Teen Talk

Here's my new approach:

When listening to my teen's continually rude and grating, know-it-all, how-dare-you-even-consider-disturbing-me tone of voice, I will attempt to hear it like I would hear a foreigner's thick accent. And I will attempt to respond with the patience and care I would gladly extend to a foreigner I was having a difficult time understanding.

Because I'm pretty sure I don't contemplate strangling heavily-accented foreigners every time they open their mouths.

Treat me like I'm...

AlmostGrownChild*: I'm going to stay late and then I'll be home.

ManyMom: Actually, I'd like you to please be on the next bus home. You broke curfew yesterday and then were sneaky today by waiting until I had left the house to leave, when you were on restriction and I had specifically said no to you going to your meeting early. You need to come home now.

AlmostGrownChild: Hmph! I wish you'd stop treating me like a 16 year old and start treating me like a 17 year old!
*slams down telephone, hanging up on me*


chuckle, snort, giggle. hahahahahahahaha!

__________________________________________________________________
*This is my current fosterteen. He turned 17 a couple weeks ago. He's lovely, and has been with us since August, and I really enjoy him.

DHS RANT

Please feel free to bypass this rant.
It's part of the reason I am C R A N K Y.

Tomorrow is the first day of school. For everyone except my foster son, because at this juncture we don't know WHERE he will be going to school.

For those of you that don't know the system, by the time they become teens, most kids have been in and out of foster homes, have some kind of history of bad stuff (abuse, violence, drugs, stealing, etc.), and don't go to regular public schools, blah blah. Maybe this isn't true about all foster teens, but I only take the hard to place teens, which means there will be some significant back history that makes schooling challenging.

When I took this teen in (mid-way through July), I said that I wanted schooling addressed as soon as possible, to be able to work on creating a success story before he even walked in the door. Knowing where he would be, visiting, meeting teachers before, helping them understand how to manage his behaviours, giving him an early idea of what to expect. Mental preparation. But in August we got switched to a new case worker, we can't sort out who his prescriber for meds is (so he's out), his special care nurse has not called to make an appointment, AND WE STILL DON'T KNOW WHERE HE WILL GO TO SCHOOL! Because of his situation, we can't just walk in and enroll him in a school. His records need to be gone through, multiple meetings need to happen to determine the best placement, etc.

So, what this means is that we are starting out in the red. Negative Balance, here. No meds, no mental preparation, and lots of stress and anxiety.

His case worker is wonderful. Really. And doing the best he can, but he has over 200 kids on his case load, and he's supposed to be caring for ALL of them. It's no wonder nothing gets accomplished.

Sigh.

It's my job to help this kid be successful, but I can only go so far, and the State is not supporting me. Not because they are bad, or because it's personal. It's not. But this system, our foster care system, is BAD. It's diseased. It's amazing it works at all.

this morning.

This morning I started my day shushing my newly-20 yr old. awwwwww....... I got to be irritated with my 20 yr. old way too early this morning. It's totally made my day.

Yesterday, 19-yr-old turned 20.

I hadn't talked to him in about a week. I came home from work, and my 12 year old says, "Mom, call 20-yr-old." So I do, at the provided number, one I don't recognize.

20-yr-old: Mom*, I'm stranded in Springfield.
ManyMom: Happy Birthday!
20-yr-old: Thanks. Mom, I'm stranded in Springfield.

[...]

Long story short, he wants me to come rescue him. so i do.

******

At midnight, as I am bleary eyed and going to bed, he is chirpily making impromptu plans for a party the next day. AT MY HOUSE. clever child. I missed all the details, warm and fuzzy in loving him; who says no?

At 7:22 am, I suddenly bolt out of bed, remembering no one put out the garbage.
"20-yr-old, go put the garbage out." Which he does, good lad.

20-yr-old: Mom, can you like, get up and clean a little?
ManyMom: What? What? 20-yr-old, no. I'm not up. You're seeing things"
[pause]
20-yr-old: Mom, they're gonna be here at 9.
ManyMom: WHAT?!? You knowingly invited people to be here, at my house, at 9 IN THE MORNING? Why? Why would you do that?
20-yr-old: [flipping explanation deleted, because it was not even remotely a good enough reason]
ManyMom: WHY did you think that would be a good idea?
20-yr-old: Well, at 3:42am, when we decided this, it seemed like a good idea.
ManyMom: sigh, yes, I guess it would.

