Fixing to Blow?

Blogged from a cell phone, my apologies for typos.

FosterEema and I are doing our best to keep things calm at the moment, but it is looking like Danielle is fixing to blow. She's angry at the moment because she didn't do last night's dinner dishes, and as a result, we opted not to take her shopping to redeem a gift card she had received as an adoption gift.

We don't go to the desired store very often, so Danielle was rather annoyed we didn't stop. Of course it didn't help her mood when our route to the city over the hill passed right by the store where she wanted to shop.

"I'll be happy to do things for you when you do the things you are supposed to do," I told her.

Danielle has spent the remainder of the day arguing about everything and doing just about everything she can to be maximally unpleasant. She spent more than an hour arguing with FosterEema, while I was on the phone with a potential new client. She was distracting beyond belief and wouldn't shut up.

Now she is pounding because we sent her to her room for being disrespectful and rude when we tried to talk to her about her behavior when I was on the phone.

I hate the waiting and trying to be reasonable when she is not. I wish she would just blow up and start hitting so we could call the police and have her arrested. Then, it would be over, at least for now.

The Bad Seed

On Tuesday, I mentioned I had spoken to my friend "Jill" who had reported things weren't going so well with her kids. She has three children: 12-year-old "Meenie," 9-year-old "Eenie" and 5-year-old "Miney." Of these kids, "Eenie" is the only biological child. "Meenie" and "Miney" are half-siblings adopted out of our county's foster care system.

We met "Jill" and her husband "Jack" in our foster parent training class, and "Meenie" was placed with them before we received our first placement. "Miney" followed a few months later, as he was only two years old at the time and required a slower transition from his previous foster home to his new adoptive home.

Although "Jill" seems to be having a lot of trouble with her kids, her birth child "Eenie" isn't the one causing any of the troubles. She is just a terrific kid. She helps out around the house, she's doing well in school, and she is honest as the day is long. She doesn't lie, cheat or steal, attributes which cannot by claimed by her older and younger adopted siblings.

Like me, "Jill" is pretty much at the end of her rope with her adopted children. The kids' previous foster mother had expressed considerable frustration to the agency about "Meenie," but nobody really believed her. "Jill" is now experiencing all the same problems the foster mother had complained about and more. "[Former foster mother] was right," she sighed in dismay.

Not only is she dealing with some incredibly difficult behaviors from her older daughter, she's also having to deal with some pretty horrific problems coming from her five year old son. He behaved so badly at her job-sponsored daycare that she risked disciplinary action, and she finally had to hire a private sitter to watch him while she and her husband were at work.

"Jill" had hoped that since "Miney" had been adopted so young that she might be able to make a difference in his life. She's starting to believe that there is nothing she can do to help either child.

"I think it is just bad genes," she had opined.

"Jill's" remark has really stayed with me, because I am beginning to ask myself if that might be the cause of my child's problems as well. Although I'm sure that abuse and neglect has played a role in the issues all these kids have, I do wonder how much of their problems are caused by abuse and neglect, and how much are caused by plain old genetics. Although we don't know everything about "Meenie," "Miney" and Danielle's birth families, we know enough. In both families, substance abuse was an issue. However, I think the alcohol/drug dependency issues played a secondary role because much of what we know indicates that both birth mothers lacked intelligence. Danielle's mother was reputed to be developmentally delayed, while "Meenie" and "Miney's" birth mother made decisions that were so horrifically stupid, one has to wonder about her intellectual abilities.

So, are we dealing with behavior problems triggered by abuse and neglect, or are we dealing with kids who were simply born not to do well because of their genetic makeup? Is it nature or nurture?

Could it just be that they all come from bad seed?

In the end, I guess it doesn't matter what the cause of the damage really is. Whether we have bad genetics, prenatal exposure to drugs and/or alcohol, emotional damage caused by abuse and neglect, or a combination of all three, it makes no difference. These kids are damaged, and I'm not sure there is lasting help available for any of them.

Although Danielle has been doing very well since the police were summoned to our house nearly three weeks ago, I'm not sure it will stick. The rude remarks, complaining and mild refusals to comply with parental requests are starting to sneak back into her repertoire, which is usually the earliest sign that we are heading down the path towards another blow up. We may yet have a few days or even weeks of good behavior, but I don't think that anything material has changed that will keep her from blowing her stack.

I honestly think that Danielle would benefit from some sort of mood-stabilizing medication, but her pediatrician disagrees. Although I am sure that the doctor's extremely ugly lecture has contributed the decent behavior now, I don't believe that it will last. Lectures and scoldings from us have almost no effect. Scoldings from teachers and outsiders last a little while, and those from strangers have the most impact, but they do not hold for long.

I have long since given up holding my breath waiting for lasting change.

Vacation is too Short

I've been feeling like the length of time available for vacation is simply much too short. I'd like to take my RV somewhere, but the cost and lack of time looms large. We are still talking about it, but the fact that we have to attend a wedding on Saturday makes it hard to plan.

Danielle has been gone on an overnight, which is probably a good thing. Although she hasn't done anything particularly dreadful in several weeks, I am still finding her extremely annoying. When she left for her overnight, she didn't even say goodbye.

Yesterday I heard from my old friend "Jill" who didn't have much in the way of positive things to report about her two adopted kids. Both "Meenie" (age 12) and "Miney" (age 5) have been behaving beyond dreadfully, and "Jill" didn't have much positive to say about either child. She and I are pretty much in the same boat, and we are both tired of our kids' rotten, terrible, awful behavior.

"I think it is just bad genes," my friend opined.

Maybe she's right. From what we know of Danielle's grown-up half siblings, it doesn't appear as though any of them have gone particularly far in life.

Vacation So Far and Conflict with Stepmonster

On Friday afternoon, I finally heard the final word that we were on vacation.

So far, it hasn't seemed so much like a vacation. Instead, it's been more of a long weekend involving chores. Danielle has been mostly gone, though she was here yesterday and helped FosterEema with chores, while I helped the across-the-street neighbor fix a motorcycle that he'd taken on as a side job.

Lest I sound too impressive, my "helping" mostly consisted of holding flashlights, finding lost tools, cleaning parts, and suggesting possible tactics for reassembling some rather extensive custom body work. I am definitely not a motorcycle repair person.

Today I'm planning on helping my friend finish the motorcycle.

On Saturday, we had a rather disastrous lunch with my father and stepmonster. My father called, spoke to FosterEema and invited us to lunch. Danielle was off on a sleepover, so just the two of us went. It was unclear if my stepmonster was going to come, and we were hoping she wouldn't.

Unfortunately, she came.

After we'd mostly finished our meals, FosterEema decided to bring up the elephant in the living room. We've pretty much had enough of Stepmonster's comments about gay marriage and our lifestyle, and I told her that it had to stop.

Stepmonster, of course, tried to play revisionist historian. She claimed that she hadn't said our lifestyle was inappropriate in front of children, that she "didn't start" the blow-up that involved my niece (technically true, but she got her licks in) and that her letter to Danielle was justified because it was written in response to something that Danielle had brought up.

Well, I don't give a flying fiddle if my kid brought it up or not, I don't want Stepmonster bringing up her views in front of my child.

"Look," I told her, "[my sister] has decided that she doesn't want her children exposed to my lifestyle. As a parent, she's entitled to exercise that right. However, as Danielle's parent, I am entitled to exercise that same right, and I'm choosing to do so with regards to your views on gay marriage. If you can't stop discussing it with her, even if she brings it up, then we have a problem."

My father and stepmother of course interrupted me and made sure to let me know how unreasonable I was. Ultimately, I thanked my father for lunch and walked out. I climbed in the car and went to the post office to pick up our mail.

FosterEema stayed for a few minutes longer to continue the discussion. She told them we need to put this topic to bed and not keep bringing it up any more, and that we've reached a point where there is no compromise, and no middle ground. For Danielle's sake, this point needs to be off limits, and that both my father and stepmonster need to understand that we are her parents.

