Where Are All Of The Foster Kids?

I am the new kid on the block so I may be missing something.  I see adopters, adoptees, first moms, foster parents, but where are all of the foster kids?  Who is speaking for us?  Yes, I have found some Foster Care Alumni,  but clearly not as many I would have expected or hoped to.

Is it the shame that keeps us quiet? Our parents knew us, looked us in the eyes and decided we were not worth the effort.   Is it the shame of knowing who your parents are and that they just couldn’t get it together enough to see us through?  Is it the continuous rejection and reminders that we are not nearly as important to them as they are to us? 

In the case of my “father" it is the constant reminders that I just am not a part of his “chosen family”. For me it is also the hope.  If I try real hard, if I don’t take things personally, if I play nicely and keep my mouth shut, if I don’t shatter illusions or poke holes in their façade, maybe, just maybe they will keep me around – this time.  But there are always more hoops to jump through, more lines drawn and any appearance of acceptance is illusion.

While reading Elaine’s blog about her “maternal source” I realized that while our experiences are different, her adoption and me from foster care, the hurt and rejection is very similar. 

A few years ago, my youngest step-brother got married.  (My father has said he “adopted” him in a “religious ceremony”, not legally.  My step-brother legally changed his name from his family name to our family name Koffron, at the age of 18.   I can only imagine how his REAL father feels about that.)   My husband and I attended the ceremony.  Afterward I was told I wasn’t needed while the “family” pictures being taken, so I went to nurse my daughter Amélie before the reception.

We returned to the reception and were sat at what we affectionately refer to as the “reject table”.  After dinner was served, the bride and groom, the parents (including his REAL father) were making their rounds, and speaking to guests.  A lovely couple came up to our table and introduced themselves as dear friends of the Koffrons,  Dr. and Mrs. So and So.  (We knew who Dr. and Mrs. So-and-So were because my parents had mentioned him and his wife frequently over the years.  “We went to dinner with…We saw this play with"…you know…)  

And how do you know the Koffrons?  he asks. 
I am Bob’s daughter, Sunday. I say. 
I never knew he had any kids of his own, says the dear friend of the Koffrons. 

This couple had known my dad’s second wife since college, my father for the 30 or so years that they had been married, and the fact that Bob had any kids NEVER came up!  Three lives not worth even mentioning…once in almost 30 years.

And I am the one who feels ashamed?

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In Defense Of My Mother

I don’t and won’t spend a lot of time defending either of my parents.  For the most part I have witnessed very little regret or remorse from either party, they each feel equally justified and that the other one is to blame for our family going so terribly off track, my sister's running away and my time in the foster care system as a ward of the state.  There were also us kids to blame, if we weren’t so god-damned needy everything would have been just fine.  Well, we were kids, and being kids makes one very childish.  I admit, if I would have just understood that their wants were more important then my needs their lives would have been much better.  

My mother was “raised” for some time by an alcoholic father who abused and neglected her.  She thinks she remembers her mother who just disappeared one day.  She and her sister were taken away from their father and placed in foster care.  She/they were in something like 9 foster homes in one year.  To my recollection I have never heard her tell any happy foster home stories.

My grandparents had two kids of their own, a nine year old girl named Joyce, and my uncle who was around 14 when Joyce drowned in the local swimming hole.  Now, I am never sure how this happens or why people think it is a good idea to replace a lost puppy or child with a new one, but apparently people do.  After Joyce’s death my grandparents decided to adopt a new daughter, my aunt, so the story goes.  Instead they were told that if they wanted my aunt they had to take my mom as well.  My mother was 12 years old when my grandparents reluctantly adopted her.  

How my uncle must have felt about losing a sister and then having two replacement sisters forced on him, I do not know.  It seems to me that would be a lot to deal with in the face of such grief.  I am sure he was never consulted. I never once remember anyone ever mentioning Joyce’s name in my grandparents’ house.  Not one picture of the lost Joyce was ever visible.  I assume my uncle was just expected to move on with his two new replacement sisters like everything was as it should be.  

I loved my grandparents, they were what I knew.  My grandpa was great fun.  My grandma was always distant and not much of a kid person as I remember her.  My mother’s stories of growing up in their house pretty much go along those lines.  My grandma really only wanted one of them and my mother felt the burden of that on a daily basis.  My mother was lucky and should be grateful that they had brought her along, albeit reluctantly. 

