When You’Re Called “Mommy”: The Joys and Heartbreak of Being a Foster Parent

By Sophie Foster Ph.D.

The impossible act of wholly loving a child with the expectation of letting them go, begins the gripping chronicle of a foster parents journey through the system, intermingling a once routine existence with a new kaleidoscope of biological relatives, social workers, and court-appointed officials. Suspenseful and engaging, this distinctive point of view coupled with insightful first-hand accounts from other foster parents, social workers, and former foster youth expertly intertwines real-life experiences from multiple perspectives. This unique tour de force will leave you cheering, emotionally winded, and mindfully contemplative. For anyone who is considering being, has been, or knows someone who has been a part of the foster care system, this narrative tale will leave you more informed and intentional about the roles each of us play in influencing the life of a child.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Jan 31, 2018
• ISBN: 9781512795868

Sophie Foster Ph.D.

Dr. Sophie Foster is a former foster parent, public speaker, and retired naval officer. She has taught English, leadership, and human behavior at a range of colleges and universities, to include the U.S. Naval Academy. An advocate for empowering youth, she enjoys mentoring teenage girls in their character and leadership development.

Book preview

When You’re

Called

Mommy

THE JOYS AND HEARTBREAK

OF BEING A FOSTER PARENT

Sophie Foster, Ph.D.

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Copyright © 2018 Sophie Foster, Ph.D.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.westbowpress.com

1 [phone]

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Photography and Cover Design by Laura Hatcher Photography, LLC

www.laurahatcherphotography.com

Editing by JHwriting+

www.jhwritingplus.com

ISBN: 978-1-5127-9587-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5127-9588-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5127-9586-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017911276

WestBow Press rev. date: 1/31/2018

Logan ~

Today you are the mother you didn’t think you could ever be.

We are so proud of you.

Karen ~ Rest well, my friend.

Contents

Introduction

PART I

Prologue

Pumpkin’s Arrival

Six Days

Three Weeks

Two Months

Over Two Months

Almost Six Months

Seven Months

Eight Months

Over Eight Months

Nine Months

Nine Months

Eleven Months

Twelve Months

Over Thirteen Months

Over Seventeen Months

Eighteen Months

Almost Twenty Months

Over Twenty-One Months

Almost Twenty-Two Months

Over Twenty-Two Months

Twenty-Three Months

Almost Twenty-Four Months

Twenty-Four Months

Over Twenty-Four Months

Twenty-Five Months

Over Twenty-Five Months

Almost Twenty-Six Months

Twenty-Six Months

Almost Twenty-Seven Months

Twenty-Eight Months

Almost Twenty-Nine Months

Twenty-Nine Months

May 12, 2008

May 14, 2008

Twenty-Nine Months

May 22, 2008

Thirty Months

14 Days

Friday, June 13th

Thirty Unimaginably Long Months

Thirty months

Thirty Months

The Longest Ride

Over Two Weeks

Five and One-Half Years

Exactly Six Years

Seven Years, Three Months

Almost Ten Years

PART II

North Carolina

Alaska

New York

North Carolina

Maryland

California

Florida

Maryland

Pennsylvania

North Carolina

Virginia

PART III

Texas

Anonymous

Arizona

California

Afterword

What Foster Parents Wish Other People Knew

by Sharon Astyk

Introduction

Foster care [faw-ster kair] verb. The impossible act of wholly loving a child with the expectation of letting them go.

There are so many joys―and just one heartbreak. If there are other heartbreaks, many foster parents would gladly go through them again and again just to not go through the heartbreak of saying goodbye.

I wrote this book to express what I wish I knew, what I was told and what I read but didn’t understand at the time, and what no one can comprehend fully until it actually happens. This labor of love provides insight into foster parenting through shared stories, both comical and heartbreaking. My intention is to share the everyday aspects of foster parenting—good and bad—coupled with the routine challenges of deciphering court documents, managing visitation schedules, and navigating the foster care system, all while trying to maintain a semblance of normalcy within the home for the benefit of the child.

