve just violated my children’s privacy somehow by answering for them. They might not want me to answer if they understood all the nuances.

The author says her mother muses, “do you ask your white customers that question?”

“She felt that what happened with the salesman had been her fault. She must have signaled to him in some way that she was willing to answer his questions, that she was at his service.”
Names for Light
by Thirii Mayo Kyaw Myint

Oof. How grinding it must feel to always be asked that personal question everywhere, to be singled out when with a crowd of white people. It’s like “hey, you, I notice you’re different, so I get to ask your ethnicity when I’d shy away from doing that to white people because it’s a very personal question. And you’re obligated to give me this very personal information about yourself.”

And then if she answers, the author’s mother would be told about Burmese restaurants the questioner has been to, and warped little bits they know (very little) about the political situation in Myanmar. Knowing it’s well intentioned makes it worse somehow because it makes her feel guilty for resenting it so much.

Too, we have to answer the inevitable question with a country name, not an actual ethnicity, because no one in the West understands the complexities of ethnicities in that region of the world, myself included. I don’t even know my children’s ethnicity. I know the country their family escaped, where they fled to, and their religion (Muslim), but not their ethnicity. Their country and religion combined are enough for them to have been treated with horrific cruelty by their government and its people of other faiths. I want to ask their uncle but don’t want to offend. I want to know, though, so my girls can grow up understanding as much as possible about their heritage, and to be proud of it.

Also, I will never ever again ask someone who looks “different” where they are “from.” If they want to share that info they can, otherwise it’s not something I’m entitled to know.

I want more books. More books and more books. I want histories that address the invasion of Burma by the Japanese, and the English. I want to know how the country’s boundaries were drawn by whom, and how it’s governments have risen and fallen and been overtaken by military juntas.

But most of all, I want to know about the individual experiences of Burmese people who have lived through war and strife and refugee camps and life in the US being treated as the Other. After all, those are the family histories and experiences of my kids.

Already on my to-read pile:

I’m about 1/3 of the way through this. It’s good. It’s also very troubling.

If you have book recommendations, please drop them in the comments below.

Adoption Pending…

Sprout is starting to understand what “adoption” means. Daily, she tells us “you’re my family. My forever family. I’m going to be adopted,” or some variation on that theme. She’s anxious for it to happen soon and be official. Having a kid go through termination of parental rights is hard but having one who is excited to be our forever kid is pretty damn amazing. I’m so utterly honored to be wanted by this incredible little human.

We have asked her any number of times if she wanted to change her name by adding our last name and the answer had always been “no,” because she liked her name. But suddenly, on our drive back from Delaware, she announced she wanted to share Mommy and Daddy’s last name since we are going to be her forever family. I keep finding myself awed by being wanted. We’ll certainly have more conversations with her about whether she wants our last name, but the fact she’s even considering it is cool. I want to be sure she makes the choice and it’s not influenced by us.

I have mixed feelings about her changing her name. Her last name is Burmese and I’d love for her to be able to be identified as such by a last name that sounds like her heritage. But at the same time, I’m human, and honored to be wanted. I don’t know how a 4 year old can weigh all the significance associated with a name change. At least I know we will always support her choices regarding her name. If she takes our last name now we’ll support her changing it back if she feels so inclined when she’s older. Or vice versa. Her name is hers.

The fact that she’s anxious about wanting adoption to happen, like, yesterday, is worrying. I’m sure she’s sensing all my fears and whether she understands them or not, they’re affecting her and I don’t want them to. But I can’t help it. I’m terrified something will go wrong and we won’t be able to adopt her. Things go wrong all the time. The agency will sometimes decide they want someone else to adopt a child for a myriad of reasons. I have a friend who was set to adopt a sibling set and had false allegations made against her between termination of parental rights and adoption and she wasn’t allowed to adopt. There’s one adoption case worker with whom we have a contentious relationship from a past case, and we are praying he’s not assigned to us. Anything – and I mean anything – could happen. We won’t count on adopting her until we are signing the papers. Then I’ll let myself believe it’s actually happening.

Until then, I’ll indulge Sprout when she asks if so-and-so can please be invited to her adoption. She named a family friend this morning and asked for her to be there so I’ll abide by Sprout’s wishes. It’ll be her day. I want it to look exactly how she wants it to.

A World of Difference

Sprout and I went on a little field trip this week. We’ve been dying to get her into Nemours Children’s Hospital for well over a year now, but the gears grind slowly.

First I thought our insurance wasn’t accepted there at all because that’s what I’d been told. Then I found out it could potentially be accepted there if we appeased the insurance gods by jumping through 16 hoops backward while holding a flaming log and patting our bellies at the same time.

The insurance gods were half appeased. We got approval for Sprout to go but not Sunny, and Sunny needs it more desperately. But the two girls, while both on Medicaid, have different carriers. One balked. One agreed to it. We are still trying to change carriers for Sunny so she can go too.

I’ll take what we can get though, and I immediately scheduled a trip to Delaware for Sprout and me.