They agreed to leave it alone, but Stepmonster left herself an out. She promised to leave it alone only if someone else didn't bring it up. Somewhat melodramatically, she told FosterEema that she was "resigned" not to spend time with Danielle.

Stepmonster did admit that things got "out of control" with my niece, and she claimed not to know what she could have done differently. My father did show a little spine and recognized she contributed to the conflict. He told her "the next time you should just shut up."

After the discussion was over, FosterEema paged me and I drove back to the restaurant to pick her up. I saw my father and stepmonster pulling out of the parking lot. Stepmonster rolled down her window to say something to me, but I didn't slow down, or even look at them. I just zoomed in, picked up FosterEema and headed home.

As far as I'm concerned, I am done with these people. Next time my father calls for a lunch date, I'll agree to meet him only if Stepmonster isn't coming along for the ride.

Vacation is On

The on again, off again vacation has official been determined to be ON. Our biggest client called mid-afternoon to let us know that we were good to go away on vacation.

I don't have to work again until a week from Monday.

So you know what I did? I went to the store in my cranky Italian convertible and bought the makings for challah (egg bread) which FosterEema is braiding into loaves as we speak.

I love vacation.

The Stupidity of the State

This afternoon, we received a letter from our state government. It acknowledged the receipt of our request to amend Danielle's birth certificate, and advised us we should receive an amended copy, in seven months or so.

Seven months to update a record in a computer database? Puh-lease!

But, even better, it appears that they have misspelled our daughter's last name.

Definition of "Mantuary"

I received an early report that someone wasn't able to view the definition of "mantuary," as it was blocked by their Internet provider's obscene/tasteless filter, so I thought I would reproduce it here:

From Urban Dictionary

1. A place where a man can go to get away from the world, more generally a place where your wife and your mistress are not. It can be a permanent structure such as a special room in the house (commonly a basement) or could be the fishing boat.

2. An area or activity that men congregate to let it all hang out with out being called disgusting. A place where men can freely scratch their balls, burp, fart and use foul language without having to worry about who they will offend.

3. A location where a man can be alone without certain distractions and gather his thoughts.

Vacation On Off On Off...Maybe?

Sometimes, being self-employed means you don't know if you are coming or going. On Monday, I learned that we'll be unexpectedly going on vacation next week. On Tuesday, I learned that our plans would have to be canceled. Today, it looks like our plans for next week are back on.

I probably won't know until the end of the week if we will be on vacation next week or not, and it's driving me crazy. It's hard to make any plans at all if we don't know if we'll have time off or not.

And, even if we do get the time off, I'm not sure what we'll do with it. We are pretty broke, and there isn't money to go anywhere unless we put it against a credit card. FosterEema has about 40 client-billable hours so far this month, which is a lot more than she's had in a long while, so we could get away with putting a small vacation on the credit card.

Still, I really don't like the idea. I don't like owing money, especially since we've gone into a little debt as part of the garage renovation.

But I also recognize that I really need a vacation. I'm grumpy, burnt out, and hating my life, my kid and my job. I'm just not sure that going anywhere with my kid is going to make that better. I'm so irritated with her right now that even her breathing gets annoying.

I don't say it, but I often find myself thinking go breathe somewhere else, already!

What is even more annoying is Danielle keeps coming to me for hugs and kisses. I'll be minding my own business, and the next thing I know Danielle is in my space, trying to get into my lap while hugging and kissing me. I want to scream when she does this. I know she's trying to express affection towards me, but right now I just don't want it from her. I haven't been able to to switch off my feelings of resentment over recent events. I'm still struggling with her violence, her lies, her threats, and having to summon the police.

So the idea of taking Danielle anywhere sounds incredibly awful, especially when her idea of a fun vacation involves a four-hour drive to the nearest amusement park and spending the entire day in the hot sun standing in line for 30-second-long thrill rides. Just getting in the gate will cost close to $180 for the three of us, and though it might sound find for Danielle, it sounds like completely misery for us adults, since we won't be going on any of the rides.

Here, I'll stand here in the hot sun and bake while you stand in the two-hour-long line for the Colossal Monstrosity that will Surely Make You Puke roller coaster.

No thanks.

So I'm trying to figure out on very short notice what we can do that a) doesn't cost a lot of money, b) we will will all enjoy, and c) will give me some space so that Danielle isn't in my face for the entire week.

So far, I'm not coming up with many ideas. The most obvious choice, camping, doesn't really meet any of those criteria. Campgrounds cost more than what motels used to charge, and I know camping isn't something Danielle really enjoys, and it certainly won't get her out of my face since she'll be bored the entire time.

Danielle mentioned that she'd like to bring her half-sister along camping. I'm okay with the idea as a concept, but I'm not sure I'm too keep about putting the idea into practice. The half-sister has no job and very little money, so if we bring her along, we'll have to provide everything (food, drinks, snacks, and gear) for an additional person.

Although I'm okay with the idea of fostering a relationship between the two girls, I'm not sure I want to spend a whole lot of money on doing so.

Maybe we should just stay home and I should work on converting my garage into a mantuary.

Watering the RADish

This afternoon, FosterEema and I had the distinct (dis?)pleasure of reprising our roles as the Mean Ol' Babysitters.

The child we were watching was once again the daughter of a friend of a friend. She was being excluded from a family outing because of extremely bad behavior. Last time, she was bored to tears, but handled it pretty well. This time, she tried to manipulate me into letting her do fun things. When that failed, she tried to get ugly.

For a good chunk of the day, she sat in her seat at the kitchen table and did her summer school work. By the end of the day, though, she was bored and squirming in her seat. At first, she nicely tried to engage me in conversation. Since this little girl is a master manipulator, and her mother gave me specific instructions not to let her have a good time, I ignored her. When she later tried to play with the neighbor's cat through the sliding glass door, I sent FosterEema a text message instructing her to turn on the sprinkler to shoo the cat away.

Eventually, the girl was so bored and frustrated she tried to see how awful she could be. She became angry and glared at me. When that failed, she tried to goad me into a fight. She started calling me every ugly name she could think of (I didn't react) so then she resorted to things like farting loudly at the kitchen table. I pretended to be pleased, claiming her gas smelled like roses, and called FosterEema into the room for a sniff.

The girl was supposed to be doing her homework, so when I caught her playing with a red feather, I gently took it away from her. She threatened to "pull my pants down" and later threatened to hit me over the head with her water bottle.

She mumbled under her breath about how she had bitten a nurse and almost made him/her bleed.

I ignored all of it, and the little girl grew angrier and angrier by the minute. Her mother had warned me about her tactics, so I just let it all wash over me. As much as possible, I ignored her insults, her threats to tip over the kitchen table, and her threats to hit me.

She is only ten, and not much of a physical threat.

The ruder she got, the more I smiled.

"You are disgusting!" she snorted contemptuously.

I smiled, as if she'd given me the biggest compliment I'd ever heard. "I know," I said delightedly.

She ended up threatening to hit herself and tell her mother about it, implying that she'd blame me for it. She slapped herself in the face with a notebook and punched herself on the arm. She even went so far as to bite my kitchen table.

She told me she was going to call her mother with her cell phone. When I didn't look up from my laptop screen, she feigned making a call. What she didn't know was I was on my cell phone texting her mother, giving her a blow-by-blow of her daughter's behavior. When I reported she was trying to call home on her cell phone, her mother replied, "what, her imaginary cell phone?"

When the parents came to pick up their daughter, I gushed about how great she was and what a pleasure she was to babysit. They knew the real story from my text messages, but they played along.

"Awesome," they said, smiling.

"She is welcome here any time," I offered generously. "You could even bring her back tomorrow!"

As soon as the words exited my lips, I could hear screams of rage emanating from the van into which the child had quickly escaped.

"Wow," said her mother in awe, "I guess you really got to her!"

And the truth is, I barely said anything at all.

Well, Maybe Not

Now it looks like our last-minute vacation next week might be canceled. We might be able to go the week after that.

