Ode to Foster Care
The first time I met Child Welfare was at an informational session in an unmemorable building on an unmemorable day.
She was wearing an outdated gray suit and worn-out loafers, the kind with the tassels.
Reunification is the goal, she said, but sometimes kids get adopted.
I didn’t care about the outcome.
I just wanted to be a mom.
Fill out this paperwork, she said, and give us 30 hours of your time.
I did and she deemed me worthy.
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The calls came soon and often. For all ages, for large sibling groups, for kids with high medical needs. Turns out they let you choose who you want to parent.
My husband at the time said only boys and only if they are young enough that they won’t have issues.
Right.
If only he had known then what I know now.
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We said yes to the 10th call we received and just like that we were parents.
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Fast forward eight years. Single mom. Two kids. Adopted.
Fifty-nine hours of formal community supports per week-- school, respite, therapy. That’s what it took.
And then a pandemic and it all went away.
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I held on for 204 days.
And then I just couldn’t anymore.
My mind was shutting down, plotting its escape, thinking about death.
Not because I wanted to die, but because I couldn’t manage the pressure.
Their needs were so high. There was no one else to care for them.
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Child Welfare and I met for the second time in a hospital ED. This time she was wearing an all-black outfit. Sort of flowy, but a little too tight in the midsection.
I begged for help.
Child Welfare said, I am going to be real honest with you, we don’t really do that.
It’s you or the end, I said.
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And so began nine months of scrutiny.
Nine months of hoop jumping.
Nine months to close out a case that never really helped in the first place.
You’re not worthy, they said.
You’ll need to prove yourself.
But actually we need you, so you’re worthy enough.
Almost worthy.
But don’t forget-- you still need to prove yourself.
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Fast forward three more years. Mom to a teen who needs the supervision of a toddler to be successful, but the world doesn’t understand kids like that.
Write-ups.
Suspensions.
Can you help him?
Talk to his therapist.
Where’s the help? We need help.
Turns out no one can help.
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There was one more option I knew of.
I found myself walking up Child Welfare’s front path.
She opened the door in her bathrobe with a spa face mask on and said, what are you doing here?
I said, I can’t find any help. I can’t keep him safe. Please help me.
She said, like I told you before,
we don’t really do that.
Please, I said. I don’t know what else to do.
Alright, she said, but sign here.
I did.
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When I later looked at what I signed,
I had put my name on a child abuse registry.
They took my child and put him in places for kids that no one wants.
He did the things he does and they deemed him unworthy of help.
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On his 18th birthday, when I could breathe again, I decided to give Child Welfare a call.
I was ready to tell the truth about what knowing her had meant to me.
Someone else answered the phone.
It was a man.
He was young.
He told me Child Welfare had passed.
She was old, about 90, he said, born within the 1935 Social Security Act.
Ninety is a good lifetime, I thought.
Although I’d have a hard time feeling proud if I was her.
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I can put you in touch with her cousin, he said.
Transformation.
Great, I said, I guess I’ll give her a call.
Transformation picked up on the first ring.
I told her the story.
She said, Listen-- I have a lot to do. I need your help. Pack your bag. Show up here
tomorrow morning ready to go.
What’s your address? I said.
She hung up.
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Of course she did.
Transformation doesn’t live in buildings with outdated furniture or intake windows or forms that ask you to prove you deserve to love.
Transformation lives in the spaces where systems fail and someone refuses to disappear.
Transformation doesn’t need my arrival.
She needs my refusal.
My refusal to call abandonment “policy.”
My refusal to conflate survival with failure.
My refusal to let love be punished for telling the truth.
I guess it’s time to figure out what I’m doing next.
And this time, you better believe,
I won’t be asking if I’m worthy.
