UN-CREATING THE MONSTER

Out foster daughter wants to live with someone in her family. For months she has schemed and manipulated to make that happen. And it's about to. Happen, that is. It's about to happen. We're happy for her.
And the Department of Social Services asked that she pack some of the things she doesn't need. They thought she'd be excited.
Her comment? "Yeah, make it hard on me."
Did she expect someone to pack for her? Does she think that if she waits until the last moment, someone will?
Fat Chance.
I have decided that if she isn't packed the day the caseworker appears at my door to take her home, I'll just smile and say..."Oh, well."
The problem is that the caseworker won't. Won't smile or say "oh well."
She'll pack for the kid.
Now, if it was my call, I'd say "If you aren't ready to go, we'll just try to get back here next week...or next month...whenever we can fit it into our schedules."
But DSS won't.
How do I know?
It's the nature of the beast.
A former foster child here, who is gifted, attends an alternative high school ( read: a school to help kids who can't make it in the mainstream)
When she was in school here she had a 3.0 average. But she is being allowed to go to the alternative school so that she doesn't have to work too hard. She also has a child and a job.
BUT THOSE WERE CONSEQUENCES OF HER CHOICES, AND IN A REAL WORLD SHE HAS TO DEAL WITH THEM.
She needs to see that she can't count on public assistance all her life. (Right now, she factors it into her budget--for years ahead.)
Some group paid over a thousand dollars to buy her new furniture ( so she could feel better about herself ) WE USED TO TEACH THAT IF YOU WORKED HARD AND GOT AHEAD IT INCREASED YOUR SELF ESTEEM. NOW SELF ESTEEM SEEMS TO COME FROM WHAT YOU GET FROM THE SYSTEM.
And it occurred to me, as I pondered these things that the system is self-perpetuating. The Bible says " Go and multiply and fill the earth. " That's what the system is doing.
The system ( Departments of Human Services, community mental health centers, and non-profit organizations) is multiplying the heck out of itself.
It is making consequences inconsequential by taking away the sting.
It is rewarding indolence and manipulation with privileges and excess.
BASICALLY, THE ONLY WAY YOU GET REMOVED FROM MANY GOVERNMENT PROGRAMS ( DOLES) IS TO NOT SIGN UP FOR THEM AGAIN.
The system is teaching kids that they can live their lives relying on others, and it's OKAY.
They're victims. We owe them. And Public Assistance is just another lifestyle.
When my husband and I got married, we didn't have a lot of money. In fact, we probably were poor. But it really never occured to us to get on the county dole. We were able-bodied and we could help ourselves. We furnished our first rented house for about a hundred dollars total...with second-hand furniture and appliances we got at an auction ( It was late in the day and the dwindling crowd had stopped buying so we got a "deal." )
Anyway, back to the girl who is moving soon. My husband found boxes for her to use and brought them down from an attic at his work. He cleaned them up and delivered them to the child.
Did she say thanks?
NO, she said "Where am I supposed to put these?"
We both had a suggestion, but we didn't offer it.

FOSTER BASHING

Tune into any prime-time drama long enough and you will see a show about the horrible conditions in foster homes.

Listen to any call-in radio forum long enough and you'll hear the same thing.

Talk to former foster kids and many of them will tell you about all the abuse they suffered at the hands of their foster parents.

YOU KNOW WHAT? YOU'VE GOT ME. I CONFESS.

One of our current foster children is mad at me. Do you know why? I found out she hasn't turned in an English assignment since the first week in October. (Of course, I would have known this sooner, but the teacher hasn't updated her parent bridge in all that time either)

And her math teacher emailed me to let me know she's 8 assignments in arrears for her class...she's set up dates to get extra help ( as I asked her to ) but showed up only twice.

SO WE TOOK AWAY HER WEEK-DAY PRIVILEGES. THAT'S RIGHT...NO "MY SPACE" OR TV MONDAY THROUGH FRIDAY, UNTIL SHE GETS THE "F'S" OFF HER GRADE CARD.

The nerve!

AND WE WON'T LET HER SPEND AN HOUR TALKING ON THE PHONE ( EVEN TO HER MOM) IF HER HOMEWORK ISN'T DONE.

SO, she's sulking and freezing us with her eyes. I wouldn't care, except the last time she got mad at us, she made allegations against us.

Her family thinks foster care is terrible, too. But when the girl and her sister were first put into foster care, no one in their extended family would take them. When we took the girls to their father's funeral, the family came up to us telling us how different the girls looked and acted now. What a great job we'd done parenting them.