I'll believe it when I see it.

Sometimes, I Hate Being Responsible

Yesterday, I unexpectedly learned that we will be on vacation next week.

Since we are self-employed, our vacation schedules are usually determined by our clients' needs. We take time off, not when we want it, but when it's convenient for the bulk of our customers. Yesterday afternoon, we learned that our biggest client will go on vacation next week, which means that's the best time for us to go on vacation, too.

The lack of advance warning stinks. It means we don't have the ability to make reservations anywhere, as this is the height of the summer season. It also means that we didn't have time to plan for our vacation, so we have no money set aside. All our extra money this month is going to pay for things like automobiles that need to be registered, doctor and veterinary bills that have to be paid, and the garage remodeling project.

We can't afford to go on vacation unless we run up some debt on our credit cards.

However, we also vowed not to run up any more debt on the cards, so we are stuck. There is no extra money for a vacation, so we are going to do the responsible thing and we aren't going anywhere.

Sometimes, I really hate being responsible.

Waiting for the Next Explosion

Since Danielle's last blow-up which ended with us calling the police, her behavior has been pretty darn good. Although she's had a few moments of snippiness, mostly she's been well-behaved.

We let her spend two nights away, one with Ms. Teacher's niece, and another with her friend "Maxine." Saturday, she asked if "Maxine" could spend the night. We agreed, but reminded Danielle that she had some chores to do. She did them without too much complaint. Instead, "Maxine" managed to complain enough for both kids.

"Maxine" wanted hamburgers, Danielle didn't. I decided to BBQ some chicken. Then both kids complained.

Ugh.

I spent most of the weekend working on our garage renovation project. We've got the shelves up and most of the boxes up on the shelves. Now comes the hard part: sorting through all the junk that's in there, papers, possessions and stuff that has accumulated over the years.

This weekend's task was spent sitting in front of our cross-cut paper shredder. I filled the entire bed of our 3/4 ton, long-bed truck with bags and bags of paper, crushed cardboard boxes and other paper-based recyclables. I was too tired to do any heavy lifting, so I focused on eliminating paper and old business records. I found some files that dated as far back as 1990.

I love my paper shredder. Despite my best efforts, I wasn't able to kill it with a full weekend of shredding.

Shredding all my old records for my long-ago failed business was a surprisingly emotional task. I found a letter from the city government that congratulated me for successfully applying for a home-use business permit, and I remembered how excited I was to be starting a new venture. I found thousands of receipts, for purchases I'd made, and for purchases made by customers. I remembered vendors, customers and conversations that I hadn't thought of in years. Some made me laugh. Some made me cry. I found the escrow papers for a home that was later lost to foreclosure, and I remembered a roller coaster of emotions. I remembered the night my betrothed and I stood in front of the house and the feelings of excitement and anticipation as we decided to buy it. I remembered the emptiness of the last night I spent sleeping on the floor of the vacant house, and the following morning when I drove away in defeat.

One bit of paper I spared, at least for now, from the shredder. It was a note I'd written on my receipt pad after one of my customers had committed suicide. He was a young man, in his 20's, and he'd shot himself in the head with his elderly roommate's .22 handgun. She'd come home from work to find him dead in her bedroom. Her daughter, who lived out of state, had called me, and I went out to her house to offer comfort and sit with her even before the coroner had removed the body. I decided not to look, but I could see his cold, dead legs and feet sticking out of the bedroom door. After the body was removed, I could see his blood had spilled all over the bedroom carpet. The woman insisted she would clean it herself, since she couldn't afford a carpet cleaner. I ended up calling an emergency after-hours carpet company to clean up the mess. The carpet guy had joked about it, not realizing the young man had successfully committed suicide.

"Do not speak to the owner of the house about the bill," I told him sternly. "I will pay it."

I couldn't really afford the bill either, so I used my credit card. The woman never could sleep in her bedroom after that, and ultimately retired from her job and moved out of state. Once in a while, she'll e-mail me a joke, but she never answers my questions about how she's doing or what she's up to.

I wonder if I am too much of a reminder of that day.

On the receipt, I'd written out an order for an unlimited subscription to my service costing zero dollars and zero cents. In the memo section, I'd written, "See you on the other side."

I burst into tears when I found it. FosterEema found me sobbing in the garage, wanting to know what the receipt meant. I couldn't explain it, especially when I hadn't particularly liked the young man in question. He was a bit of a trouble-maker in life, with few real friends. I was one of the few mourners who showed up at his funeral, and his mother and stepfather had thanked me for coming.

After "Maxine" left, Danielle spent much of Sunday hovering in the garage, wanting to "help." Her idea of helping consisted of annoying prattle, and taking ammonia-based cleaner to the rear plastic window of my cranky Italian convertible.

When I told her not to use the window cleaner on the plastic, Danielle argued. I wanted to be left alone with my thoughts, memories and papers, not to be arguing with my kid over the proper use of automotive cleaning compounds. After trying, unsuccessfully, to convince Danielle to abandon her use of ammonia on my 35-year-old convertible's top, I snapped.

"Do not use window cleaner on the convertible top!" I yelled. Asking Danielle nicely three times to stop was two times too many.

"Grumpy!" she complained back, as she stomped into the house.

I felt relieved. I didn't want her company anyway.

I went back to shredding. Eventually Danielle came back into the garage, and I did my best to ignore her. She sat in her chair for hours, staring at me, as I re-lived a thousand memories as I dropped them, one by one, into the shredder.

Although I am glad for Danielle's sudden turn towards good behavior, I don't expect the lull to last. I feel like I'm just waiting for the next explosion, knowing that there will be another, and another after that.

I am holding back from her, knowing that I can't trust her any longer. I can't trust her not to lie, and I can't trust her not to hit, so I am closing myself off. I'm not being deliberately mean to her, but by the same token, I'm not being overly affectionate. I've been using her most-recent doctor's appointment as an excuse, citing her current weight of 96 lbs as being officially "too heavy" for her to sit in my lap.

But she's almost 14, which makes her too old for lap-sitting anyway. Maybe someday I'll miss her sitting in my lap, but now I feel only relief.

Danielle has been wishing she was still ten years old and wondering if our previous foster child, "Ana" was better-behaved. I answered honestly: "Ana" didn't hit or throw tantrums, but she was only with us for three months before she stole one of our cell phones and ran away. Danielle met "Ana" briefly, when she was returned home, only to see her run away again less than 24 hours later.

We did a lot of fun things with "Ana" that we can't do with Danielle. The bowling alley has long-since been demolished, and our money situation wasn't nearly as tight as it is now. Also, "Ana" wasn't here long enough to start hating us, which made it a lot easier to want to go out and do fun things with her. Despite her shortcomings, "Ana" was easy-going and very mature in many ways, so we consistently enjoyed hanging out with her. Since I never know one day to the next whether we are going to have nice Danielle or nasty Danielle, it's a lot harder to want to plan outings and fun. Our money situation, combined with Danielle's lack of predictable behavior, has meant we haven't gone camping even once this summer.

I pretty much feel like we are just marking time, waiting for the next explosion.

All You Need is Love

Yondalla wrote a post this morning entitled Discussion & Comments, where she wrote about some of the remarks that had been posted in reply to her request for sympathy for some foster parents who had had to give a Ten Day Notice on their foster son.

Some of the comments were pretty harsh, and it seems like there are a number of people out there who think that the only thing these severely damaged children need is love. Somehow, if these kids are given enough love and understanding, they'll miraculously heal and grow up to become loving, productive, adults.

I call bullshit.

I think many foster children, especially the ones affected by Reactive Attachment Disorder, do not need love. Love is very threatening to these kids, and when it is given, it sends these children into more dangerous, violent and bizarre behaviors. What they need instead is someone who is strong enough to withstand their behaviors, who will provide nurturing and steady guidance, and will stand by them as they grow to adulthood.