This book is divided into three parts:

Part I includes my personal experiences with the foster care system. It includes funny anecdotes I hold dear, those I frequently reflect upon as I remember the joys of having been a foster parent. It also includes heartbreaking documentation and frustrating conversations as I come to terms with the fact the goal of foster care is reunification. The foster care system makes every attempt to reunite the child with biological family members—even those who are estranged have first rights of custody concerning the permanent care of the child.

Seemingly, everyone―from foster parents to social workers, to biological parents and family members, to magistrates, to Guardians Ad Litem, and everyone in between―who, related or not, has fallen in love with the child, is working towards what will be in the best interest of the child. Unfortunately, these myriad people are often struggling against each other―parent against parent, parent against social worker, family members against foster parents, and every other conceivable dynamic―as everyone has their own individual opinions about what best interest looks like, and how exactly to bring it into fruition.

Part II shares the stories* of other foster parents, guardians, and social workers who have participated in the foster care program. With over 415,000 children currently in foster care, my story is just one of many. As with any family, there are good days and bad days, fun times and challenges. Some have had very rewarding experiences, acknowledge the need for the foster care system, and actively advocate for more people to get involved in the opportunity to positively impact the life of a child whose family is currently in crisis. Others have had experiences leading them to the conclusion not to foster anymore. It is certainly an individual decision and should not be judged.

Part I and Part II share the story of foster care from the perspective of other, meaning each of us volunteered, to some degree or another, to be affiliated with the system. We didn’t have to, but something deep within us said it was the right thing to do for the greater good. But there’s another perspective: the children who end up in foster care, torn away from their families through no fault of their own. Often times, these innocent children are judged and labeled without empathy, without consideration for what they and their families have endured to arrive at this point. Who among us would find it ideal to be shuffled from house to house, stranger to stranger, with minimal belongings—often in a trash bag—mostly without forewarning, for an indefinite, undisclosed period of time, not knowing when we would reunite with the only family we know? Part III shares these narratives, told from the perspective of the children—now adults—who have lived through it. They have graciously shared the impact being in foster care has had on their lives, and I am humbled by their stories.

Fostering is hard. I’ve struggled with whether I want to be a part of this system, both magnanimous in one respect, and insufferably broken in another. Despite the singular heartbreak, I can fully attest I have experienced one of the greatest joys of my life in having fostered the most wonderful child imaginable. To know my husband and I were there for her during a traumatic time in her family’s journey, that we were able to love her and care for her as our own, that she flourished in our care and was genuinely happy―for that I will always be thankful.

*Names marked with an (*) have been changed for anonymity. All cities are fictitious.

PART I

Prologue

Bentley arrived on his third birthday. I bought a cake, clothes, and Superman pajamas with a long cape Velcroed at the collar. The social worker called that afternoon, describing Bentley as a beautiful blond boy with big, bright blue eyes and teeth that arched around from sucking on his thumb. That was entirely accurate. I contemplated what it would be like to raise a white child, how people would look at our family, especially with all the Confederate flags that seemed to be flying in every doorway, stamped on every license plate, and printed on every T-shirt, ball cap, bumper sticker, and handkerchief in Jasper County, Florida. My mind thinks long-term, and I immediately thought about my adoption plan. I wanted a house full of children—all colors, all races, all ethnicities—and to raise them to value each other as individuals and to value all people. I had an idea of how to make the world a better place. My dream would begin that night. Or so I thought.

The social worker forgot to mention this little blond-haired, blue-eyed beauty of a boy exhibited behavior suggesting he had been raised in the backyard with the neighborhood dog. And the neighborhood dog happened to be rabid. And named Cujo.

