How Parker Left and We Didn’t Get to Say Goodbye

I’ve procrastinated writing this.  I think we’re both still in disbelief.  But the show must go on, and my backlog of blogging is starting to cause me nearly as much anxiety as my backlog of Constitutional Law reading, so I may as well at least do one of them.

It was last Thursday and I was all dressed up like a miniature toy Schnauser future lawyer for the career fair at law school (this is where we get led around on leashes and shown off to potential employers who can’t hire anyone because the economy sucks).  Indifferent Ingrid calls to let me know that Parker’s Bio Mom has passed whatever criteria necessary for a trial home placement and that instead of coming home from Rehab that afternoon, Bio Mom was just going to take the baby for good.

We weren’t totally blindsided — Indifferent Ingrid had texted me earlier in the week because she needed something (note: didn’t even ask how the baby was and let’s not forget that she hasn’t seen her in a month and a half either).  Only because I asked, she updated me that Bio Mom was working on passing the criteria for a trial home placement.

But lets go back to Thursday, as I stand sweating in a suit, with no prior warning that the baby I sent off to rehab that morning was never coming back.  There were a few problems with this scenario – first, Parker goes to rehab each day in my carseat.  Second, we’ve purchased several boxes of items in preparation for her returning to Bio Mom.  Among her items are a supply of (very expensive) formula for her sensitive belly.  Third, we don’t think it completely irrational to request to at least say goodbye to the child we’ve been raising for nearly 2 months.  I stood my ground with Indifferent Ingrid, but because it wasn’t convenient for her to pick up the baby and her belongings, we were doing it her way.

Indifferent Ingrid informed me that she would make sure I “got my stuff back,” and when I asked about her picking up all of Parker’s items, she replied that she didn’t think that (formerly homeless, unemployed and raising several other children) Bio Mom really needed them.  The formula?  ”She can find her own way to feed her baby.”

Rehab dropped off the carseat a little later.  Crystal had taken the afternoon off work to be there for Parker’s regular drop-off since I would be at the career fair.  This is what low-life, only-in-it-for-the-”money” (that hardly covers the cost of diapers), baby-stealing, spitefull-toward-birth-family Foster Parents do, in case you don’t know.  We decorate nurseries, hire bilingual nannies, train them to sleep through the night, use kangaroo-care for bonding, try 3 different baby bottles to reduce painful-on-tiny-tummies gas, and take time off work/school for these kids.  We form attachments, prepare (and purchase) for their departure while simultaneously planning for a potential future with them.  And we don’t even get to say goodbye.

The most ridiculous part of our Thursday was that not only did the car seat get dropped off by Rehab, but every single thing Parker had been sent that day with came back too.  Bottles, diapers, wipes, toys….her blanket….her pacifier…her outfit…her socks.  All hastily shoved in the diaper bag.  I can only imagine what Indifferent Ingrid told Bio Mom about making sure that she didn’t “steal any of that foster mom’s stuff.”  The worst part is that just like I didn’t know that Parker would be going home with Bio Mom, she also didn’t have advance warning.

Which means that she had to carry Parker through the cold streets naked.  To the bus stop.  In the ice and snow.  Without even a spare diaper – let alone the liquid-gold formula – for fear that she would be accused of stealing.

And because the case worker is too damn lazy to drive her taxpayer-funded, state-issued vehicle to pick up the things that Bio Mom needs,  I dropped off two bags full of formula, bottles, clothes, diapers, wipes, and toys at Rehab early the next morning, along with the diaper bag we bought for Bio Mom, before heading to school.  Bio Mom wasn’t there yet, but I’m sure she was more than grateful that someone went out of her way to (yet again) do DCFS’s job for them.

Don’t Buy Wipes for Your Baby for Christmas

Or she will make this face.

To be fair, we only used it as a box for some of her gifts. Still, she was not impressed with the packaging.

She was also not crazy about the idea of having her picture taken in front of the tree.

Love and Other Drugs: The End of Foster Care?

Foster-adoption is a drug. There’s a momentary (even extended) high, and then a painful withdrawal until the next fix.

Gambling is so addictive because its intermittently reinforcement.  Basically, the idea that a payoff could happen, the hope that the “big win” is around the corner, and the occasional gains is what keeps people pulling the slots.  Foster Care is the same. The idea  and hope behind it are what keeps foster parents going back to pull the slot one more time for one more placement – whether or not they are in it for adoption. You never know what’s around the corner, and that’s the excitement of it all.  In the same moment, the not knowing once you’ve fallen in love with a child is the worst part.