The topic of love and foster care has come up before, and I believe that repeated expressions of love do little to help foster and adoptive kids heal. These children need stability, they need to be treated with kindness and respect, they need a certain amount a discipline, and many need the services of a qualified therapist. A thousand repeats of the phrase "I love you" heals nothing.

Telling a foster or a adoptive family who is thinking about disrupting a placement that they only need to love their children more is not only hurtful, it's irresponsible. There are some children who are so hurt, so damaged and so dangerous, that they need to be in a facility that's prepared to care for them. Not every family is able, willing or prepared to deal with children who exhibit severe behaviors. I respect those families who are able to deal with those types of kids, just as I respect those who are not.

Everyone has a limit, and it's irresponsible to ignore those limits.

In our case, it's unfortunate that the worst of Danielle's behavior has surfaced after the adoption. We've been trying to get her help for her temper tantrums from the very start. She's worked with a total of six different professionals, and yet her behavior is getting worse. Her last explosion ended when we called police. Before that, she punched me hard enough to leave a bruise. Although she's been doing better for the past few days, we are prepared to call police and have her arrested and taken to juvenile hall the next time she starts hitting or wielding a weapon.

Love isn't going to fix Danielle, just as love isn't going to fix any of the other broken and damaged children in foster care.

Love fixes nothing. It's not a magic bill that can undo years of abuse and neglect. What might undo some of the damage is consistent parenting by people who are willing, able, and trained to care for these kids.

But even willing, able and trained parents still need support from their agencies. In many cases (such as ours), the support isn't there. A few days after we called the police, we sent an e-mail to our adoption worker and her supervisor, explaining what had been going on and asking for help.

We still haven't heard from them. If we cannot get the appropriate mental health services from adoptions assistance, then the criminal justice system will have to take over in its stead.

That's not how the system should work, but that's how it does work.

So I don't blame foster and adoptive parents who have reached their limit and have to disrupt a placement or dissolve an adoption. As for all the self-righteous folks who point fingers and blame and accuse the disrupting families of being selfish, I say:

Go screw yourselves.

You don't know what it's like to walk in someone else's shoes. You don't know what it's like to live with a particular child or family unless you've lived in that family yourself. Criticism and unkind remarks do nothing to help the family, the parents or the child.

Love isn't enough, and it never will be.

Lunch with Sister

We had lunch with Danielle's sister this afternoon.

Although I do like the young woman, and she certainly is pleasant and polite enough, her living situation continues to concern me. When we knocked on her front door this afternoon, a boy answered. He looked to be about 12 years old, and claimed, "[Sister] isn't here."

The boy looked pretty raggedy, had a black eye and a broken front tooth. He closed the door in our face and went back inside.

I could hear people arguing, but I couldn't discern what the argument was about.

We stood on the front step for a few moments, and heard a loud pounding from deep inside the house. A female voice, possibly the toothless woman from the other day, hollered, "She's not here!"

Danielle, FosterEema and I stood on the front porch, rather dumbfounded. FosterEema had just sent a text message to make sure we were still on for lunch, and had received a message back confirming and asking for a ride.

Just as we were about to walk back to the car, Danielle's sister popped her head out the front door.

"Hi guys!" she exclaimed, cheerily, almost as if she were unaware of the argument that was still raging in the living room, "I'll be right there."

We wandered back to the car and waited.

The screaming in the front part of the house continued. Although we couldn't understand what was being said, the ruckus could be heard inside our car with the doors and windows closed.

We waited what seemed like forever, and eventually Danielle's sister emerged. She was smiling, and hopped in the car.

"Is everything okay?" I asked, somewhat concerned by the domestic disharmony we'd witnessed.

"Yeah," she said, "they always argue."

"Oh?" I replied.

"Yeah, just some big drama or something."

I decided it wasn't my place to pry, so we headed out for lunch. We had a nice lunch, and Danielle and her sister thumbed through Danielle's photos of her birth family. The sister hadn't seen any of her siblings in years, and was really surprised at how much they had changed. She and Danielle compared looks and hair and talked about family members.

They both admitted to being nervous. I told Danielle's sister, "Don't worry, we don't bite without permission."

We had a long lunch, and when we were finished, Danielle's sister said she'd like to get together again. We agreed, though we didn't set up a firm date. Danielle's sister has a birthday coming up next month, and we are tentatively planning a camping trip for that weekend.

"Don't be a stranger," I told the sister as we dropped her off.

"Don't worry," she replied, "I won't!"

Second Thoughts About Sister

Given today's cancellation, I am having second thoughts about allowing much in the way of contact between Danielle and her half-sister.

Although Danielle took the news pretty well, given the circumstances, she also made the comment, "I hope she doesn't cancel, again." She seemed a little hurt and miffed, and I can't say I blame her. I don't want to set my kid up for a relationship that's filled with half-baked ideas and un-kept promises.

But there are a number of things that bothered me when we met Danielle's half-sister.

I didn't expect her, at age 21, to be living in the best of neighborhoods, but I did expect something at least meeting our community's minimum standard. She lived in a decent neighborhood, where she and several others were sharing a house. It was unclear if she is renting a room from the owners, or subletting from other renters, but the house was in poor condition and was definitely the most unkempt on the block. The front yard was overgrown with weeds, there was trash scattered across the yard, and a vehicle in questionable operating condition was parked on the driveway. When we approached the door, the house had a distinct odor of cat urine and cigarette smoke.

During our meeting, Danielle's sister told us that her house was infested with cockroaches. She also mentioned that she liked to drink, which I find of concern because her biological mother had serious problems with drug and alcohol abuse. When I cautioned her about drinking, given her family history, she was completely unaware that children of alcoholics were more likely to become alcoholics themselves. She wasn't defensive, just unaware.

When she called to cancel this morning, I rather uncharitably wondered if the emotional strain of meeting us had caused her to go out on a bender last night. I questioned if her illness was legitimate, or if she might have been nursing a serious hangover this morning.

Although I didn't meet all the people the sister lives with, the one that answered the door seemed a little alarming. She was a heavy-set, middle-aged woman who was missing quite a few teeth. She had the wrung-out look of someone who smoked too much and probably abused drugs. When I asked for Danielle's sister, she screamed out the girl's name.

"Your social worker is here!" she shrieked.

"I'm not a social worker," I replied matter-of-factly. "We are just here to pick up [the half-sister]."

"Oh," the woman grunted. Several scruffy-looking cats came to the door and curiously sniffed my fingers. At one point, I noticed an unnaturally-skinny, middle-aged man drift by the doorway. He was covered in tattoos.

The half-sister later identified her roommates as "her friends."

To me, they didn't much look like the kind of people I would choose as friends, and I certainly wouldn't feel comfortable with my kid paying them a visit.

Some of the bits and pieces of Danielle's sister's story didn't quite make sense. We were confused as to why she would still have a social worker, since she had aged out of foster care. We eventually learned that the worker is associated with the local regional center for developmentally disabled children and adults, and that her income came from SSI. She expressed quite a bit of resentment that her social worker gave her a weekly allowance, and complained that it wasn't enough to buy all her essentials.

What seemed odd was that Danielle's sister didn't come across as particularly developmentally delayed. In fact, she reminded me a lot of Danielle -- clearly uneducated and lacking in quite a bit of worldly knowledge -- but she didn't strike me as mentally deficient.

I do question the wisdom of letting this woman into our lives. I think there is some value to her having contact, especially because she remembers and can clearly articulate the neglect and abuse her birth mother perpetrated on all the children. I think she can do much to shatter Danielle's idealized view of her mother, and perhaps give her a more realistic picture of her life.

At the same time, hope it doesn't set Danielle up for more injury down the road.

A Letter from my Niece

My niece just sent Danielle a letter. We intercepted it and have decided, at least for now, not to give it to her.

We read the letter, and there wasn't anything in it that was particularly troubling in it. Mostly, my niece carried on about her activities, and the activities of her family and siblings. Given that we just recently called the police on account of Danielle's behavior, we are thinking that contact from my niece right now, isn't a good idea. We'll just file it with her earlier letter and save it for a better day.