I remember those days.

So, I remind him that NO ONE gets to talk to me until I've had coffee and he'd better go meet his friend at the bus stop and NOT bring him home at 9 am. In exchange, I will cook for them, get snacks and promise not to embarrass him too much in front of his friends when they return LATE in the afternoon.

20-yr-old: Mom, um, can I, like, have some money...for bus fare?
ManyMom: I don't have any money right now. You have to plan ahead. I haven't been to the bank yet. I have no money. Hey, where's your money?
20-yr-old: Well, can't you just, like, write me a check or something?
ManyMom: For bus fare?
20-yr-old: Mom, can I make you some coffee or something?

Goodness, but I love being his Mom.

UPDATE: They showed up at 10am. TEN. /exasperation!
_______________________________________________________________
*Last week, 20-year-old, after emptying my entire refrigerator, sidles up to me and stares over my shoulder while I'm catching up on your blogs, until I turn around with eyes wide as dinner plates to tell him to STTOOOOOPPPPP IT.

"um, can I like, call you my mom? Will you be my mom? Like, can I tell my friends that's who you are?"

/melt, melt, melt

"of course, i would love if you called me mom. now go put the dishes away."

Love your children

What I do shouldn't be considered extraordinary. It should be the minimum that each and every child gets from each and every parent. It's not right that the wonderful boy I have in my home is being told he is lucky to have someone see the good in him. What's wrong with our society that it is a "lucky" thing to be loved, to be appreciated, to be seen, to have someone see you for the miracle you are?

And you know what? I'm not even the "good" mom. If I were the mom I wish I were, I'd actually LOVE game night, not just tolerate it. I wouldn't skip out on my kids to go dance tango. I would be eternally patient and truly value each little thing that they do, rather than wish they would hurry hurry hurry up. I wouldn't rush them through the bedtime ritual because I wanted alone time. I would love that my 8 year old still wants to sleep with me, so I could noozle his little boy head that is growing too fast.

but instead, I do the minimum of at least LOVING them. so why can't everyone else?

Letter

A few days back I received a letter from a child that I had to have removed from my home. I've stayed in touch with the caseworker and receive occasional updates about how the child is doing.

Dear ManyMom,
Hi!! How are you? I am typing this letter because I want to say something. I am sorry for what I did at your house. You treated me nicely and respectfully and I treated you like a jerk. I am sorry for not following your directions when you told me to do something. If I could have done the whole stay at your house over again, I would have followed your directions and treated you with the same respect that you treated me with. I wish I had made some better choices so I could have stayed in your home. If I would have known where I would be heading after I left your home, I would never have done any of this stuff. Two weeks ago I got all my stuff that you had packed and given to CaseWorker. In that stuff I found one of those cards that you had given me on respite. The one's you told me to open at night before bed. I read over it. While reading over it I started to cry because I felt guilty for what I had done to you and your family. I regret what I have done. I just want to say I am sorry and ask if you will forgive me for what I have done. I hope my next letter will be on a happier note, I just feel that this should be my first letter to you to tell you I am sorry.
Sincerely,
Former Foster Child

Here's the thing. I can only feel apathy. The system totally and completely failed this child. By the time I got FFC, there wasn't much I could do. If it had been just us, I think we would have made it through, but there are other kids in my house and the situation was becoming dangerous. So FFC is somewhere else feeling guilty because FFC treated me poorly, when really? Of course FFC did. That's all FFC had to work with , the only tools that felt safe and reasonable. Push away, keep away, don't let ManyMom in, she might go away, she might send me away.

*sigh*

Foster Kids

Today I have one moving out and one moving in.

The one moving on is the one that pushed me to the Tipping Point, the one that I had for Respite and fell in love with, the one that has finally made a decision for himself for maybe the first time in 19 years, and has decided to move out. I'm not crazy about how he did it, and I'm worried sick for where he will be in 2 months. But, at least he's making a decision for himself, and (for right now) feels really good about it.