Now, we're horrible, hateful people. I expected that. The girls have been talking to them. And the girls trash anyone who doesn't do what they want them to.

IT'S A FACT. FOSTER PARENTS LEARN TO EXPECT KIDS TO BACKSTAB THEM IF THEY GET A CHANCE. WE don't expect thanks and kudos. We're part of the system that interferred with their lives.

One of our foster kids kicked in our back door.

Several have stolen money.

One of our bedroom screens was ripped by a foster child who wanted to smoke in his bedroom.

I've been kicked, hit, pushed and called names. My husband went through the embarrassment of having a law officer call in a check on him in a crowded restaurant because a 7 year old froze and refused to tell them he was a foster child ( he was Hispanic and so young...he obviously didn't belong with us.)

Kids have screamed at us because we asked them to vacuum...make their beds or do their laundry.

Insulted our cooking and our home ( because theirs was so much better)

And you know what? We accept this. We know it's only because they are hurting, and because they've had no one to teach them the things we're trying to teach them now.

We can even accept the allegations. From the kids.

It's the rest of the world that bugs us.

When allegations are made, foster parents are assumed guilty until proven innocent. They have no right to face their accusers, or even to know who their accusers are.

Foster parents put themselves at risk of physical and emotional harm from strangers...

see their possessions and their home mistreated and/or destroyed by kids who don't know how to take care of them or who don't care.

AND THEY DO IT FOR THE MONEY, RIGHT? THE WELFARE DOLE?

The average payment for the care of a foster child is about $600 a month for a teenager, less for a younger child. You do the math. What do you think we pay out in extra food, electricity, gas, school fees, clothing ( there are some funds for this...I think in our county it's a one time per child check for $80. We've never used it.) allowances, hair appointments, and other expenses?

AND THE REST OF THE $600, IF WE WANT TO, WE CAN COUNT AS WAGES FOR OUR 24/7 JOB.

But according to prime time TV, we're animals. We lock our refrigerators and we won't let the kids go for "walks" without us. OR we don't discipline them and let them act out in public. ( We aren't allowed to use any discipline that causes discomfort to the foster children...withhold meals, make them stand in a corner for long periods of time, spank them, or even send them to bed early as a punishment) I pulled a teen into a hotel room because she was standing in the hall screaming and disturbing others. Three weeks later, when she got angry about a boundary we'd given her, she used that incident to make an allegation. So what would you do?

Prime time blames foster parents...not the biological parents who put these kids at risk in the first place...when the kids turn into killers or sex offenders. But they assume wrongly that the kids placed into our homes are normal. THERE ARE NO NORMAL KIDS IN FOSTER CARE.

That's because they all have been traumatized...by the conditions that caused their removal in the first place and by the removal itself. Most foster kids lie, many steal, some are cruel to our family pets, some hurt other kids in the home, most have little idea of normal family life and responsibilities.

BUT IT'S OUR JOB TO LOVE THEM. TO TEACH THEM. TO KEEP THEM SAFE. AND MOST OF US ARE DOING THAT JOB WELL.

I'm through venting now, and I feel better. I remember why I'm in foster care. I love the kids.

And I get that our job is thankless, hard, gut wrenching and tiring.

I just wish the people in prime-time did.

FREAKED

I'm excited. Kind of. Well, maybe excited is not the word. Maybe more...anticipating.

No, not that either. Not anticipating. It's more...freaked. That's the word. Freaked.

This year, my husband asked me if I wanted to see the Ozark Country Christmas. I did.

He said it was the week after Thanksgiving and we'd drive to Branson, MO. for the event, then swing back through Springfield to go to the races at the Springfield Speedway ( the real reason for the invitation.) Danny Lasoski will be there.

For anyone who doesn't know Danny Lasoski, he's a very successful and famous sprint car racer.

But I don't care what the reason is. And I like races too.

And Branson is my favorite place on earth. It's a family friendly, fantasy world. We've been going there for summer vacations for 16 years, but have never seen their Christmas lights or shows. This is our year!

But then Charlie found out we'd have to leave on Thanksgiving day, not the week after.

I'VE NEVER BEEN AWAY FROM MY FAMILY ON A HOLIDAY.

THAT'S WHY I'M FREAKED.