Bentley’s vocabulary intimated he was older than three, and he was big for his age. He had a bit of a speech impediment I attributed to the shape of his teeth, but he was generally quite smart. He hadn’t the hint of being potty-trained, and pooped in the tub. I didn’t tell my husband—I was really trying to make this work. But yeah, he pooped—an overgrown three-year-old poop. Not a diaper poop. A grownup poop. In the tub. That was the beginning of the end.

Before the poop incident, I surprised Bentley with a bunch of brightly colored toys to play with during his bath. He looked at me with a mischievous grin, blurted out some nonsensical words that sounded like ‘thank you,’ and laughed and laughed. His lisp was so heavy, I didn’t immediately understand what he said. I thought, Hmm, why is that so funny to him? Then he said it again—with attitude—and I realized he was cursing at me! I wanted to take his little toy bucket and dump cold water over his head, I was so beside myself with disbelief. Three years old? I wanted to wash his mouth out with soap. Clearly, I didn’t have the tools I needed at that time.

Bentley would have terrible tantrums for no reason I could relate―throw food, scream at the top of his lungs, and generally act like an animal. Once, at the park, I found myself actually afraid of him. (I say once as though we had opportunities to go to the park all the time, but Bentley’s time with me in foster care was very short. Fewer than three days, although it felt like months.) He was unhappy the entire time we were at the park. He wanted to do what the big kids were doing. Eager to please him and avoid his unremitting screams, I tried to hoist him onto the monkey bars. He was a big, solid boy but didn’t have the upper body strength to hold himself up. And I was too short to lift him above my head. I tried to coax him over to the toddler side of the play area, but he was relentless. The screaming, the crying, the yelling, the back talk; I was absolutely embarrassed. People stared. It was obvious I wasn’t his mother, but it probably never crossed anyone’s mind I was his foster parent, and he was my foster child.

Bentley may not have had enough upper-body strength to hold on to the monkey bars, but he certainly gathered strength enough to fight me, and try to prevent me from putting him in the kiddie swing. I struggled, but finally got his legs into the cutout holes and the safety harness buckled around him. As I pushed him in the kiddie swing, his eyes closed halfway, and he started breathing heavily. Possibly, he was drifting to sleep—exhausted from the day’s events—but my heart started beating so fast. A feeling of fear rushed over me and enveloped me like a blanket. I was experiencing a panic attack. In that moment, Bentley reminded me of Private Pyle in Full Metal Jacket—the one who blew the drill instructor away with his rifle before blowing the back of his own head off while sitting on the open bay toilet. The heavy breathing. The distant look in his half-closed eyes. I honestly felt this kid—this little three-year-old kid—was capable of hurting me. I called my mother and told her I was scared.

Give him back! she said. Call that social worker right now and give him back. God gave you instinct and intuition for a reason!

I felt I was overreacting, and in turn, she was overreacting. I tried to use logic. He was three. I was an adult. I was just overwhelmed with parenthood―even biological mothers go through this. That is what I tried to tell myself, but the truth was, this kid was scaring me. I honestly thought he might be possessed by demons—if he had ventured to speak perfect Latin in multiple voices, it would have been entirely consistent with the way I felt at that moment. I hoisted Bentley out of the swing and drove him back home, the feeling gradually subsiding. But it was not an uneventful night by any stretch of the imagination. I was exhausted. My husband, Deric, was furious. And to top it off, Deric’s parents had paid us an unexpected visit from North Carolina.

My husband and I discussed the idea of having children of our own innumerable times. Every time we talked about building our family, we weighed it against something we would ultimately have to give up. A baby or a cruise? A cruise! A baby or a pair of jet skis. Jet skis! The short-term pleasure always ended up winning out over the lifelong undertaking that felt like a permanent restriction of freedom. Introducing kids would be a life-changing commitment. Understanding our current professional obligations (me in the military, Deric in the IT field), and content with our flexible social lives, we explored our options. We both agreed being foster parents would be mutually beneficial, giving us insight into what daily life would be like with a child, as well as providing for a child in need. After fostering for a yet indeterminable time, we would be in a better position to make an informed decision about the status of our family size. Bentley was about to make our decision very easy for us.