We stayed with some gracious friends of my sister outside Philly, which was wonderful. No hotel for us with a 4 year old climbing the walls from boredom! And on Thursday, we drove up to Nemours.

The first thing you notice when you drive up is a giant bell tower that Sprout calls “The Princess Tower!” Then? You notice a massive playground. Sprout’s nerves evaporated when she saw that playground. I’d been telling her it was a hospital for kids like her but she hadn’t fully believed me until she saw the playground. She absolutely skipped into the hospital, with promises of a romp on the playground when we were done.

The building itself is well loved and older, but the people who work there are amazeballs. Everyone from security to nurses to check in staff to x-ray techs to doctors were incredible with Sprout. They were kind, respectful of her as a human, and went out of their way to be helpful.

I met the folks I’d been talking to on the phone, which was so nice and is rare. The care coordinator on the doctor’s team is incredible – she’s been a foster Mom who adopted out of foster care too, so she knows the drill and truly gets it. And she’s feisty. I don’t think insurance companies can push her around at all. She gave Sprout a book about being a Little Person, and best of all? She’s a Little Person herself. She understands Sprout in ways most people just can’t.

The doctor? Oh my god. The doctor. Dr William Giles Stuart Mackenzie (not to be confused with his father Dr William George Mackenzie) spent so much time with us! His Resident did too. And his NP met us. And all his staff met us – his assistant and the care coordinator and a nurse. It was incredible to be welcomed wholeheartedly by a team. We were not rushed for a single second. They truly took their time and answered every question with care and concern and making sure we understood everything.

Their knowledge about skeletal dysplasia and Sprout’s type and complications is just unsurpassed. That’s just what their team does – skeletal dysplasia. They’re world renowned experts and it shows! They showed us the x-rays and walked us through them. They recommended a surgery on Sprout’s knees to help straighten them, that’s not super invasive.

To their credit, the orthopedic surgeon in our hometown knew she needed that surgery but also knew it was beyond his skill set because he doesn’t understand Sprout’s predicted growth patterns well enough, but Dr Mackenzie certainly does. It honestly makes me trust our hometown orthopedic surgeon more knowing he’s aware and honest about his limitations – his ego is not in the driver’s seat. I think he’ll team up incredibly well with Nemours doctors.

The Nemours doctors all work as a team across specialties. Every Thursday morning they sit down and talk about all their patients together, to coordinate care, and learn from one another. In an age when most medical care is driven by insurance limitations, it’s incredible to me that they take time to have discussions that likely aren’t covered by insurance but make care better for their patients.

We’ve been to orthopedic surgeons and to geneticists across our state and finally, finally, we landed in the right place. No more doctors shrugging and telling us they can’t help her because she needs specialists in skeletal dysplasia. We have the specialists in skeletal dysplasia now!

I cannot wait to get Sunny there. She needs it so damn badly. She has hip, knee, back, and elbow problems causing her significant and chronic pain. I cannot believe insurance turned her down… but then again, I can. Medical care for the poor is abysmal. But we are trying to switch insurance carriers to Sprout’s carrier in hopes we can get her there as soon as possible. Say a prayer or send good vibes or whatever it is you do.

Surrender

Yesterday we went to court and witnessed Sprout’s loving Mama surrender her legal rights to her. It lasted only a little over an hour, but was one of the most difficult hours I’ve ever been through. Mama’s rights were explained to her in detail, and the surrender agreement reviewed in which Seth and I committed to visits between Sprout and her Mama. The judge was thorough, and unfailingly kind. Then signatures. Lots and lots of signatures. Then it was over.

Mama held it together amazingly well. She cried a little here and there but was poised and full of dignity. She did what she had to do, what her daughter needed her to do. But she came there alone without any support person, so as we were exiting the court room I offered her a hug. She took it, and sobbed and sobbed in my arms. I’ll never forget the smell of her silky thick hair: of delicious cooking onions, betel, and jasmine. I wiped her tears, told her we love her daughter and will bring her to see her soon, and that was it. We walked away from her shattered life back to our warm happy one.

The monumental weight of this occasion is not lost on me. A mother, full of love but unable to care for her child because of her own trauma, is signing over her legal right to someone else to raise her child. And we are the ones she is surrendering that right to. The right to raise a child – a human being – was transferred, to great consequence.

Mom’s life has been nothing but hardship, bad luck, and trauma. What a mess of a life. It makes me wax existential, wondering what the point of her life is.

Thank God in heaven this is what that little human being that is the subject of all this has been asking for lately. She’s tearfully stated that she doesn’t want to go to another home, and doesn’t want to go back to Mama Si Da, many times in the last few weeks. I don’t know if she has sensed the big shift that was coming, but her timing has been impeccable. At least I knew this is what she wants. If it happens a few years from now for her sister Sunny, who wants to go home, body and soul, I don’t know how I’ll be able to handle it. I’m praying for a reunion still. We’ve reassured Sprout that we hope she stays for good, too, and that we are doing everything we can to make that happen. In foster care I don’t dare promise her anything.