All these years I've thought we hosted dinners at holidays for the kids. Now I know they're for me. I love my family. I love every screaming kid, every posturing teen, every son-in-law glued to the TV watching the game. I love my girls, trying to outdo one another with their holiday recipes. ( One year our oldest daughter got our elderly aunt drunk on brandied sweet potatoes...the alcohol doesn't burn off if they don't cook long enough.) I LOVE MY GANG.

This year, I'll be in Branson for Thanksgiving. The kids said "Go. It's only Thanksgiving, It would be different of it was Christmas or Easter." So on the Sunday before Thanksgiving, we'll have our family dinner. On Thanksgiving, we'll hit the road at 3 am for the twelve-plus hour drive.

And we'll go shopping at Branson Landing, a really world-class outdoor mall. We'll see the live nativity and listen to Southern gospel and stroll hand-in-hand through the million lights at Silver Dollar City.

The thing is, I've been thinking more about people who don't have families. People who don't freak at the thought of a holiday away. People who would give their right arms to have screaming babies and peevish teens and snoozing grandpas around them...to have someone who forgets to bake the yams long enough and someone who always overcooks the turkey.

And I guess you don't have to celebrate family on any special day. When you're blessed with a bunch like mine, it's always Thanksgiving.

LOW LIFE SELFISH PIG

I'm Ticked!

I just found out that I'm a low-life, selfish pig.
A loser par excellence.
I don't like me.

I was monitoring a foster child's conversation with her parent. Not listening, really, just monitoring tone as I watched TV. It wasn't until I heard my name mentioned that I snapped to attention.

Yeah, Caryl bought me a cheap shirt. It will probably last a week.......

I don't know. I need some more. I don't have anything to go with the new jeans.......

Probably not. It's like pulling teeth to get her to buy anything for me.....

Okay. It wasn't a $50 shirt. It was a J.C. Penney shirt. On sale. But the kid didn't even need it. I just bought it to be sweet. But system kids ( read: foster care) get the idea that the world owes them.

But don't foster parents get money to take care of the kids?
Yes. We do. We get about $600 a month for a teenager. (That's it. If you consider it wages, we donate the extra food and electricity and clothing and allowance and school fees and still make under 40 cents an hour ....if you consider it expense money, we donate our time 24/7.) And there is a one time (That's one time, not one time per season) allowance of $80 to pay for clothing. DO YOU KNOW WHAT A PAIR OF JEANS COSTS THESE DAYS?

A conversation occured at our home last week that might interest you.

ME: Please turn off the stair light. You left it on again.
CHILD: It wasn't me.
ME: No one else is home.
CHILD: Well, maybe I left it on...but we need it so we don't fall over anything.
ME: You mean, like your tennis shoes? They've been there for two days.
CHILD: Well, I couldn't wear them with my GAP jeans. The legs are too short and they won't touch.
ME: Touch what?
CHILD ( INCREDULOUS): The ground. Otherwise they look like high water.
ME: So, what did you wear for shoes?
CHILD: My Journey shoes. The ones I bought last week. I took the money out of my savings.
ME: I told you you couldn't have those shoes. They were too expensive.
CHILD: But that's the kind of shoes I like. The kind you get me are way lame.
ME: You mean you like the kind of shoes you wore when you were at home.
CHILD: No, we couldn't afford them then. But now I'm in foster care and you can afford them.
ME: You mean, like I can afford the higher electric bill when you leave on the lights?
CHILD: It wasn't me.

Get the picture?
The system ( read: me) owes them something because they're in foster care. And some of the parents urge the kids to get all they can while they're in the system so that they'll have a lot of stuff when they come home. We've even had kids ask for things and then give them to parents or siblings who aren't in foster care. THAT'S NOT EVERY KID.

But it is rare to get a child who has been in the system any lenght of time and has not developed the syndrome.

GRATITUDE. THAT'S WHAT I GUESS I EXPECT.

I don't want anyone to fall down prostrate before me.

I don't want to be canonized.

I just think it would be nice if we could teach kids that, even if the world gives you some hard knocks ( most of us have had them) IT DOESN"T OWE YOU ANYTHING.

BUT what do I know? I'm a low-life, selfish pig.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T this is what it means to me

I love Aretha Franklin. Well, not exactly. I don't know Aretha, but I love her voice. And that's a great song. I was reminded of it at a teachers' meeting at my children's high school the other day. I was talking to them about the needs of foster children, but the pre-meeting talk had taken another tack.