The next morning, Bentley greeted me in his pajamas with outstretched arms—cherub-faced, bright-eyed, innocent. I knelt down to return his embrace. It was Deric’s day off, but I was on my way to work. As beautiful a little boy as he was, I couldn’t ignore how his behavior the previous day negated any possibility of him staying in our home without immediate change. Still holding him around his thick little waist, I sighed, wondering if this was even a conversation I should be having with a toddler.

Honey, listen, you have got to be good for Mr. Deric, I began. This is your last chance. If you want to stay here, you absolutely have to be a good boy today. Do you understand?

Bentley nodded, and promised to be good.

I hadn’t been at work two hours when Deric called and said I needed to come home right away. Bentley was out of control, and he was ready to spank him, which we both knew was not permitted. I’m on my way, I said and immediately headed home. When I arrived, Bentley was just fine—still in his pajamas, angelic. What’s the big deal?

All that changed within the hour. Out of nowhere, Bentley flung himself violently onto the kitchen floor, screaming at the top of his lungs, piercing shrieks and deafening cries for absolutely no reason I could ascertain. He hadn’t asked for anything, hadn’t been told no, hadn’t been threatened or scolded. He just went into an unprovoked rage. This went on for fifteen minutes. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, he stopped, looked up at me, and smiled.

You want me to stop? Bentley asked.

I was completely speechless for a brief moment. No, baby, you keep on doing exactly what you’re doing, was the only reply I had. And he did.

I couldn’t take this behavior. Clearly something was wrong with this child—emotionally, behaviorally, psychologically. No judgment, I reasoned, but something is tragically wrong. I had received no information about him prior to assuming custody. Reflecting on the experience, I think he needed to be medicated (along with a straight jacket and a rubber room), and I believe the social workers were hoping his big, blue eyes would overshadow his uncontrollable temper and violently aggressive behavior. I believe some pertinent, known information was withheld about this child. Possibly he hadn’t been diagnosed because of his young age or because he hadn’t been in the system before. But something was clearly abnormal about this child’s behavior. Whether it was learned behavior, a mental defect, or a chemical imbalance, I wasn’t sure. Perhaps a combination of all three.

I had studied abnormal behavior, and one of my favorite books was the DSM-IV—The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. But with Bentley, the only thing I felt I had mastered was the feeling of being overwhelmed, with a double minor in frustration and disbelief. How could a child this young be so out of control? Of one thing I was certain—Bentley had exhibited nuances of this behavior in the presence of the social worker prior to her bringing him to my home. Somebody knew something was wrong, and I felt like I got set up. I wasn’t waiting around any longer to find out.

I called the social worker and told her she had to pick up Bentley immediately. She insisted I just needed a parenting class and didn’t have the requisite skills—but she was optimistic I could be taught, and there was a class being held the following week.

"You don’t understand. He has to leave, and he has to leave now. Somebody has to come pick him up now." It felt like a stranger was speaking on my behalf. In this moment, I was a completely different person, unwilling to compromise, indisposed to negotiation. I was advocating for my own sanity.

She continued to tell me it wasn’t the child’s fault, it was my lack of skills, but there were an abundance of resources available at my disposal, and she could send a social worker out to help me better foster the child. I walked over to Bentley, still lying on the floor. He resumed bellowing as though someone was stabbing him and pouring alcohol in the wounds. I put the receiver to Bentley’s mouth and shouted, I can’t hear you! Can you speak a little louder? Sorry, I’m having trouble hearing you over his screaming! Repeat that again, please?!

I wanted her to hear what I was dealing with, and it worked. She was thoroughly annoyed when I got back on the phone. I’m sure the brief moment she experienced Bentley screaming in her ear gave her a headache, because my head was throbbing. On the other hand, Bentley appeared perfectly content rolling into the trashcan, and kicking the counter edges hard enough to break a toe.