I’ve always wanted to go back to fostering children (not babies).  With our “lifestyle” and the social climate of the state, it’s not an option for us.  And while we love babies, we’d eventually like for one of our kiddos to make it past teething.  I have been raising babies for a year-and-a-half now.  18 months of newbornness.  We’ve heard that there are things called walking and talking and potty-training.  Who knew?

In the wake of Asher’s loss and with our adoption on the horizon, we wrestled with the idea of continuing Foster-Adoption.  We went back-and-forth for months, weighing the exciting possibility of what we could get and the daunting thought that if we don’t do it (who else will raise these babies?) against the frustration, anger, heartache and cost of pouring endless resources into being (at times) the only advocate for someone else’s child.  We pulled the slot again.  Parker is our last.  At least for now.

Crystal and I have to advocate from a different position now.  Our fists are out, ready to throw some punches at people who need to be accountable for not doing their jobs and jeopardizing the lives* of children in the process.  We couldn’t do that before with the risk of loosing one of our babies (Caseworkers come up with creative allegations after you complain to their supervisor).  But after Parker goes, we can raise hell.  We didn’t realize it, but we’ve been training for it all along.

We’re passing the torch. 

It’s on you now.

You know who you are. 

So take up the mantle, march onward and protect these sweet children.  Love them like your own.  Fight for them.  And when the heartache sets in and all seems unbearable, we’re here to listen, because we’ve been there and we know it hurts like hell but we wouldn’t take a second of it back.

*DCFS instituted a new policy that after a child is moved into a new home, the Caseworker is required to check on them in their foster home within 24 hours of placement, every week for the first month, and monthly after that.  This is mandatory, non-discretionary, and a response to the startling reality that more abuse (and occasional death) occurs in foster homes than occurred before removal.  In two and a half months, Indifferent Ingrid has visited Parker once. (What about the kids in abusive foster homes? Drug-using/alcoholic foster homes? You can bet that Indifferent Ingrid isn’t visiting them either).

What Parker was doing in December

Practically crawling at just under 4 months. Told ya she was smart. I have no doubt that she would have been crawling within weeks if it wasn't for Rehab Regression.

Playing Angry Birds. And winning.

Multi-Tasking

Is this bow too big?

Cuddles

Dressing up like a Candy Cane

Hanging with Pop Pop

Front-Row Seat to the Regression Show

One of our first observations about Parker was that she was so smart – more aware, more physically capable than our other babies.  Her babbling at 3 months was much more advanced and conversational than Asher’s or London’s at the same age.  We swore a giggle was right around the corner.

Indifferent Ingrid went ahead with her plan to let Parker go Mon-Fri for the hours of 8 am to 3 pm with her bio mom for treatment.  Each morning, a fleet of van drivers sprawls across the city to pick up babies and children to take them to the center.  Every afternoon, a very sleep-deprived, cranky Parker is returned to us by Van Driver Maggie, who I’m fairly confident didn’t pass a background check.

And of course, because the children are shuffled from birth parents to treatment case managers to the van drivers, we have zero communication about silly, insignificant things like when she last ate and if she was particularly fussy or feeling sick or if that bruise was from a neighboring toddler who wacked her over the head with his bottle.  Stupid stuff really.

So every night is a blind guessing game of if she’s hungry or constipated or tired or all of the above.  ”What happens at that place?” we ask her.  She hasn’t told us yet.

But the most startling thing about the recent change is the stark regression we saw after 2 weeks of Parker’s “Rehab.”  Our smart, vocal baby stopped making sounds. Entirely.  Not a squeak.  Not a vowel-sound or a goo. Certainly no giggling.

It was so black-and-white.  So sudden.  After a week of no sounds, the pediatrician confirmed my concerns that Parker’s development was regressing, and fast.  He had seen her only a month previous, in all her babbling glory.  He ruled out hearing problems, early signs of autism, and any immediate signs of physical trauma.  Simply put, whatever “care” occurred at rehab was not enough.

I wish I could say that I was the kind of mom who spent every waking hour on the floor reading baby books and doing baby sign language and enunciating french words for the squishy musical fruit that litter the playmat.  Yes, I do all these things, but not every day, hour after hour.  I did them more with London and Asher.  Parker has had less of my attention, parially because she’s our third baby and partially because I have less time now than I did in Asher’s early months or London’s entire time with me.  Parker gets attention and affection and eye-contact and playing on the floor, but it’s not an episode of Sesame Street around here.  Which means that the level of interaction and stimulation at rehab must be so depraved, so barren and intellectually empty in order to cause this rapid regression.