"I don't know," said one young male teacher. "I just can't get my kids to pay attention in class. They're always goofing off and talking over me. "

Yeah," said another. Makes me think about that movie..."

"Blackboard Jungle?" I asked.

Blank stares. Then the young woman who had spoken said, "No. 'A Walk to Remember.' Because when they act that way, I wish I was with my boyfriend on a walk, instead of at school in class."

"Yeah," said the first teacher. "I wish I was out on my Wave Jumper or something."



I agree with them. I know their classes, and they might as well be at the movies, or on a Wave Jumper. They aren't doing much teaching. AND IT ISN'T ALL THE FAULT OF THE KIDS.

These younger teachers ( and some of the older ones) encourage the students to call them by their first names...or, even worse, by their nicknames.



"Hi, 'G', " one says to his English teacher as he meets him in the hall.

The teacher is Mr. Gregory. He is in his late fifties or early sixties. I imagine it might be flattering when a kid likes you enough to call you by your nickname. It means you're his "bud," his amigo. THAT'S EXACTLY WHAT IT MEANS.

So, can you blame the kid when...two hours later...he is in class and he doesn't understand the relationship with the teacher has suddenly morphed?

OKAY. IN THE DARK AGES ( THE SIXTIES) WHEN I WAS IN SCHOOL, WE CALLED OUR TEACHERS "MR. _______ " AND "MRS. _____." For the most part, we didn't talk over them and we certainly didn't give them sarcastic answers in class. If we didn't want to listen, we did the honorable thing and slept. ( If you could sleep with your eyes open.)



And our culture is teaching children that there are no boundaries between what is acceptable public behavior and what is best said and done in private.



Our foster daughters frequently ask my husband Charlie if their blouses make their "boobs" look too big. Now, I don't believe that parts of the body are "dirty." But I do believe that we should reserve some things for the privacy ...and the security...of our best friends. We have tried to impress upon the girls that: 1) we don't approve of the indiscriminate use of the word and

2) we believe that you should only ask that of someone you are SURE is comfortable answering that intimate a question. We ask them to rephrase the question using the proper name for the body part.

"Does this shirt make my breasts look too big?"

AND YOU KNOW WHAT? USING THE ANATOMICALLY CORRECT NAME EMBARRASSES THEM.



We understand that this is the generation ( or the kids of the generation) that gave us Brittney Spears. They are accustomed to dress and language that would take Hugh Heffner aback.

SO we're old fashioned. Prudish. Well, maybe, but what do you think the girls would have said if my husband asked them if his pants made his penis look too big? Of course, we wouldn't say anything like that, especially to foster children, BUT WHAT IF?



I guess it all comes down to this: The kids are what we teach them to be. A lot of schools are going back to uniforms. Not only does it take away the competitive nature of fashion, but it puts kids in a frame of mind to learn. It signals that this time is different from time on the court or at the mall. I THINK I LIKE THE IDEA.

And we can require the students to respect one another and the teacher. To differentiate between the two.

And while we're at it, we can teach the teachers. ACT mature. DRESS mature. Cleavage is for the club, not the classroom. Sweatshirts belong at the gym or in front of TV, not in front of thirty students. YOU'RE THE ADULT. YOU KNOW MORE THAN THEY DO. IMPRESS THAT ON THEM. DRESS THE PART. ACT THE PART. DON'T ALLOW THE KIDS TO THINK OF YOU AS THEIR PEER.



Anyway, back to the meeting. I opened my big mouth and opined about all the above to those teachers at that meeting. They were polite. After all, I am a Beyonder and older than most of them ( But younger than several...ha ha.) They humored me.

BUT I STILL THINK I'M RIGHT. WE CAN'T DEMAND RESPECT FROM KIDS UNLESS WE SHOW THEM WE'RE WORTHY OF IT.



We need to teach some r-e-s-p-e-c-t to a generation which believes "modest" is a dirty word and "boobs" is a cute euphemism.

HALLOWEEN HOWLING

SO, last night was Halloween. If you have never experienced a small town Halloween, you've led a sheltered life. Creativity runs amuk in small towns at Halloween, So, for that matter does the police force.

As a lady Lions Club member, I've judged several children's costume parties. Let me add that these are children's parties only in the sense that the Westminster Dog Show is for the dogs.

Parents at the annual Halloween costume party begin working on their progeny's dress in July.