I have a meeting; I can’t come get him today. It will have to wait until tomorrow! she snapped.

I replied firmly, Absolutely not. I will bring him to you. I’m packing his things now, and I will be there within an hour. And I hung up.

I gathered the few items I purchased—some toys, some clothes—and put them in a garbage bag. I felt awful. How could I do this? When my husband and I went through foster parenting classes, the facilitator discussed returning a child who wasn’t a fit. I wondered aloud, Who could do such a thing? What kind of person could give a child back after all that child had been through? Foster parents were supposed to be a safe haven—a place of unconditional love, forbearance, patience, and understanding. Well, I found out—on only the third day, no less. I really thought I embodied those positive characteristics, but I just couldn’t do it. In less than seventy-two hours, Bentley was destroying my marriage, my career, and my sanity. He had to go.

My mother-in-law, Lois, begged me not to take him back. He’s just so cute, she said, and he’s just a baby, he doesn’t understand what he’s doing.

If you want to stay here, I recalled my words. Maybe I had it all wrong? Maybe he didn’t want to stay here. Why did I think Bentley would rather be with my family, than back with his own family? He understood all too well. He had to go.

I buckled Bentley into the back seat as Lois sat in the passenger seat, and I drove forty-five minutes to the office in downtown Jasper. I called the social worker from my cell phone as I was nearing, and told her we were in the parking lot out front.

Bentley had been screaming—and smiling—in the backseat the entire forty-five minutes. My head was pounding. I was trying to convince myself I was doing the wrong thing, but his incessant, ear-piercing shrieks and screams demanded I give him back.

When we pulled up to the building, Bentley stopped mid-scream and said, Where are we? I took a deep breath, but didn’t answer him. Mommy, where are we? I know where we are! Where are we? His cocky expression turned to fear. I looked at him with heartbroken pity in the rearview mirror. Mommy, I’ll be good! I promise! I’ll be good!

He was the first little person to ever call me Mommy. It felt wonderful the first time he said it, his little Superman cape flailing behind him as he ran towards me to say good morning. He immediately saw me as a protector—his caregiver—and Mommy was the only name that fit.

My heart sank, and I had a knot in my throat. I wanted to cry, but actively decided against it, as it would only make my head hurt worse, and I might just change my mind being overcome with emotion. No, I had to be strong and see this through—despite how much it hurt, despite his pleas.

I’m sorry, baby, I said, but you just won’t behave. You just won’t listen. I’m so sorry. I was conflicted; decidedly undecided. With each breath, I changed my mind—questioned if I was really doing what I was actually doing.

Lois begged me, Please don’t give him back. You can’t give him back. I’ll help you.

Now I was mad. Four adults were in the house, and no one could control this little boy. Everyone was frustrated, angry. I snapped back into reality when I saw the social worker opening the door to the office building. I got out of the car, walked around to Bentley’s seat and unbuckled him. He possessed genuine tears now—no more blood-curdling screams, no more deliberate shrieking howls—just a final realization the line had been crossed and there was a consequence. He grabbed for the seat belt, begging not to leave, promising to be good, and my heart felt like it was shattering.

I felt like a crumb. I felt like the crack in the floor the crumb fell into. Kneeling beside him, I realized I had to give him some affirming statements, since I had no idea what the future held for him. Bentley, you’re a good boy. God loves you. You’re going to be okay. You’re a good boy, and it’s all going to be fine. He immediately calmed down, grabbed my hand, and got out of the car. I picked him up and hugged him tightly, grabbing the half-full garbage bag holding every earthly possession he owned.

I attempted to hand him to the social worker, and she stepped back, crossing her arms. He can walk. I’m not breaking my back over him. And he can carry his own things, too! Wow. I thought I was heartless, but she gave new meaning to Grinchdom. She grabbed his hand, and Bentley struggled to keep up with her hurried pace, the Hefty bag dragging along the ground, tripping him along the way.

