Fostercare Adventures
My harrowing journey through the early years
I remember when I got my first phone call to take a foster child. I was ecstatic! I had been through the licensing process from start to finish for eight months, and the moment I had been waiting for had finally arrived!
“We have a little boy around four years old. Can you take him?” my licensing agency asked on my voicemail.
Can I take him? YES YES, YES! I put my phone in my back pocket and rushed to the bathroom before meeting a friend at the park. I planned to return my agency’s call from the car on my way to meet my friend.
“SPLASH!” My phone fell in the toilet!
“Oh no!” I thought. “How will I call her back and tell her I want the child? I don’t even know her number!”
This was my introduction to the chaotic life of fostercare. I was a mess!
Fortunately, my brother was able to help me return the call from my computer, and I was able to say, “Yes!”
However, it never came to pass. While I waited for this child to be brought to my home, the investigator located another foster family who lived in the area where he was from, so they placed him there. That way, his daycare, and daily routine would not have to change.
After obtaining a working phone, I began calling all the people I had notified in my excitement to let them know that the little boy would not be coming after all.
I think I learned that day what mothers who have experienced miscarriages worldwide have already learned. You don’t let people know you are having a baby until you are confident the baby is coming.
My first child arrives
As time went by, I received two more calls before my first child actually arrived. She was older than the age I was willing to take, and I learned a valuable lesson. The Department of Children and Families has so many kids that need homes, it doesn’t matter what age child you say you would like. They will call you with a teenager if they need to.
I also learned that it doesn’t matter how many kids you say you are willing to care for. If you say just one child, they may call and ask if you can take a sibling group of three.
It’s not that they don’t respect your wishes. They are just in desperate need of people willing to meet the demand of kids coming into care every day.
So, when I finally got my first foster daughter, who was eight years old, she came from another county. I believe I heard this when the investigator told me, but the meaning never really resonated with me because I really didn’t care. A kid is a kid no matter which county they come from, right?
It wasn’t until after I had the most challenging time receiving services, including obtaining a caseworker, that someone told me I should NEVER accept an out-of-county placement. Why? Because each county already has a heavy caseload, and you can end up at the end of the line for everything! The Department in each county takes care of their own children first. At least, that’s how it was when I first began fostering. So for the first seven weeks, I was basically on my own.
The honeymoon is over; chaos erupts
By the end of week seven, the honeymoon phase was over, and all chaos was breaking loose. The honeymoon phase is the period of time when the child seems so happy to be in your home that she tries to do her best to please you so she doesn’t get moved to another home. After about two weeks, she generally feels safe enough to let her guard down. That’s when all the trauma she has been facing starts seeping out through undesirable behaviors. If you are a newbie like I was at the time, you will be totally unprepared for the chaos that can erupt.
I still had not been assigned a caseworker, and I was sinking fast!
Honeymoons aren’t just for newlyweds
Our honeymoon phase was a whirlwind of laughter and smiles. My foster daughter grinned from ear to ear and seemed to dance as she moved. I was able to get her into surf camp, and it seemed things were going to be just fine. Until she refused to take a shower. Then she refused to brush her teeth. Then she refused to get dressed!
As a single working mom, I needed her to go to the day camp so I wouldn’t lose my job. AND SHE WOULDN’T GET DRESSED!
Being the newbie that I was, I probably made all the mistakes in the book when it comes to connecting with a new foster child. I demanded. I issued consequences. I begged. I even tried to bribe. Nothing worked. Everything just seemed to spiral downhill. FAST!
With the help of a foster-parent mentor, I finally got my child to cooperate, but unfortunately, this behavior became a daily occurrence.
In the end, the state decided that she was so wounded she needed to be moved to a therapeutic foster home. A home where a specially trained parent does not work and can be home with the child all the time.
Mistakes I will not make again
I felt I failed her, yet it was a learning process. I learned that I needed to try to look at the world through her eyes. I knew all the trauma she had come from, and it was ugly.
Her parents’ rights had already been terminated, and she had already been rejected by a potential adoptive family. She felt unwanted and alone.
Yet knowing all of this, I still expected her to conform to my life and timetable. I believed what most people assume when raising children. Kids are kids. The parent sets the rules, and they need to obey. This may be true for families raising their own children with whom they have already bonded and established a loving connection. But it’s not the same when you take in a child with a history of trauma and raise her as your own. You can’t just make demands on a child who has felt unsafe her whole life and expect her to willingly comply.
I’ve since learned that building a connection is the priority when taking in abused children. I should have constructed a foundation of safety and trust between her and me, where she could know that we were in this together as a team. I would take her needs and interests seriously, and we would develop life as a family together. But I never did. I just didn’t know. And so, in the end, she got worse and had to leave.