My parents were from the small town of Tecumseh, the Koffrons lived a block behind my mom’s parents.  My dad was the star football player and quite the catch for my mom.  Being pretty, my mom wasn’t a bad catch for my dad either.  I assume they were in love, at least at some point.  They married young and had my older sister, quickly. 

What I do remember about my mom while my parents were together was that she tried.  She tried so hard to be a great mother, a great wife, a great friend and neighbor, as if she were up for some great____ award. She tried desperately at that time to be everything she had no idea how to be.  

I called my mother a couple of weeks ago to check some details about my childhood with her. (I rarely talk to my mother; too much has passed between us.  While on some level I understand her limitations, her primal wounds and her issues, I still wish she would have, at some point, been able to get a hold of herself and do better by her kids. Lest we forget she gave me a primal wound of my own.)  During the conversation I brought up how hard she tried when she was married to my dad, and I asked what happened, why she just quit – gave up?  Her answer floored me…she had tried that hard, she did all that stuff for us and it was never appreciated.  

Oh-My-God!  We were 6, 8, and 12, when she gave up and left…because we were ungrateful!  Because her husband and children were unappreciative of all of her sacrifices, she stopped trying.  But MOM, that IS being a mother!  I don’t know one single mother who feels like they are truly appreciated by their children.  Not one wife who thinks their husbands understand the kind of sacrifices she makes.  Maybe, some of us don’t feel unappreciated, but maybe less than fully understood.    

For a couple of weeks now…"and no one appreciated it"…has been bouncing around in my brain like a pinball.  How fricking immature can you be?  You have got to be kidding me!  Seriously?  Even after all this time that makes sense?  You have never been compelled to re-evaluate that?  Nobody in your support group has called you to task on that idiotic premise? 

Then it hit me today.  Thanks in large part to Linda at REAL DAUGHTER/ADOPTED DAUGHTER.  Adoptees/ foster children are supposed to be grateful and appreciative to be taken in.  They are lucky to be fed, clothed and have a roof over their heads, any more than that is over and above what any waif should expect.   I have seen and resented that attitude myself, but some how I hadn’t related that to my mother or how that affected her expectations as a mother, until today.  That is what my mother grew up with.  That is the sentiment she knows.  That was what was expected of her, that is what she expected of us.  My mother came through the system a long time ago; (at least 25 years before I did) she didn’t have any help adjusting, no therapy or any validation of her loss.  She was expected to replace a dead child.  My mother was set up for failure.        

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They Can't Miss What They Never Had

Amélie had her 5^th birthday this weekend.  I have a hang up about celebrating birthdays and holidays.

My thoughts on birthdays go something like this “so, I was born, so were the other billions of people in the world and they are just as important as I am, and I just don’t have time to bake every one a cake.  That just wouldn’t be fair.”  I realize not every one feels that way.  Don’t get me wrong the births of my kids were the best things that have ever happened to me.  We do celebrate; mostly my husband drags me along no matter how much I protest.  I really go out of my way to attempt to keep it low key.

While I do think there is some merit to my birthday thoughts, I believe my aversion goes deeper than that.  My parents, well OK, my mom went all out for holidays and birthdays when she and my dad were married.  

Christmas Eve in my childhood home was a family and neighborhood event.  The house was decorated, friends came with gifts, drinks flowed and then we went to midnight mass with our dad.  (I assume my mom stayed home and cleaned up, I don’t think she ever stepped in the church aside from our baptisms.)

After my parents divorced things changed dramatically.  Mom had no money or time for birthdays.  My dad’s wife would always tell us what gifts she HAD bought us but returned to the store because we did not deserve it, for one reason or another.  My father got every other weekend and holidays after we went to live with my mother.  Our first Christmas after his marriage and conversion to Judaism he insisted on his visitation.  No mass, no tree, no turkey, not a gift, just plans to go to the movies.  (I have nothing against Judaism, it was just a very rude awaking, clearly our lives would be different from here on out.)

A couple of years latter when I was in the foster care system, I was the ONLY kid at AHC (out of 24) left in the building.  In all fairness I can’t remember if I was in trouble or if both my parents were away on trips.  (I think all of the above).  Anyway Christmas Eve I hung a sock up, hoping that the Christmas spirit would move someone.  No such luck…I woke up to find that the poor staff who had to stay and work for one damn kid had stuffed the sock with toilet paper, and I was done.  I was done with Santa Claus, done with Christmas, done with religion, done with family, done with birthdays, done with childhood, done with hope. Done, Done, Done!