What’s next? Rights still need to be terminated for Dad, who has never appeared in court and can’t presently be located despite significant effort. It should be quick and relatively easy.

Then we get an adoption case worker assigned. And we fill out reams of paperwork. And our lawyer does things and the county lawyer does things. I don’t know the process even though I was once an attorney for the child. I never handled an adoption.

I pray we get there. I’ve been panicking a great deal that something could still go wrong. We are so close but still so far from adoption. I’ve seen things go wrong at this stage.

I think that day, assuming it happens, will be a happy occasion for all of us who will be involved, but we still have to get there, and between now and then I have some emotional work to do to figure out how to process and live with what happened yesterday.

Different Kids, Different Views

Our experience with kids’ desires about their futures are pretty varied.

We started our foster care journey with Kiddo. She had just turned 4 when she came to us. Initially her parents were not doing what they needed to to get her back, and Kiddo was seething with fury at her Mom for telling CPS they could take her and her brother. But even so, there was never, not for a single second, any question that Kiddo wanted and needed to go home to her parents. She was bonded and attached to them and she resented us for a good long time. Even once she bonded with us, her Mommy was her Mommy and that’s who she wanted attention from, and who she wanted to live with. Period.

Thank all things in heaven her Mommy more than got it together and got her kids back. She’s now a friend of ours, and we “co-parent” Kiddo with her gracefully and joyfully, never losing sight of the fact that she’s the Mom and we’re the extra grownups in Kiddo’s life. It worked out as it should have.

After Kiddo, we had a long series of toddlers who couldn’t verbally express their wishes about where they wanted to live. Regardless of verbal skill limitations, I would like to stress that every single child we’ve had has loved his/her parents and shown incredible joy when being held and soothed by his/her parents. Two year old twins with some global delays knew their Mom and Dad were their Mom and Dad and were overjoyed to see them at visits. A 6 month old with medical issues from here to kingdom come knew her mom and snuggled into her when she saw her in ways she never did with us.

In our experience, kids know and love their parents no matter what they’ve been through with them.

With Miss Kicks, our then-16-year-old foster daughter, her Mom was no longer alive, so going home to her wasn’t an option. Nor was going home to her Dad for various reasons. But she longed to belong, longed for time with family members, and did not want to be with us. We were so different, and so strict compared with what she wanted to be out doing. She hadn’t had time to form a bond with us and frankly, she’d been so hurt by people in life that I don’t think she was capable of letting anyone in. She fled when adoption came up. Living on the streets by herself made her feel less emotionally vulnerable, so that’s the life she chose. What a hard road to pick, but I do understand why a foster teen might choose it.

Right now we’ve got two girls who are in very different places emotionally.

Sprout has finally reached an age and understanding where she can express her desire to remain where she is forever. Just this morning, she tearfully exclaimed “I don’t want to go to another house.” I replied that we weren’t moving any time soon, and she responded, “No, I don’t want a different Mommy and Daddy!” The poor kid is hearing about adoption and foster care, and she knows her sister’s position is different from hers, and she’s been worrying she’d have to move. I reassured her as best I could that we want to be her forever family and are trying with all our might to make that happen. She got a “sandwich hug” between me and Seth and calmed down and shifted her attention to the next most pressing question in her four-year-old mind: “Mommy, do you like swords?” (I said yes, and played her the sword fight scene at the top of the Cliffs of Insanity from the Princess Bride. She went to school cheerfully yelling “en garde!”)

Sunny is the exact opposite. Both girls love their mother tremendously, and miss her a great deal. But Sprout has been with us since she was less than 2, and barely remembers life before us. She’s been seeing the conditions of her Mom’s living situation on visits and it’s very different and unfamiliar to her, and she knows she wants to stay where she is. But Sunny wants to go home. Home is where her Mama and siblings are. Period. She’s content with us in some ways. If she HAS to be somewhere other than with her other family members she’d probably opt to stay with us, but her heart is elsewhere. She often says she wants to go home and doesn’t want to have to get adopted. It’s heartbreaking. All we can do for her is pray and help her mother in any ways we can so maybe Sunny and her siblings can go home. I don’t know if it will happen. It’s way too early in the case to tell. But it’ll be hard for Mama to do all she needs to, that much is clear.

I know keeping a connection with Sprout’s Mama is going to be critical to Sprout’s mental health. I want her to know and love her real Mama. I don’t want her to have to fantasize an idealized Mama. I want her to know her culture and her religion in real time. I know it’s going to be essential to make visits with Mama keep happening no matter what. And right now, it looks like we are in good shape to make that happen. I hope like heck it continues to be this amiable and do-able.

I also pray that Sprout’s wish to stay with us forever comes true. Anything can happen in foster care. Anything. I can’t count on an adoption happening until after it’s actually happened.

So far we’ve been able to witness kids getting what they want a lot of the time and it’s a joy to see parents do better and kids able to go home to the parents they long for. But this time with Sprout is different, and it’s a joy to be the ones longed for.