Saying Yes: A New Foster Son

“Is that pee or water?  Huh?  Pee or water?”

These words come floating in from the other room where Amy is attending to Thomas, our new foster placement.  He’s 4…and we really don’t have any idea what we’re doing.

It’s pee. I think in the other room as I’m drying dishes.  Of COURSE it’s pee.  It’s always pee.  Unless it’s poop. Sometimes it’s poop.

“Thomas?  Thomas!  Did you pee?”

“Noooooo….”

“Thomas?”

“NOOO-OOOooo…I didn’t…”

“Then why is it…*sounds of Amy lifting Thomas up and checking down the back of his pants*…why is it in your pullup?”

“I didn’t!”

“Go sit on the potty.”

“Noooo!”

“Thomas!  Go sit on the potty.”

“NO!”

“Do you need a timeout?”

And so it goes. 

After the girls were adopted, Amy and I kept our foster licenses up, leaving open the possibility that we would take in another foster kid at some point.  But every time a case would float our way, we’d think of the girls, all the shit we had to do, how exhausted we were, and how much it would turn our lives upside down.  I mean, we were getting to the stage parents dream about.  The girls were becoming relatively self-sufficient, allowing us to leave them on their own for an hour or two during the day without them burning down the house or murdering each other.  Some may believe them too young, but really it all depends on the kid, and these girls are ridiculously good.  I’ve never caught them somewhere they weren’t supposed to be, never caught them doing something they weren’t supposed to be doing, never caught them watching a TV show they weren’t supposed to be watching.  I’ve never even heard them cuss.  Not once.  Well, I guess Shay did accidentally “strike a pose” pretending to be a model the other day that involved the middle finger, but she surprised herself so much by her action that we only laughed.

At Mo’s age, I already had the mouth of a sailor (thanks to some colorful talk from the older boys in the neighborhood), had taken to spray painting swear words under concrete bridges, and was routinely riding my bike about five miles outside my supposed “boundaries,” usually because word had spread that some absurdly lucky kid had found a water-logged copy of a 1982 Penthouse in a creek somewhere. 

Ah, the creek.  The giver of crinkled, moldy porn.  There were few things that could get an 11-year-old fat kid breathlessly riding his bike further than the promise of seeing some naked lady with big ol’ boobies.  Just the thought of that centerfold dropping out from the middle of that ancient, mud-crusted magazine made my chubby legs pump faster.  (If only I had known earlier that my brother had some nudie mags stashed in a box in his closet, I could’ve saved a lot of time and effort.)

Amy and I had spent the past year or so easing the girls into staying home alone.  At first it was to take the dog around the block.  Started off at 10 minutes.  Then 20.  Then an hour.  Pretty soon we realized that they acted as if they had something to prove when we were gone.  Hell, they were cleaning stuff up when we were away without even being asked.  Mo went from annoyed older sister to Super Sitter each time we shut the door, left instructions, and set the alarm.  We’d test her by calling every so often, just to make sure she was listening for the phone and would answer.  She always did.

It was pretty awesome. So why in the world would we screw this up?

I’m thinking about this as Thomas is looking at me from the tub.  He’s just put a large toy coin up against the faucet and turned the water on full blast before I could stop him.  Now I’m soaked.  The floor’s soaked.  The damn DOG is soaked.  And he’s just laughing his ass off. 

Oh my God!  I think.  What the hell did we DO?

About six months ago, Amy and I realized that the girls were getting older and more responsible.  They were growing up damn fast.  Mo was growing lightyears at a time, her maturity level surging up in great, surprising heaves.  She had straight A’s.  She was in sports.  Her confidence wasn’t a problem (if you’ve met her, you know). 

We’d also noticed how good Shay was with little ones.  There are some younger kids in the neighborhood, and she watches over them like a Momma Bird.  She easily slips from being the baby in the family into a nurturer.  A caregiver.  We realized Shay would do well with a younger sibling.

“You know,” I said to Amy one night.  “I was thinking about how our foster care license is still up to date…”

 

“Yes,” she said, oddly reading my mind.  We were on the same page.  “Let’s do it.  I think we’re ready.”

And so, out of nowhere, it was time to say “yes.”
We had a talk with the girls.  We told them that we were thinking of re-opening our home for a new foster child placement, but that it had to be okay with them first.  I had thought we would run into a good deal of resistance, especially from Mo, but their reactions were not of protest but of excitement.  They asked a million questions at warp speed.  When would it happen?  Are we going to adopt again?  Who would it be?  They imagined cute scenarios of domestic bliss.

And they really, really wanted a little brother.