Last night, we had a four year old dressed as a monk. Now, I know that the child probably wanted to be a monk. He probably has monk trading cards, a monk bedspread, a monk action figure...he begged his mother to buy him that costume. One poor child had toilet paper rolls painted yellow and glued to his yellow hood. He was macaroni and cheese. There were some children in typical costumes...puppies and Spidermen and Sleeping Beauties. But they didn't win any prizes.

No, the kids in the monks' robes and the chicken suits won the prizes. $5. That's what they won. And the moms won bragging rights. Next year, their kid will be the kid to beat. ( or beat up.)

One year, a sweet-faced three-year-old stood embarrassed while her mother yelled at me. Mom had made her kids' costumes. She'd spent big bucks and countless hours crafting them. They were a set. But they were both pre-schoolers. Mom wanted us to divide up that group so that each of her kids would win first prize.

Anyway, this is an excerpt from one of my stories about the Lions Club planning their annual Halloween costume party.

Les Mooney had suggested that the women might be more suitable than men to judge the annual Halloween costume contest. The other men agreed. It was the primary reason many of them voted to admit women into the Lion’s Club. But it was like tossing the lions to Daniel.
Mary Ann and Susie Smith, wife of the club treasurer, met at the club at 5:30 pm with a bag of fifty-cent pieces and a lot of courage. The first kids arrived about fifteen minutes later, dragged in by their mothers.
There were some clever costumes. One child—Susie thought it was a girl—came in an outfit held on by wide suspenders. It was a horse body with floppy little legs in chaps attached. The kid’s legs fit into the horse’s bottom half. It looked like the little girl was riding the pony. Cute as all get out, it was.
Another child was covered head-to-toe in green taffeta. He was supposed to be lettuce, he said. A Slinky, tubed in brown felt, wriggled out of one side like a worm. The kid kept falling down, tripping over his wilted outer leaves.
Then, there was an assortment of store-bought costumes. Spidermen and princesses and fairies and three Hulks. The kids stood real still against the outer wall. As if they didn’t want to be there. As if they knew what would happen.
Mary Ann announced the pre-school category. Immediately, thirty women with babies in their arms charged the judges’ table. A lot of the little ones screamed—furious with whoever put them into outfits where they couldn’t move their arms. The mothers ignored their children’s cries and paraded them before Mary Ann and Susie.
The Lady Lions put their heads together, then chose three tykes: one sleeping darling dressed like a bottle of salad dressing, a spotted cow with pink udders and a baby dressed like a banana in a white snowsuit and yellow fleece peels. At first, there was shocked silence. Then one of the moms broke into language Mary Ann had heard switching past the premium channels with her Dish remote. The woman shoved her baby at Mary Ann and Susie. Her child was dressed to match her brother, the woman said. A pair of dice. She herself was evidently dressed for the holiday in a pair of shorts and a halter top. Like it was summer. Like it was ninety-eight outside instead of thirty degrees. Anyway, the mom told the women that the baby’s brother was in kindergarten. Otherwise, standing next to one another, it was obvious they would have won. It was those stupid age classes that ruined everything.
Mary Anne nodded and shrugged. The men had told her this was the way it was done, she told the mothers. But what did men know? Next year—next year, they would come up with different categories. The woman was finally persuaded to sit down..
Susie called for the kindergarteners. Mom dragged the other die up. Then another woman pushed through with two little guys in tow. Her boys wore matching white plastic raincoats painted to look like teeth. Baby teeth, and—judging from the smell—one was decayed. There were thirty-seven kindergarteners. The Lady Lions again conferred and chose the teeth, a fire hydrant and a policeman. The tooth-mother raged at them. One of her kids should have first and one second, she said. It was only fair. There were two kids. Why did they have to share one prize? Mary Ann dug two quarters out of her own purse and gave them to the decayed tooth.
Susie called for first graders. There weren’t as many of them, and the judges felt a little easier. That was before two kids came up dressed in identical costumes. They were mummies—their costumes authentically aged and shredded. Mary Ann told Susie she voted for the kid on the right. At that point, a shrieking mother bounded out of her seat and demanded to know how the judges could pick the other child when the boys were dressed alike. Her kid started shaking when his mother towered over him like that, and he turned to his friend and gave him a horrific punch in the nose.
The mom of the kid on the left was still screeching when the mummy on the right cried for his parent. She arrived with the speed and ferocity of a she bear protecting her cub. It took the Lady Lions about three minutes to get the mothers separated and settled down. When they did, the judges again pointed out the right mummy, citing the little stream of red blood running from his nose as the deciding factor—it added realism, they said.