I was furious with the way she was treating him. He was, after all, just a baby—a product of his environment, lacking the vocabulary to express his hurt, fears, and longing for his biological family. All the information—all the tools—flooded my mind in that moment. But it was one thing to have information, and quite another to put it into action in a crisis. I felt like a complete failure as a foster parent.

For months and months, every time the phone rang, I made an excuse as to why it wasn’t a good time for me to accept a foster child. Until one Thursday evening, my phone rang three times, and I had run out of excuses. That’s when my life changed forever.

Pumpkin’s Arrival

January 2006

Awww! She’s so cute! Where’s her mother?

Hmmm…I’m not quite sure how to answer that question, coming from my husband. How do I say, I’m her mother…and by the way, you’re her father. Well, at least for the weekend. Rather than explain, I just look… and smile.

Deric’s facial expression immediately changes. No you didn’t. Why would you do that? You know I’m going out of town in the morning.

I know, I say, growing more and more aware of how much of a bad idea this could be. The last foster child I took in, (and also my first), was an absolute disaster. I was saturated with his tantrums, and tried to come to terms with the fact that this child—this beautiful boy who sucked his thumb so much he created a perfect arch in his teeth—had assuredly been raised by a pack of wolves in the Alaskan terrain. I remembered the dreaded call to the social worker, and as I hung up the phone, Bentley looking up at me, eyes completely dry, and saying, Mommy, do you want me to stop crying?

Mommy? Something maternal in me cracked, and I wondered—questioned—what in the world I was doing. I shook my head, No, baby, if it makes you feel better, you can keep crying. And back he had went to screaming, kicking, and rolling as I gathered his few belongings. The pain was still fresh, remembering how incredibly hard it was to drop him off at that brick office building, to hear him, panicked, saying, I’ll stop crying! I’ll be good! But it was too late. I was exhausted, scared, and at my wit’s end. I had never felt that way before, especially not towards a child. But I literally feared for my safety—he was so out of control. Now, here I was again. What was I thinking?

I agreed that Thursday night—on the third call—to accept a foster child, making it clear I would accept this child as a respite placement, only for the long Martin Luther King weekend. I emphasized I had to work on Tuesday morning, and this child was to be picked up at precisely 8 a.m. outside the main gate to the naval base on Tuesday morning—and please, do not be late. This was going to be my test, the decision for me as to whether to retain or surrender my foster care license, depending on how things worked out with this child.

A tall, slender social worker with frizzy auburn hair rang my doorbell that evening—a toddler clutching one of her large hands, a binder in the other, and a plastic garbage bag of clothes reeking of cigarette smoke tucked under her arm. I imagined what this little girl would look like, but I was so completely unprepared for what I saw. Long, disheveled hair hid big, brown eyes. Fear had recently been etched onto her face, and she held a death grip on the social worker’s index finger. She was two-and-a-half-years old, wearing clothes for an eighteen-month old, and absolutely determined she was not staying with me.

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I sit on the carpeted floor, the couch supporting my back, while Addison sits at a safe distance against the love seat. The Lion King movie seems to appease her as she takes note of her surroundings. Anytime I try to talk to her, she lowers her head, looks up with distrustful eyes, and declares, No! After a few side-glances and growls, I think it best to stop trying to talk to her and let her relax after all she has been through today.

In the midst of packing for his weekend trip to Maryland, Deric tries to make brief conversations with Addison as he moves from room to room, gathering shoes, belts, and a jacket for the northern weather.

Hey, cutie! What’s your name? he asks.

No! with a grunt, a growl, and a scowl is the reply.

Deric walks into the guest room where he keeps his clothes. Walking through the living room, he gives her another wave. Hi, cutie! Do you have a real name? he asks again.

No! she hisses with passion and determination. Unhhn! No!

I just look at her, expressionless. Well, she isn’t crying, she isn’t screaming, she isn’t having a tantrum, and she certainly does not make my heart race with fear and uncertainty. I can handle this toddler attitude for a weekend.