I've had him since February, and the perseverance it has taken to let him know that he is wanted and loved and respected is exhausting. I can't tell you how many times we've had soul wrenching chats, where I think that all the plaque is flaking off, only to wake up the next morning and see that, actually, it's all still there. Which is ok. We start over. "Foster child, I'm not going away. I will still be here no matter what the problem is. I will still like you, and love you, and want you to be part of my family. You are part of my family." Over and over. And I don't think he believes it. I don't know if he can believe it. But I mean it with my complete being.

So last night he calls me from the place he hangs out, and I tell him he has an appointment today with his case worker, and I remind him he needs to move his stuff out of the bedroom. And I can hear in his voice that that tidbit went in one ear and out the other. So I say it again. "I need you to come clean and pack your room. There's another kid coming in, so I need you to plan on being here all day on Friday to take care of it." His response: "Well, do you have boxes yet?" At the same time I am pulling my hair out, I totally love the teenage sense of entitlement. Part of me wants to scream, "No! You are ditching my family in a yucky way. You don't call, you won't tell me where you are living, you break agreements, you blow me off. And you expect me to have boxes for you? Nuh uh, buddy. Figure it out yourself!" The other part of me just wants to hug him really really close.

I hope this isn't the last I see of him. I hope he comes by to do his laundry, to have dinner once in a while, to borrow some money, or just for a hug.

How can this still be so?

I was recently blindsided by someone who looked right at me and started sharing with me, confidentially of course, that that child's issue was that she has (said with a conspiratorial and hushed tone) lesbian parents.

I just looked at her. Could she really not know that she just said that to a lesbian parent? Really?

I still just looked at her.

Then, "I bet if that girl had a father he would straighten her right out!"

She just said that to a SINGLE lesbian parent.

In retrospect, I am having a hard time believing that the look of utter disbelief on my face didn't tip her off.

I am astounded by the bigotry, sexism and prejudice that still exists.


Oh, and that child? She is being lovingly raised by lesbian foster parents that see the beautiful jewel that is hidden under all those protective layers that girl had to create to protect herself from her completely screwed-up, drug-addicted, sexually and physically abusive heterosexual parents.

Get your own bumper sticker from AnniePants on Etsy

Tipping Point

I reached my tipping point yesterday. Now, I have been gifted withpatience and a genuine joy of teenagers. And I enjoy the dance between being a kid and an adult, and I find them endlessly entertaining. But we reached the tipping point*. And let me tell you, my tipping point is slight. There's no plateau there. I came right up to it, and he shoved me over in the time it took him to utter:

"Well, you have a vehicle, don't you?"

And it is c a v e r n o u s down here. There's no visible way back up. He'll be building a ladder out of whatever he can find and lowering it down with chocolates and roses on every rung. Then, and only then, is there a possibility of finding his way back into my good graces. And if I climb back up, I will be precariously balanced on the edge of that point indefinitely. There are no more second chances, no more excuses, no more omissions.

And, this is why I love teens. Prior to this event, I didn't even know that I had a tipping point.

____________________________________________________________________
*I was so angry that I cleaned out and rearranged the garage, rearranged my patio, completely cleaned the refrigerator, and scoured the kitchen floor and hallways on my hands and knees.

Ah Yes, Our children....

This Delightful post from Okay, Fine, Dammit had me rolling but then I came to the comments. They were fantastic. These are the things that make me love being a parent. The sheer camaraderie of knowing that your child makes you look like a total ass, and that there are thousands of other people out there experiencing the same thing; that's the stuff that dreams are made of!

My kids are almost past that stage of embarrassing me by the words that they use, but they find other ways.

A couple days ago (Wednesday) my foster son announced to the people that decide his future, that he had not completed several of his classes, that he is on academic probation, and that his financial aid is suspended.....all before he told me. So there we all were, on a conference call that decides his destiny, and I am silently smacking him upside the head. His defense? "Well, I didn't lie to you....I just didn't tell you."

I thank god for those moments of stuffing OB tampons up their noses when company is over, when they ask someone why they have man-boobs, when they announce at parent-teacher conferences that I had tried to get out of coming....they prepared me for days like last Wednesday.