Particularly irritating was that the enveloped was addressed to Danielle's old first name, and no last name at all. Inside, the letter addressed Danielle by her birth name as well.

Half Sister, Postponed

Yesterday, FosterEema and I met Danielle's half-sister for the first time and scheduled a lunch get-together for all of us this afternoon.

The half-sister just called to cancel. She claims she is sick, so we rescheduled for tomorrow.

I hope Danielle doesn't melt down when we tell her.

Half Sister, in the Flesh

Yesterday afternoon, FosterEema took a very interesting call. It was from Danielle's half-sister. She had recently moved to our town and came across a piece of paper that had our telephone number on it. Apparently, it had been given to her by one of Danielle's earlier social workers, but she'd misplaced it.

FosterEema spoke to her on the phone and she seemed like a quite, polite young woman. We arranged to call her back this afternoon, and after speaking to her on the phone, we decided to have coffee with her while Danielle was off swimming with friends.

A few long-time social workers had spoken to us about Danielle's half-sister, and everything they had said was pretty much spot on. She seems like a nice girl, though not completely without challenges, and we could see some family resemblance. The two girls had actually never met, except for a short visit when they accidentally met at court several years ago.

Danielle's sister was able to fill in a few more blanks about what we knew about Danielle's birth family, though nothing was particularly surprising. She confirmed much of what we already knew or had guessed, and seemed geniunely happy to start a relationship. She was also sad, and angry, when we told her about the circumstances which brought Danielle into foster care.

"I'm so glad you adopted her," she told us.

We had a long talk over coffee, and we've agreed for the four of us to meet for lunch tomorrow afternoon. Danielle was told yesterday that her half-sister had called, and was very excited to see her.

While we were chatting, Danielle's sister told us that even though she'd never met Danielle, she remembered her from when her mother was pregant.

"I would hug my mother and rub her belly", the young woman told us, "and I was building a relationship with my sister. We had a connection."

Danielle's sister seems to be doing relatively well, considering that she's only 21 and aged out of the foster care system without a family. She's not currently working, but she seems to have worked out a semi-stable (though somewhat sub-standard) arrangement living with friends. She isn't in touch with any of her former foster families, nor is she have contact with birth family. In fact, we had more information about some family members than she did, which struck me as very sad.

When we dropped her off after our coffee date, I said, "Welcome to the family, of sorts."

She looked at me, puzzled.

"Well, you are our daughter's sister, so that makes you family, of sorts. I know it's weird, and we'll all have to figure out what that means together, but I just want you to know that you are part of our family, and you are welcome to call or whatever."

She gave me a big smile. "Thank you," she said as she climbed out of the car, "that means a lot."

The Parental Strike Lasted One Day

I am surprised. Our parental strike only didn't even last an entire day. I expected Danielle would have held on a little longer.

Although rules #1-4 are intended to be lasting changes, rule #5 was somewhat of an experiment. We told Danielle that we weren't going to do anything for her, in exchange for her not having to do chores.

And we didn't do anything. She made her own breakfast and lunch. Later that day, when we checked in with her to see how things were going, she opined that she didn't like it so very much and she'd rather help out with a few chores than have to do everything herself.

I wonder if our playing the role of mean babysitter in addition to her pediatrician's lecture contributed to her change of heart. Danielle wasn't allowed to visit with our young miscreant, but she knew what was going on. I'm sure she's aware that this girls parents will gladly reciprocate, if needed.

Disappointed by the Doctor

Yesterday afternoon, armed with a list of recent behaviors and an explanation that Danielle has been exploding in increasingly-violent ways for the past three years, FosterEema met with Danielle's pediatrician.

The doctor declined to prescribe any medication. Instead, she suggested we pay Danielle's allowance weekly and withhold it if she tantrums.

Yeah, that's gonna make a big difference.

The doctor, who can be extremely unpleasant, gave Danielle a pretty heated lecture about how her behavior was completely unacceptable, and needed to stop immediately. She also scolded Danielle about wasting the police officer's time on Sunday, and told her that the amount of chores we were expecting her to do were quite reasonable for a young woman her age.

Danielle, of course, tried to defend her actions, but the doctor just gave her a thorough verbal smack-down. By the end of the visit, Danielle was pretty embarrassed, and came home with an extremely good attitude. This morning, she even fixed FosterEema a hot breakfast.

Although I'm glad the doctor's lecture has straightened Danielle out for the moment, I am very disappointed in the doctor. I don't think that a stern lecture and a follow-up appointment in eight weeks is going to fix Danielle's inability or unwillingness to control her anger.

I think Danielle needs medication, and I'm very disappointed she isn't getting it.

Of course this morning, Danielle did say something rather interesting. FosterEema had asked her why all of a sudden she was all "roses and sunshine."

"It's called getting your act together," Danielle replied. "I'm tired of consequences, I'm tired of being in trouble, and I don't want to see Dr. [Pediatrician] again."

Mean Ol' Babysitter

If you have been a long-time follower of my blog, you will like remember my frequent wish for a "mean babysitter," who could watch Danielle and make sure she didn't have any fun during the process.

(Unfortunately, I can't link to those old posts at the moment, as I am writing from my cell phone.)

Although I haven't found such a sitter myself, we are finding ourselves performing that role for a friend of a friend. Apparently, this little girl has been exhibiting some pretty dreadful behaviors at home, and has been sent to stay with us for a few hours while the family goes elsewhere.

I am finding this job pretty easy. Said youngster is sitting across from me, tasked with a snack and some summer school homework. She hasn't made a sound since she's been here, and other than warning she not to touch the birds as they "bite really hard," as she came in, I haven't said a word to the young miscreant. Periodically, she looks at me. I stare back, with my most serious, unsmiling face, until she looks away.

I can tell she's bored to death as she keeps staring out the window. She is also rather intimidated, as FosterEema just knocked something over in the kitchen and the kid jumped.

Hopefully she'll remember just how dreadfully boring our house is the next time she is faced with choices about her behavior. If not, I can play the mean babysitter without much in the way of effort.

All it takes is a silent mouth and the ability to look mean.

Recent Behavioral Events

Since FosterEema will be taking Danielle to meet with her pediatrician later this afternoon, I thought I'd put together a list of some of the major recent behavioral events that have occurred in our house over the past month and a half. Here's what I put together:

6/1/2009 – D had to be physically restrained after punching FA above the right breast hard enough to leave a bruise. D also made threats to stab herself, FA and D. Police/mental health not called, because after the incident D was completely calm and no further intervention seemed necessary. Incident triggered by FA reminding D that she hadn’t done the dishes (her regular chore) and that dinner could not be prepared until the dishes were done.

6/09/2009 – Second to last meeting with [Big Danielle], therapist from [mental health organization]. D reported that it was FA’s fault that she’d been punched because D “didn’t like” the way FA was speaking to her. Despite D’s lack of remorse, [mental health organization] opted to terminate services the following week.

6/17/2009 – FE had to be taken to the ER due to an after-hours bladder infection. D was left with across-the-street neighbors. While FA and FE were gone, D requested to go back to the house to pick up a jacket because she was cold. Upon entering the house, D told the neighbors that the house had been burglarized. The neighbor (female) ran across the street to fetch her husband and her niece’s boyfriend to investigate. Upon investigating, the two men found nothing taken from the house, despite D’s assertions that the house had been ransacked. D also told the neighbors her bedroom screen was recently broken (when in fact the screen has been bent for more than three years) and claimed that money, a portrait in the living room, and her underwear had been stolen.

Upon returning, FE and FA found nothing moved, and nothing missing from the house. Although D insisted that her money had been stolen from her desk, FA observed a handful of change and a laptop computer still present.

6/21/2009 – D screamed, tantrumed, threatened to hit, and threatened to call 911 and make false allegations in response to being asked to help with kitchen chores. D reported she was going to call 911 and tell the police she was being abused.