More unanswered hellos are traded, until finally, Deric gives up and says, Well, I’ll just call you Joe. Your name is Joe. Hi, Joe!

Addison does not like that at all. She screams, I jump, and Deric walks away with complete indifference. When Deric comes back with an armful of clothes, he waves again with his free hand. Hi, Joe! How ya doin’, Joe? You okay, Joe? and continues walking to the bedroom without waiting for a response. Addison growls and whines in exasperation, then scurries into the adjoining dining room, hiding underneath the table behind the pillared table leg. She positions herself perfectly to observe Deric’s every movement while still being able to watch the Lion King on the big screen television. It becomes a test of wills, and Addison finally realizes she is outmatched. While I have given in to the fact she wants to be left alone, Deric is relentless in smiling, waving, and calling her by her new name—Joe—at every opportunity. Finally, the growls stop, and Addison makes wide-eyed contact with Deric. He stares back at her, not realizing the bond being formed.

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The next morning, we get up early to take Deric to the airport. Addison sits quietly strapped into a car seat, while I drive the grey Nissan Armada—otherwise known as the Big Grey Bus—and Deric checks his itinerary from the passenger seat. Once we arrive at the airport, I unlatch the hatchback from inside, and Deric jumps out to retrieve his weekend bag. Addison strains to look over the back seat, and then struggles to glimpse Deric from the window. I roll the window down to appease her senses. As Deric kisses me goodbye, he closes the passenger side door. Then he slips to Addison’s window and says, Bye, Joe! See ya later, Joe! In spite of herself, she waves back—but doesn’t say a word.

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Well, what are we going to do with ourselves today? I ask aloud. It’s Friday, and I have called out from work. Although hurried, the social worker did leave a three-ring binder labeled Child Resource Record the night before; I hoped it contained all the necessary information required to get me through the weekend.

I open the binder; it’s practically empty, but holds multicolored folders inside. The first yellow folder is labeled Section I—Medical/ Psychological/ Social. A typewritten list states this folder is to be used for Consent to Treatment and Release of Medical Information forms, medical and dental appointments, doctor’s notes, and child psychological evaluation (if applicable). I imagine Bentley’s future yellow folder being completely filled with cautionary notes from all manner of psychiatrists and social workers.

I flip to the next folder. Section II—Birth Certificate, Social Security Card, Immunization Records, Medicaid Card, and Child’s Picture with Identifying Information on Back. The only item in this green folder is a grainy, black-and-white picture of Addison printed on computer paper the night she was removed from her home. I turn the paper over—looking for said ‘identifying information,’—and the paper is blank. Figures. I guess I was hoping for instructions on what to do with a toddler, but there are none to be found.

Continuing to search the rainbow of empty folders, the next is Section III—School/Daycare Records, Report Cards, Individual Education Plan (IEP). Daycare. Hmmm. IEP?

Next, the purple folder. Section IV—Legal: Pre-Disposition and Disposition Orders, Case Plans, Judicial Review Reports and Orders, Delinquency Documents, Provider Input Forms. I have no idea what any of this means.

Lastly, I flip to a red folder labeled Section V—Forms: Contact Logs, Foster Parent Travel Policy, Inventory of Child’s Possessions. Child’s possessions? That trash bag full of clothes that are too small and reek of stale cigarettes? I fully intend to wash them and donate them to the nearest Salvation Army. Mr. Bunny, however, is special, and I know the way Addison cradles him and nibbles on his little stuffed paw he is a treasured possession she’ll never part with.

It’s been one day. Hey, Honey, are you pulling your hair out yet? Deric called to check up on me after he arrived safely in Maryland, and every few hours afterward.

I look at Addison, entertaining herself with her stuffed rabbit, singing a soft song of comfort to him. Nah, not even. We’re good. She’s no problem at all. I’m actually having fun, I say.

She’s adorable, Deric says. Then he pauses. When’s she going back?

"I told the agency to pick her up