I know a lot of people who went threw the system go all out trying to give their kids everything they never had as kids.  Please, don’t get me wrong, in a lot of ways I do that, with my time and attention, my decision making.   They are always my first consideration.  But, they can’t miss what they never had. 

Now, my attitude about all of this makes my husband crazy.  First of all it is not about me.  (He is right).  Birthdays and Christmas are fun (so he says).  We are not getting divorced (we're to lazy to hold grudges).  Nobody in our house is going to change religion (we don't have one).  So, what's the problem?  Why am I so nutty about this?  I can’t escape the feeling that we are setting them up for future disappointments.

I know that nobody expects for their life to change in the blink of an eye, but I know it can, and it does.  I never want my girls to know what it feels like to lose everything they hold dear.

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One Brave Post

I wanted to share this guest post by Anastasia from sweetbutterbliss  that she did for depressionsandconfessions called Redemption Doesn’t Come Easy .  As a product of divorce and then the foster care system I found her honesty about her depression and how that affected her as a mother incredible.  Her children are lucky to have a mother who can face the truth, learn lessons and take action.  

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One Victory

I am very excited about the passage of this groundbreaking piece of legislation.  It is my hope that other states will quickly follow California’s example.  Goodness knows a couple of extra years of support could have saved me and others like me a lot of pain and agony. 

"California Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger signed a bill Thursday extending foster-care support to young adults between the ages of 18 and 21, a move cited as a bellwether by child-welfare advocates." ~ By VAUHINI VARA The Wall Street Journal

Congratulations, California's Foster Youth, do us proud.

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One Tragic Outcome

In the news today:  18-year-old former foster youth found guilty of 18 counts including murder.

 

I absolutely feel for the family of his young victim.  There is no excuse for murder.  I can’t help but wonder if we as a community failed this young man.  We will probably never know what if anything could have been done differently to help this young man while he was in the state’s care, and prevent his victim’s murder.  

"Maslamani's attorney said his client doesn't understand the seriousness of the case. Joseph Kosmala calls his client "an 18-year-old child" who has a lot of learning disabilities."  "Kosmala says his client has not had any visitors and that no one brought him clothes for the trial. He says Maslamani has been raised in foster homes and that he grew up on the streets." WXYZ Detroit By: Christy McDonald

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Uniquely Qualified

Another (much younger) coach has asked me “Why do you have all of the difficult kids in your classes?”  OK, they said “headcases” but well, I thought I’d pretty it up a bit.  The easy answer is that I am obviously older and more mature, that’s why I don't mind dealing them.

 

Ha! I may be older but more mature? Maybe not so much. What I tell the parents of these kids, when they ask how I get these kids to do what they do with me? “Well, I have 3 occasionally high maintenance kids of my own.”

 

While that is true, it is not the whole truth.  The whole truth is that the years that I spent as a Ward-of-the-State, in various shelters, institutions, group homes and foster homes have uniquely prepared me to be able to handle any manor of “headcase.” 

 

Give me your ADD/ADHD, your OCD, your Depressed, your Anxious, your Selective Mute and your Attachment Disordered – no problem!  Autism, Aspergers, Tourette Syndrome- I scoff at you. You are no match for me. I haven’t coached you yet, but Borderline Personalities, Schizophrenia- I know your voice(s) when you hear them. Dissociative Disorder, I know who you are. You don’t scare me! I welcome you with open arms.

 

My stint in foster care has rendered me incapable of judging even one single child as un-coachable, un-teachable or un-lovable.  Foster care has made it impossible for me to write any kid off, as not worth the effort. 

 

So I will remind you not to poke at the person next to you and not to wander away.  I will put my hand gently on your shoulder so you can FOCUS ON WHAT I AM SAYING.  I will remember that I have to watch you because you won't call my name when you get to the top of the rope.  We can wait for you to finish that tic or perform that ritual.  I will assure you that your mommy will be right back, ‘cause, honestly, she will.  I will tell you that voice that says, “I can’t” is lying and not real, again.  Then you can get up here and take your turn, and do what you came here to do. 

 

I’ll clap, I’ll frown, I’ll roll my eyes and say, “really, that’s all you’ve got?” I’ll hug you and yell “Yea!”  I’ll love you, each of you, like you are my very own.  I will take you, have them put you in my class, yep, I will!

 

“Those headcases, they are MY KIDS and I am damn proud to have them!” 
Photos : my natural kids playing at Open Gym

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