Now Thomas is jumping up and down in the tub, flinging more water around.  I’m trying to keep calm, telling him that “we don’t do that” and that if he keeps it up, he can’t watch Little Einsteins after his bath.  He is unconvinced, however, that Little Einsteins is more important than slapping his butt and singing about poop. 

“Poop, poop, I go poops in the potty!  Poops *pfft-pfft* go plop and swiiiiiiimmmmm!”

Uh oh.  We’ve got potty talk. Don’t laugh!  Don’t…you…laugh!

Now Shay is outside the door, pouting because no one is paying attention to her.  She thinks that it wasn’t supposed to be like this.  That she is supposed to be the baby, not this kid!  Shay has been on about this a lot lately.  At first Thomas was fun…but now…well, she’s the…ugh…MIDDLE CHILD.  One afternoon just after Thomas had come to live with us she had watched some Disney Channel show about the heartaches and hardships of being the…UGH! Middle child.

No one pays attention to you.

You don’t get to do all the cool stuff the older sibling gets to do.

You don’t get the attention that the baby gets.

You just fall between the cracks.

“Shay,” I said one day, trying to reassure her, “you know, I was the middle kid…”

“That makes it worse!!!” she wailed.

Well, shit.  That stings.

“I don’t think you understand how good you have it, Shay!  Being the middle kid means you get to fly under the radar all the time.  Parents are always focusing on the oldest because it’s the first time they’re going through stuff as a parent, and when they’re not focusing on the oldest, they’re trying to keep the baby quiet.  All the middle kid has to do is check in every once in a while, give the thumbs up, generally stay out from under foot, and you can do pretty much whatever you want!  What I learned from being the middle kid was that it pays NOT to be the squeaky wheel.” 

It is entirely possible that I will live to regret this conversation, but I figured it was worth the risk.  Time will tell I guess.

Four weeks ago we got an email from our foster agency.  Tanya has sent us the profile of a little African American boy who needs placement.  “He’s three, about to turn four,” the message reads.  “I know that’s a little younger than you guys were looking for, but what do you think?”  I open the file and see this kid’s picture and I’m done for.  I’m wondering if Amy is looking at it too.  My phone rings. 

“Did you see Thomas?!? Oh my God, Matt…That was my dad’s name! He’s adorable.”

“Yeah.  I know.”

So we put in our home study, and CPS decided that we were the best fit for the little dude.  Everyone was ecstatic.  We were going to have a new member of the family, rounding out at five.  And, there was finally going to be another BOY in the family!  I was getting tired of counting my neutered dog and cat as fellow standard bearers of household masculinity.  I had been so lost before when Christmas and birthday shopping.  I’d wandered the aisles at Toys R Us, thinking, “What the hell is this stupid thing?  Oh well, I’m sure the girls will love it,” then thrown it dismissively into my basket.

Now I can buy all kinds of crazy crap.  Ninja toys, action figures, kick-ass games, gross trading cards (I realize they don’t make Garbage Pail Kids anymore, but maybe, by the grace of God, there is something comparable?).  Hell I’m giddy at this prospect.  Glitter and tiaras will finally be mixed amongst dirt and Hot Wheels.  Barbies will comingle with Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. 

Thomas won’t get out of the tub and is screaming.  Amy is busy dealing with Mo and a school project due (of course) tomorrow, and by the tone of conversation, I can tell they’re getting annoyed at one another.  And now I hear Shay quietly crying outside the bathroom door.  The damn wheels are coming off, just like every.  Single.  Night. 

God, I’m tired.  Again, the thought crosses my mind…what the hell did we get ourselves into?

So I stand up from the side of the tub where Thomas is writhing around in the cooling, soapy water, and look down at the surgical scar on his stomach.  It’s getting longer as he grows.  It looks like he had a liver transplant or something. 

That scar.

The point from which the doctors had to drain brain fluid from his skull when he was only nine months old because his biological father had hit hard enough to make his brain swell.  Apparently he had been crying too much.

“Shay, come in here,” I say.  Shay sulks into the bathroom and stands near me with her head down.  I put my arm around her and hold her with one arm and point down to Thomas with the other.  “Do you see that scar on his stomach?”

She nods.

“Do you remember why he has that scar?”

She nods again.  Thomas is laughing and slapping at his belly as we look at it.

“That’s why we said yes, honey.  That’s why.  And he wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t said yes, too.”

She looks at Thomas for a few long moments, considering this intruder, this interloper.

This little boy.

This little boy with a long scar on his belly.

I watch as Shay absently fingers her own surgical scar across her own stomach, her fingertips tracing along the small, hardened lumps through her flimsy pajama top.  Though not from the same thing—Shay’s is from a herniated belly button that had not been taken care of at birth—it is a place where they have both been laid open and again made whole.