6/22/2009 – Day long tantrum involving screaming, throwing things, and pounding in room in response to being asked to clean up the moldy, smelly laundry FA discovered hidden under her bed. The clothes were discovered after FA had noticed a strong foul order emanating from D’s room.

7/4/2009 – After volunteering to help with chores, D raged at being asked to roll up the front garden hose. D observed screaming on the front lawn and kicking the screen door after FE latched it instructing D she would allow her back in after the chore was complete. Minor dents and scuff marks found on metal bottom panel of screen door.

7/12/2009 – Police called in response to hitting, kicking and throwing a broomstick at FA. Broomstick struck FE on thumb, no injury. Minor damage done to hallway (3” dent and scuff marks), where D kicked the wall with her shoes as she was escorted down the hall. D restrained once in LR and once in bedroom by FE in response to hitting and kicking. Trigger: D was asked to clean the kitchen while adults cleaned garage.

When I look at this list, which only includes the major problems we've had, it's no wonder I'm so tired.

Police Involvement Pays Off

When FosterEema called Danielle's pediatrician last week to inquire about getting medication prescribed, the doctor seemed a little reluctant to do so. She said she viewed medication as a "last resort" and promised to be in touch about scheduling an appointment.

"I don't see any red flags here," she'd said.

This morning, FosterEema called the doctor's office to ask to schedule an appointment. She explained that Danielle had another outburst that required police involvement. The receptionist took a message, and said someone would call us back.

Within a few minutes the phone rang. It was the doctor's office calling to set up an appointment for 4:00 PM this afternoon.

I guess the fact that we had to call the police was enough to change the doctor's mind.

"The doctor won't have a lot of time to see you today," the receptionist said, "but at least you can have an initial meeting and get started."

Hopefully, it won't be too long before we'll have some medication.

New Rules

Yesterday, after the police left, Danielle bragged to me how she thought it was "fun" that the police had came. She also scoffed in our faces and said that the police wouldn't have taken her anyway, and there was nothing the cops could do.

Not so, little grasshopper.

In our state, the domestic violence laws are very strict. The cops were willing to arrest Danielle on a DV charge, and when FosterEema pulled up our state's penal code and showed exactly which laws Danielle had broken, a certain child swallowed hard.

For all her bravado, she knew the cops could have and would have taken her, if we'd only given the word. The police had told her that, but she was just trying to show us how big, bad and tough she is.

Yesterday afternoon, when things were a little calmer, we had a short sit-down and we outlined the consequences for her blow up. We decided on giving her relatively few. We sent her to bed early (8:00 PM) with a tuna sandwich she made herself instead of a proper supper. We told her that we'd be implementing some new rules in the house, which we would discuss later.

What we did tell her is this: The next time she starts hitting, we will call the police, and we will have her arrested. Our state's strict domestic violence laws stand on our side, plus we have the additional clout of having her arrested for what are known as "status violations," or violations of the law that occur simply because of one's status as a juvenile. Children can be arrested for things like being out after curfew, truancy, running away, or even disobeying their parents under certain circumstances.

Danielle has expressed considerable interest in law enforcement as a career, and we put it to her quite bluntly. "If you keep going down this path, you will blow your chances to become a police officer. If you hit us again, you will end up with a juvenile record, which will make it difficult, if not impossible, to become a cop."

Our local police department sponsors a junior police group similar to scouting that gives kids a chance to become involved in law enforcement activities. Kids can attend a junior police academy, and serve as junior officers doing tasks such as helping with traffic control or serving as radio-equipped watchdogs at public events.

Teens as young as 14 can join, but the requirements to get into the group are very strict. Kid cannot have any type of juvenile record, they must have several community references, maintain good grades and have their parents' approval. We warned Danielle that she is skating precariously close to rendering herself ineligible for membership in this elite group.

Originally, we were planning on allowing Danielle to apply on her 14th birthday. Now, a lot is going to depend on what happens between now and October. We made it abundantly clear that our willingness to sign was directly depending on her behavior.

This morning, we sat Danielle down in the living room and calmly discussed four new household rules:

1) All hitting stops today. This also includes horseplay, roughhousing, tickling and wrestling in play. This means she's not allowed to play hand slap games with her friends, or the punching game she's taken to playing with our across-the-street neighbor.

2) All disrespectful speech stops today. This also includes friendly/playful teasing and insults, profanity, and rude remarks about other people's driving.

3) We are re-implementing the no shoes in the house rule. The natural consequences of bare feet stopped Danielle from kicking furniture for quite some time, and it's clear we never should have suspended that rule. If we continue to have problems, we'll confiscate all her shoes except for her flip-flops, and dole out the closed-toe shoes for specific occasions.

4) Anything Danielle throws our uses to kick, hit or break things becomes mine. A few weeks ago, Danielle bought herself a new pair of shoes. These shoes are now mine, because I discovered several noticeable dents and scuffs on the hallway wall where she had kicked it yesterday. Coincidentally, these were also the same shoes that caused minor damage to our front screen door when she kicked it during her hissy fit over the garden hose.

When we were done outlining the first four rules, we paused. We explained that we were going to implement a fifth rule on an experimental basis to see how it goes.

"You have made it obvious by your behavior that you don't like doing chores," I explained, "so FosterEema and I have decided that we aren't going to ask you to do them any more."

Danielle looked stunned. "What do you mean?" she asked.

"Well, the last three times we've had been blow-ups have been because we asked you to help out around the house. Yesterday, you started hitting because I asked you to clean the kitchen. Before that, you tried to kick in the screen door because I asked you to roll up the garden hose. You punched me because I asked you to wash the dishes. Since chores are obviously such a problem for you, we've decided you don't have to do them any more."

Danielle looked amazed, and a grin was slowly spreading over her face.

"This means you don't have to take out the trash, do the dishes, clean the bird cages, or clean your own bathroom. You don't have to do anything."

By this point a huge grin had spread across her face. Suddenly, it disappeared. "So I don't even have to clean my own bathroom?" She was figuring out there was a catch to this seemingly good deal.

"Nope, you don't have to clean your own bathroom. We aren't going to ask you to do anything." I continued.

Then, FosterEema swooped in for the kill. "Since you won't be helping us with chores around the house," she added calmly, "we've decided that we aren't going to help you with anything, either."

"That's fair, right?" I asked.

Danielle, too delighted about the prospect of no chores readily agreed. "You don't do anything for me, anyway," she said.

FosterEema beamed. "Well I guess we'll see about that, won't we?"

"Yeah," I agreed, "we'll try this out for a while and see how this works for everyone."

Danielle happily agreed. She's about to get a big lesson in all the things we do for her, large and small.

FosterEema and I are taking bets to see how long it lasts. She's betting Danielle won't make it through the day.

I think it will take a little longer, only because Danielle claims to love peanut butter. Since she'll be doing her own meal preparation for the next little while, I'm sure she'll eat quite a bit of it.

Our First Visit from the Police

As I predicted, the lull in Danielle's behavior didn't last.

We had another violent explosion this morning. This time, Danielle raged and locked us out of the house while we were moving our automobiles off the driveway so we could start work on the renovation project. When she finally let us back in, she threw a broomstick at me. FosterEema caught it across the back of her thumb. It hurt, but didn't leave a mark.

We tried to herd Danielle back into her bedroom, and she started hitting and punching. We momentarily ended up restraining her on the floor, and when we let her up, she did go down the hall to her bedroom, but ended up kicking the wall hard several times on the way. Once she was in her bedroom, she started hitting again.

We'd told Danielle that the next time she hit, we were going to call the police. I followed through with that promise, and within a few minutes, we had two squad cars parked on our block, and two officers in Danielle's bedroom talking to her.

Of course by the time the police showed up Danielle was calm and rational. We explained we'd called because of her previously violent explosion on June 1, and we didn't want things to escalate any further.

The officers put the fear of G-d into her and told her that if she keeps going down this road they will arrest her and they will take her to juvenile hall. Of course she lied and complained we were treating her like Cinderella, but the police didn't really buy her side of the story, especially after I mentioned that she had been recently adopted from foster care and was a chronic liar.