We’re watching it unfold right before our eyes with no recourse. No complaint to DCFS or the guardian ad litem will cause them to change or reduce Bio Mom’s time with Parker in rehab.  This is the sordid reality of the “best-interests” bullshit that they advertise, yet simultaneously reject.

I called the Rehab center 3 days ago, leaving a message with the children’s case manager.  I expressed my concerns about what the doctor has confirmed to be a developmental regression and inquired about the daycare center’s potential need for some additional developmentally appropriate toys/jumperoos/books.  Still haven’t heard back.

And then I found out tonight from Bio Mom herself that contrary to Indifferent Ingrid’s assertions that Parker spends half of the day in a rehab-run daycare and half the day with her Bio Mom being toted from room to room for therapy and classes, there is no daycare for children under 6 months.  This would have been nice to know 3 weeks ago so that I could appropriately pack Parker’s bag with more toys and books and a playmat and additional bottles (since I assumed these were being washed at a daycare sink…?).

Baby Blues

Having the hardest time picking favorites, so you get to see them all.

 

Cheers to Saturday Mornings!

Parker, dressed like a candycane elf for the last time this season, playing in the BebePod while Crystal and I plan our financial lives for the next five years over Einstein's hazelnut-vanilla coffee.

 

Another Gem of a Caseworker: Introducing Indifferent Ingrid

She’s pleased to meet you. Oh wait, no, she doesn’t really care.

Crystal and I both agreed vehemently that if we were called for a placement with Asher’s caseworker – Shotgun Jane – we would say no without question.  I breathed a sigh of relief when DCFS called about Parker and the caseworker was someone I had never heard of before.  Early on in our interactions with Indifferent  Ingrid (the new caseworker) we were irritated with her lack of communication and initiative in letting us know when (and if!) we’d get Parker.  As time has gone on, her blatant apathy regarding Parker’s well-being has been startling.

Our initial face-to-face meeting began with her explaining that Bio Mom was going to attend a day-treatment program and like so many State-funded “Mommy-and-Me” programs, the baby must attend with mom in order for mom to get treatment.  This seems entirely backwards – shouldn’t Bio Mom be able to get the help she needs before regaining partial custody?

So Indifferent Ingrid says casually, “so Parker will probably go with mom soon.”  To which I responded, “oh, so this is a residential program where she will have supervision and assistance with the baby living with her?”

This caused Indifferent Ingrid to pause and think for a moment.  ”No…it’s not residential.”

“So where does the baby go at night?” I ask.

Silence. The caseworker scrunches up her face in confusion and looks away. Clearly, she had not considered this.  Mom has not yet completed her “case plan” – the things that she needs to do to regain custody of Parker. (Not a result of not trying, just the reality that its only been 3 months and she has not even began treatment).  Thus, legally, she cannot just “take” the baby back – program or not.

“Hmmm….” she says, nervously scratching her scalp. “I didn’t think about that part. I guess we’d just have you keep her at night.”

Luckily the day-treatment program has actually considered such situations and has a fleet of van drivers that go out every morning, pick up babies and children, and haul them back to the center, where they (apparently, from the crumbs of information we get) spend part of the day in a daycare, and part of the day with their moms as they attend parenting classes and therapy.

The positive side (if you want to see it), is that this saves us a pile of money for daycare, since Parker will be gone for the hours I’m at school.  She also gets to see Bio Mom daily, which is good for attachment, since Indifferent Ingrid also mentioned that they’d be doing a “Trial Home Placement” (which we know all about from Asher) soon, where Parker will join her six siblings who have stayed with Bio Mom through all this. (Too soon? Hell yes, but what does DCFS care? It looks good for their statistics to reunite quickly.)

I’ve learned that the mark of a good caseworker is the distance they keep with the child when they’re right in front of them.  Gabriella’s caseworkers were warm and playful with her.  London’s caseworker (who was amazing), was always quick to ask to hold her during visits (which actually happened regularly).  Asher’s first caseworker, Caseworker Bob, always reached for Asher, played with him, and tried to get a good giggle before leaving house visits.  Shotgun Jane refused to hold Asher, or even refer to him by name.  It was always “The Baby.”  Indifferent Ingrid is the same.  She has yet to look at Parker directly, hold her, talk to her, or smile at her (which actually takes a fair amount of effort with a cute baby girl).  The most she’s talked about her was in a compliment on my carseat and JJCole BundleMe. (That has nothing to do with the baby, you say? Exactly.)  The oddest part of all of it is that she herself has an infant son, whom I’ve seen her interact with when she had him in the office one day.  She was the typical warm, playful, doting mother.