“Okay, Dad,” she squeaks, starting to shudder with sobs.

“It’s tough, I know.  But you aren’t the first kid in the world to get a little brother.  In fact, that’s one of the oldest stories in the world.  You just have to tell me or Mom when you’re feeling left out and we’ll try to do something about it, ok?”

“Ok.”

“Tell you what.  Let’s me and you go on a Daddy-Daughter date next week.  We’ll do something fun.”

Shay lights up.  “Can we go mini-golfing?”

“If it’s open still, sure.  If not, we’ll see ‘Pelicans’ or something.”

Shay smiles at me.  “You mean ‘Storks.’”

“Yeah.  ‘Storks.’”

“Yes!” she hisses with an upturned fist of triumph.

“Good, glad you approve.  Now.  Let’s help Thomas get out of the tub.  Your brother is getting cold in there.”

So she coaxes Thomas out of the tub with efficiency, wraps him in a towel, tells him he’s a burrito and he laughs and squeals.  She asks him if he needs to go potty and he says no.  She asks if he’s sure and he says no.  She suggests he gets on the potty to try and he says no, but goes up to the toilet anyway, sits down, rips some crazy farts and poops.  The two of us congratulate him on his digestive prowess.  He laughs and sings about poops again.

“Dad, you better watch your potty talk around Thomas.  He’s picking up on it.”

“Yeah babe, I know.  I’ve got to do better.”

We get him into bed and Shay reads him a story, one that she enjoyed when she had first come to us.  Thomas falls asleep on her arm, and they lay there together for a long time, new brother and new sister.

We will be able to adopt Thomas in six months or so if all goes well.

I don’t think Amy and I realized the amount of room we had for Thomas.  We thought everything was filled up.  Our house, our time, or attention--even our hearts.  Especially in this aching time when everyone is so damn angry and scared and hateful.  But for some reason, one day, we thought, “Hey, maybe there is some room for this little guy.”  We opened a door and found there were still halls upon halls within our hearts and our lives that had been waiting for him, like some impossible house that keeps unfolding itself as you move through it, morphing and changing from a seemingly fixed capacity to a whole new shape and size, beautiful and dazzling in its new complexities. 

People think we’re nuts for taking on a third.  “Three?!?” they exclaim, incredulous, as if we had taken too many.  “You guys gotta stop!”  They’re smiling, but there’s an edge to their words.  Almost accusatory.  They wonder where we find the time or patience.  “My life is already so crazy!” they say, “I don’t think I could do it!” 

Well it is hard.  It really is.  Sometimes doubt sneaks in, especially when Thomas is screaming and Mo is pouting and Shay is crying and the dog is chewing up a wallet and Amy is rushing around trying to find a shoe or a sock or a backpack and we’re all very, very late... at these times I wonder if we’re doing everyone involved a disservice, because nothing is getting the individual attention it used to get.  We’re fragmented and frazzled, trying to keep a lid on chaos.

But we said yes.  And now we are five.  And the chaos is maddening and strange, yet somehow comforting, because it is our chaos, and out of this chaos comes deep love for one another, one the result of the other.

It feels good to say yes.  It feels good to open yourself up to something you know is right, even if it makes you vulnerable, threatens to tip your world on its ear.  Right now, ours seems to be a poisonous world, filled with fear and rage and dismay. 

A world filled with a lot of “no.”  Because saying “no” has become a kind of habit.

No is easier than yes, but in yes there is contentment. If you’re tired of hearing and saying “no,” then why not go DO something for someone you don’t know.  If you’ve been thinking of becoming a foster parent, talk it over with your partner.  If you’re both on board, don’t waffle, pull the trigger.  Start the process.  Get licensed.  Change the world for yourself and for a kid in need.  Yes it’s scary, and yes people will tell you you’re nuts, and yes, you risk getting hurt.  But so what?  I can tell you the rewards keep coming every day as you shape a kid that would have otherwise been cast aside.  The moment when a little kid tells you he loves you, or that you are “his hero,” or when an older kid begins to listen to you and you know you’ve made a real impact. Those moments are guaranteed to be among the most rewarding of your life.  If you aren’t in a position to help in that way, go do something else.  Go volunteer at a soup kitchen.  Go participate in Habitat for Humanity one Saturday.  Whatever.  Find some way to say “yes.”  Because remaining in a place of rage and fear doesn’t help anyone.  I realize some of us are actually pretty enraged and fearful right now and feel a duty to remain vigilant.  By all means, continue to do so (I know I will).  But at the same time, take what little control you can over some small piece of this world and make it a place for empathy and service.  A place for kindness and love.  A place for humanity.

A place for “yes.”   

I promise you’ll feel better.  I know I do.