Moving on
After this experience, I decided that eight years old was too old for me. At eight, a child could refuse to do things such as shower and get dressed, which would affect my ability to work. I told my licensing agency I was only willing to take a child two years old and under, so they brought me an 18-month-old, blond-haired beauty named *Colleen.
*Name changed to protect the child’s identity.
About the Creator
Alexandra Christensen
An undiscovered artist and writer pursuing her dreams of supporting her blended family of foster and adopted kids with the gifts and talents endowed to her by her Creator. To make use of ones gifts and talents is to give back to life.
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Home Through the Winter Rain
Winter arrived gently that year, not with snowstorms or icy winds, but with steady rain that seemed to fall without end. The sky was a soft gray, heavy and calm, and the air smelled of wet roads and cold earth. On one such evening, a small family climbed into their own car, ready to begin the familiar drive home. The engine started with a low, comforting sound. The headlights cut through the mist, glowing warmly against the rain. The parents sat in the front seats, wrapped in thick coats, their breaths forming faint clouds before the heater slowly warmed the air. The mother adjusted the mirror, smiling softly as she glanced back at the children. The father rested his hands on the steering wheel, careful and steady, already focused on the road ahead. In the back seat, the children were bundled together like little birds hiding from the cold. Their jackets were bright against the dark interior of the car, and their shoes were still damp from puddles they had jumped in earlier that day. One child hugged a stuffed bear tightly, its fur worn soft from years of love. Another leaned close to the window, watching the raindrops slide down the glass in twisting paths. “Look,” one of them whispered, tracing a finger along the foggy window. “That one is winning.” The rain seemed alive outside, each drop racing the others, merging and separating, disappearing at the bottom of the glass. Streetlights reflected in the wet road, stretching into long golden lines that shimmered and broke apart as the car moved forward. The heater clicked louder now, filling the car with warmth. Slowly, gloves were pulled off, scarves loosened. The tight cold of winter faded into something soft and safe. The radio played quietly in the background—an old song the parents knew by heart. They didn’t sing out loud, but their heads moved gently to the rhythm. As the car traveled through the rain, the father slowed at each turn, careful not to rush. Tires whispered against the wet road. The mother pointed out familiar places as they passed—a closed bakery, a dark park, a row of houses glowing faintly from inside. Everything looked different in the rain, quieter, calmer, as if the world itself was resting. The children grew sleepy, their earlier excitement fading into peaceful silence. One rested their head against the other’s shoulder. The stuffed bear slipped onto the seat between them. Outside, the rain tapped steadily on the roof, a soft rhythm like a lullaby. “Do you remember,” the mother said gently, “when we used to drive like this before you were born?” The father smiled. “Long drives. Late nights. Just us and the road.” “And now,” she said, glancing back again, “we’re all here.” The children didn’t fully hear the words, but they felt their meaning. They felt it in the warmth of the car, in the way the parents’ voices sounded calm and close, in the steady movement carrying them safely forward. The road curved toward the edge of town. Trees stood bare, their branches dark and shining with rain. Water pooled along the sides of the street, reflecting the passing lights like tiny mirrors. Somewhere far away, a dog barked once, then fell silent again. One child stirred and yawned. “Are we almost home?” “Soon,” the father answered softly. That word—home—settled into the car like another blanket. Home meant dry clothes and warm soup. It meant lights in the windows and shoes left by the door. It meant safety from the cold rain and the long gray sky. As they drove, the rain began to slow. The drops grew smaller, lighter, until they were more like a mist. The clouds above thinned just enough to let a pale glow through, not quite moonlight, but something close. The world felt gentler somehow, as if winter itself had decided to be kind. The car turned onto a quiet street. Houses lined the road, each one familiar, each one holding its own small stories. The father parked slowly, switching off the engine. Suddenly, the world felt very still. The rain whispered one last time, then faded into silence. The children woke fully now, blinking and stretching. Coats were zipped, hats pulled on. The mother gathered the stuffed bear and handed it back with a smile. The father stepped out first, opening the door and letting in a breath of cool winter air. They walked together toward their house, shoes splashing softly in shallow puddles. The porch light glowed warmly, welcoming them home. Inside, the house smelled faintly of dinner and clean air. The door closed behind them, shutting out the cold and the rain. Jackets were hung up. Shoes were lined neatly by the door. The children laughed quietly, already talking about tomorrow. The parents watched them for a moment, tired but content. Outside, winter continued its slow rain. Inside, the family moved easily through their evening, wrapped in comfort and love. And though the night was cold, and the roads were wet, the journey had been enough—because they had made it home together.
By Sahir E Shafqat3 days ago in Families
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