I guess she just doesn’t care when it’s someone else’s kid.  A foster kid.

Lovely, no? Just the type of person you want acting in the “best interests” (cough cough) of the child.

I mean, seriously? Who can resist smiling back at this baby?

The Long-Awaited Adoption Announcement

We’re adopting.

A human species (no more dogs!).

From somewhere far, far away.

It’s costing a ton of money, so if you don’t get a christmas present this year, consider a donation being made in your name to our adoption fund. We thank you for your generosity.

The conversation started last April, only days before getting the call for Asher. We tabled it while riding the roller-coaster with him.  It wasn’t until five months later on a neighborhood walk with the dogs in the hot summer air that we decided to go for it.  We wanted a sibling for the son we thought we could keep.  I remember our conversation vividly; Asher’s little bare feet kicking out of his stroller as we wrestled with the dogs, trying to wrap our minds around fees larger than a new car and a process longer than a few pregnancies. There were more than a handful of spreadsheets, calculations, and “let’s think about this” lists.  And then it all clicked.  There was a shift from “I’m not sure we can do it,”  to “of course we can and it would be crazy not to.”  We haven’t looked back.

I wish we could throw pictures at you of the homeland, the children, the culture, or the orphanages, but we can’t. We can’t even say where we’re going, or necessarily, when.  That information must stay private until we’re back home with our baby.  All we can say is that we are expecting, paper-pregnant, on the cusp of a journey around the world to start a family.

Bittersweet Bundle

The call for Parker has been confusing from every angle.  It wasn’t as exciting as we thought it would be, in fact, the whole scenario gave us a weird feeling from the beginning. We were both shocked to get a call for a girl, which is ridiculous as we’d last had a boy and don’t really care either way.  We waited a week and a half after the initial call to find out if she was actually coming or not, during which we teetered between near-indifference and mild excitement.  After the initial rush of her arrival faded away, we were left with this little stranger.  Not our baby.  Someone else’s.  Not Asher.  Not London.

Maybe we feel this way because she’s not meant to be ours. Maybe it’s too soon after loosing Asher to reopen the wound of a possible child. We don’t know. For whatever reason, life with Parker is so different than it was with Asher.

I remember thinking after London that another little baby might make things better. In the four months that passed between loosing her and getting Asher, I had time to grieve. Time to sit in misery.  Time to be angry and depressed and wonder if things would ever be right again.  Four months is not nearly long enough to grieve the loss of a child, but I felt that the worse was over.  The blurry beginning of our little family with Asher only stung the wound I thought was healing.  But there was Crystal, so excited, and my parents and hers, overflowing with joy at our new son.  London’s memory has become less painful and more distant as time has passed.  Asher didn’t fill the hole.  Time, faith, and new hope did.

I was more defiant after loosing Asher.  I almost wanted to be flippant about the whole thing.  It was onward and upward and back on the list for what would come next, like a disoriented stumbling across barren wilderness because there’s nothing left to do but move forward.  And then I didn’t want to go back on the foster-adopt list, exhausted from the constant stress and worry with Asher for 6 months and busy catching up with law school that had fallen behind in the wake of Asher’s case.  But it was important to Crystal to stay on.  And eventually, the possibility of another one on the list became what kept me going on the darkest days.

Bathtime with Mama was part of Asher’s nightly routine. Our fourth night with Parker, we did bathtime and because we didn’t have a lot of girl pjs yet (she’s in the opposite season as London, so only some of London’s clothes fit…), we made do with some of Asher’s pjs.  It about sent me over the edge. The only thing I could think of while lathering Parker with Johnson’s Baby Wash was that this used to be our every night with Asher.  And now there’s no more Asher, but this new little baby instead.

It’s not that we don’t want Parker. We absolutely do. She is a smart, headstrong, sweet child. And if the option to adopt were presented to us now, we would take it.  Maybe it’s the unconscious realization that we can’t go through what we did with Asher again. We have to be more distant and less emotionally invested in the outcome.  It was the ups-and-downs, the heartbreak, and the unpredictability with Asher that led us to pursue other avenues of adoption (big announcement on that coming soon).

Having Parker has been bittersweet. She makes me miss Asher more than ever.  But she’s also another new little bundle to love and protect and hope for. And we do hope for her. (Not too hard), but we hope that she stays.