The police nicely offered to take her to juvenile hall for the assault, but we declined this time. They told Danielle that if she'd left bruises on anyone, she would go to juvenile hall, and they wouldn't have any discretion in the matter.

What triggered this explosion?

I had the unmitigated gall to ask Danielle to clean the kitchen, while FosterEema and I went out to work in the spider-infested garage. We've killed at least a half-dozen black widows out there since we started our project, and I thought I was doing Danielle a favor by allowing her to work indoors.

I guess not.

And now I hear the sounds of squabbling come from the living room, so I guess I had better go investigate.

Garage Renovation Project

Rather suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, we are finding ourselves in the middle of a garage renovation project.

We've lived in our house for nine years, and the garage has pretty much been a consistent wreck since we moved in. Initially, it was a giant mess because all the stuff that had been stored in a 10' x 20' storage unit was tossed in there to make the move more expedient. We brought only the boxes we needed immediately into the house, and everything else went to the garage. It was stacked almost all the way to the rafters, and pretty much unnavigable.

About a year later, we rearranged everything to make room for my cranky Italian convertible. She'd been stored in my mother's garage, but the planned purchase of a new vehicle meant that my poor old car was being served an eviction notice. We shoveled and sorted through a bunch of stuff, but didn't discard much, because we were in a hurry. We cleared just enough space to park the car, and that was pretty much the end of the project.

For the past several years, FosterEema and I have been talking about the garage. We've known it's a mess, and we wanted to install wallboard and shelving to make it a nicer, neater and more habitable space. We also wanted to put in a workbench, so that some of our home office overflow could be housed there.

We've talked about it, but never been able to allocate spending towards that goal. There was always some other emergency, or some other bill that needed to be paid.

So, for eight long years, the garage has been a mess.

Yesterday, our priorities suddenly changed. Our across-the-street neighbors, the ones who have been having financial troubles, gave us some very bad news. Apparently, their niece and her boyfriend (the official tenants of the house) received a three-day pay or quit notice. Despite the fact that our friends have contributed as much as they could, the niece and her boyfriend weren't able to come up with this month's rent.

They have three days to come up with the full amount of rent plus a $75 late fee, or the landlord will begin eviction proceedings.

FosterEema and I have spent a lot of time discussing how we could best help our friends. Although we've talked about giving them money to address the shortfall, we don't really have a lot of spare cash, and we realize that the hand-out won't fix our neighbors' problem. All it would do would be to put a 30-day band-aid on things for the niece and her boyfriend.

So our friends are really in a difficult position. Although the niece, her children and boyfriend all have a Plan B if they aren't able to make rent, our friends do not. Mr. Neighbor has been trying hard to find work, while Mrs. Neighbor has been trying to get her disability payments (suspended due to too much income during better times) reinstated. They've also been looking into subsidized housing (waiting list closed) and affordable housing, but so far, nothing's come up.

Even the local homeless shelter isn't looking like much of a possibility, as they have two dogs, smoke and are prescribed some strong medications for chronic health conditions. All three of those items are on the shelter's contraband list, which makes them ineligible for admission.

Although we are praying hard that the niece will be able to create a miracle and come up with the remainder of the rent before Monday, we are also working on a Plan B for our friends. It's not a very good Plan B, but given that they are out of options, it's better than nothing.

We've decided to clean up the garage and do our best to make it a habitable space so that our friends won't end up living in their car.

Although we don't have much in the way of spare cash, we do have quite a bit of credit available to us. The self-discipline we've exercised in getting our credit card debt completely paid off has left us with improved credit scores and empty credit cards for emergencies. Our local home improvement store offers a zero-interest for six months deal on all purchases over $299, so if we use that card, we've got about $2,000 available on a short-term, interest-free loan.

We are going to install wallboard, insulation, lighting, cabinets and shelving so that our garage can be semi-habitable. Mr. Neighbor enthusiastically embraced the idea and has offered free labor for the project. Although he admits living in a garage isn't the best of all options, it's certainly better than living in his car or on the street, and will buy him and his wife some time to get their own financial house in order.

So this weekend, we are going to renovate the garage, "just in case."

There is Something Very Wrong with our Healthcare System, Part II

In follow up to yesterday's post, There is Something Very Wrong with our Healthcare System, I spoke to our neighbor to find out how the charity dentist worked out.

Apparently, it didn't work out. As soon as the clinic found out that our neighbor's didn't belong to an ethnic minority, and that her husband was working (albeit very part-time) the magic grant they'd told me about over the phone suddenly disappeared. The neighbors sat there and waited several hours before the clinic staff mentioned that since Mr. Neighbor held a part-time job, they required a co-pay which must be paid in advance.

Amazingly, the office staff wouldn't tell them how much their co-pay would be, since suddenly they weren't even sure if Mrs. Neighbor could be seen. After waiting for hours, and being told to pay when they had no money at all, they left in frustration.

There is something insanely wrong with our health care system. It shouldn't be that an adult, with a broken-off molar should be allowed to suffer in such incredible pain.

Of course now that the infection is spreading into Mrs. Neighbor's jaw, it's possible that the county health clinic might step in to help.

"If it affects only the tooth," Mrs. Neighbor told me, "they won't do anything about it. If the infection spreads, then it becomes their problem."

Why is a situation like this allowed to exist in our country, one of the richest in the world?

I am not a Bean Bag Chair, a Saint or a Punching Bag

We are going into our third full day of good behavior on Danielle's part, which is a huge and welcome relief.

Even when she's being good, she can still be pretty exhausting.

Last night, I was sitting on the sofa, minding my own business. She came over and started to sit down in my lap.

"Can I sit your your lap?" she asked.

"No," I replied calmly, "not right now."

"Why not?" she demanded. "Do you hate me?"

"No," I sighed, "I just don't feel like being your personal bean bag chair at the moment and I don't feel like being jumped on."

"You are mean!" she exclaimed.

Danielle semi-tried to get into my lap anyway, but when I adjusted my body to block her attempt, she turned it into a hug.

Sigh.

Danielle is 13 years old, 90-something pounds, and much too old, big and heavy to be playing bounce in my lap games like she did when she was younger. I'm not her personal jungle gym, and with the way she has behaved over the past few weeks, I'm not interested in playing with her on such an intimate and physical level.

Yeah, I realize that there are adoptive and foster parents out there who are willing to accept any and all misbehavior on the part of their children. They are willing to stand by kids who act out sexually, who tantrum, hit, steal, light fires, harm themselves or their siblings, or kill animals.

I'm not one of those people. I am not a saint. I readily admit that I do not have infinite capacity to forgive. I am not capable of unconditional love no matter what abuse my child throws in my direction.

When Danielle punched me and threatened to stab us, she crossed a line. When she threatened to call 911 a couple of weeks later, she crossed another. In me, something broke, and despite her three days of good behavior, I don't feel the same about her as I did before. I don't feel like I actively despise her as I did a few days ago, but I certainly don't feel particularly loving towards her.

I just feel...empty.

For the past few days she's been trying to make up for her behavior and has been passing me a number of very nice little notes. Yesterday, she wrote the following:

Dear [FosterAbba] I have 7 things about you that I like.

1. You are very funny.
2. You care about yourself and others.
3. You like to enjoy life.
4. You care what's best for your family, and career.
5. Inside of you I think you have a great heart, and a great soul.
6. You like to make things right for you, [FosterEema] and I.
7. You are a great person to be around with.

I love you dad.

Love
[Danielle]

When I read her note, I tried to act as though I was appropriately pleased, and used a sticky note to tape her letter to the credenza in my office. Inside, I felt empty, as if I were a bottomless, empty well into which Danielle had just thrown a handful of stones. I know her good behavior and cute notes are her way of apologizing for the weeks and weeks of terrible behavior she's been giving us, but three days of smiles and compliance just doesn't make up for punching me, threatening to stab me, and threatening to call 911.

What makes it all the more difficult is that I know this lull isn't going to last. We've seen many of these lulls in the past and none of them have ever lasted for long. There's nothing that's substantially changed this time, so eventually we'll be dealing with the same ugly behaviors all over again. Danielle is still Danielle, the hurt and angry child who explodes in rage with little or no provocation. She's still the kid that tantrums, lies, throws things, hits and makes threats. A day, a week, or even a month of good behavior isn't going to repair our relationship that quickly.

Two Minutes, Twenty Three Seconds

Today is my Father's birthday.

Two days ago, I mailed him a card. This morning, I called his cell phone. I assumed he'd be at work, and expected to get his voice mail. To my surprise, he answered.

I launched into singing "Happy Birthday."

When I finished, there was a long pause. He said nothing. Then, he laughed.

"I'm boycotting birthdays," he chuckled, "no more allowed!"

"Okay," I replied. Then I launched into singing "Happy Un-Birthday." I sang only the first line and then stopped.

He mentioned that he'd gotten the card I'd sent, but had saved it to open today. He'd forgotten it this morning because he had left for work in a bit of a rush.

I don't care if he opens it. Just the fact that I know he got it is good enough. At least I tried.

"So how are things going?" he asked.

"Meh," I said. I made a non-committal grunt to let him know that things weren't going very well.

"Are you seeing [the therapist]?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"Do you need a check?" he asked.

"Not right now. [The state-sponsored victims of crime fund] is supposed to be paying for Danielle's therapy," I answered, "and we should be getting a response from them in a couple of weeks. If they don't pay, I'll let you know."

My father sounded happy to hear from me and promised to call me when he "wasn't so busy."

I bid him my goodbyes, saying that I knew he was at work and I didn't want to disturb him. Today, my call lasted a whopping 2 minutes and 23 seconds, which works out to be 1 minute, 16 seconds shorter than our Father's Day call.

Someone, Please Kill Me Now!

Just heard coming out of Danielle's mouth:

"I love Michael Jackson. He's HOT!"

This is so wrong on just so many levels. Someone, please kill me now!

Suspicious Story

Ever since we had the two bad experiences with door-to-door salespeople (one that tried to push her way inside, and another who wouldn't leave when asked), I've been a little suspicious about strangers who knock on my door. Of course the doorbell PTSD I developed during the year we were fighting the removal notice doesn't help, either.

Although we don't get surprise social worker visits any more, my concern over unexpected doorbell-ringers hasn't really lessened all that much.

So today, when a young Hispanic male came knocking on my door asking me to check my back yard for a set of keys that had been tossed over the fence by his buddy, I was instantly suspicious. He explained that he and his buddy had been horsing around in the alley, he'd stolen his friend's hat, so his chum had chucked the keys over the fence in retaliation.

"What were you guys doing in the alley, anyway?" I asked.

"Oh my friend lives over there," the young man said, as he vaguely pointed in the direction of behind my house.

I locked the front door when I went to go look, and after searching my vegetable garden I did find them. However, I felt suspicious and a little scared, so I left them on the kitchen table when I returned to the door. I thought a call to the police might be in order, so I did something very uncharacteristic.

I lied.

"I'm sorry," I told the young man, "I didn't find them, but they may have landed in my vegetable garden so I'll look some more."

I got his name, address and telephone number. He seemed appreciative, and said to leave a message because he might be at work later. He thanked me for my time and then left.

The key ring bore a tag for a local gym, so I called to see if they could give me the name of the rightful owner. The gym receptionist told me that the membership ID wasn't registered in their system and couldn't help me. There were several other rewards cards attached to the ring, one for a chain electronics store, but the membership numbers were obliterated by wear. There was also a photo of a young Hispanic male embracing a young woman, but I wasn't 100% certain if it was the same young man I'd seen at the door, or someone else.

FosterEema came home just as the young man was leaving. Once he was out of earshot, we had a conversation about the keys.

"Should I call the cops?" I asked.

FosterEema wasn't sure, but Danielle opined that the young man "looked honest."

Since I couldn't find anything to support or deny the young man's ownership of the keys, I went ahead and called him back. Within a few minutes, he came back, and I handed them over.

"They were in the vegetable garden," I told him truthfully, "and I'm sorry you had to come back."

He thanked me and left.

But I still have a nagging feeling that I should have called the cops anyway.

There is Something Very Wrong with our Healthcare System

I think it is absolutely embarrassing that the United States, one of the richest countries in the world, doesn't have some mechanism for reasonable medical and dental coverage for low-income people who aren't covered by the state-sponsored medical insurance.

It is wrong that we, as a nation, can't do something to create a system that offers affordable medical and dental care to everyone.

Last night, our across-the-street neighbors came over for dinner. They had to leave early because Mrs. Neighbor has been suffering from a toothache for several days, and the pain got so bad she had to go home.

Why does Mrs. Neighbor have a toothache? Because she has a molar that broke off at the gum line, and she doesn't have insurance or any way to pay for treatment.

This morning, she and her husband went to the Emergency Room in hopes they could get some antibiotics to clear up the infection which is causing her jaw and the entire right side of her face to swell. In the meantime, I called around to find out if there are any free or low-cost clinics that would see her.

I found a clinic, so they left the emergency room before being seen, but it's not entirely clear the clinic will be able to help. The person I spoke to said they have a grant that "sometimes" can cover one-time emergency dental treatment for severe problems, but she wasn't entirely sure if they would be able to help my neighbor in her specific case.

"Tell your neighbor to show up at the clinic any time after 1:00 PM this afternoon, and we'll see if we can get her in as a walk-in patient," the woman told me.

I hope my neighbor can be treated at the clinic. In my research today, I've learned that dental abscesses can become fatal, as evidenced by a 2007 Maryland case in which a boy ended up in the hospital running up more than $250,000 in medical costs before eventually dying.

Shame on this country's leaders for allowing such a deplorable situation to exist.

FosterEema and I have no dental coverage. We are lucky in that we have medical insurance, but we are struggling to keep it. Our medical insurance premium for just the two of us costs nearly $1,100 per month.

Danielle has no coverage, other than the state-sponsored medical insurance that comes with her adoption assistance package.

Keeping Her Mouth Shut

This morning, FosterEema came into the office and announced that Danielle was "not talking" this morning. She explained that Danielle had complained that her throat hurt, and was walking around the house with a notepad, scribbling everything she wanted to say.

I doubt that Danielle is actually sick or has a sore throat, as she seems healthy enough and she often feigns illness as a sympathy ploy.

But I'm not viewing it as a bad thing whether the sore throat is true or not.

Danielle's mouth more often than not is what gets her in trouble. Perhaps keeping her mouth shut will give us another day of good behavior.

Big Difference

Danielle spent Monday night and most of Tuesday with Ms. Teacher. Late Monday, at the urging of Ms. Teacher, Danielle called home to wish us a good night. It was well after 10:00 PM, long after we were usually in bed.

We were in bed, but not asleep. FosterEema answered the phone. She spoke to Danielle for a few minutes and then offered the phone to me.

"It's Danielle," she said, "she wants to wish you a good night."

I waved her off. "I'm too angry to speak to her right now."

FosterEema gently told Danielle why I wasn't going to come to the phone.

"What-ever," was Danielle's snotty reply.

FosterEema inquired as to whether or not Danielle really felt her recent behavior had been appropriate.

Although Danielle didn't directly admit it, FosterEema said she detected an amount of verbal wilting over the phone. When she returned home Tuesday night, Danielle's attitude was much better.

I said very little to her the first two hours she was home. Other than saying hello, the only thing of note that came out of my mouth was that I asked Danielle not to eat a bunch of Hot Cheetoes, as we were planning to have dinner shortly. I asked her to eat some grapes instead.

To my surprise, she practically shouted, "Grapes? I didn't know we had grapes!" She practically ran to the kitchen to eat some.

I wanted to say, of course you knew we had grapes, I told you about them when I went to the store on Saturday. Instead, I said nothing at all.

We made it through the evening without any major explosions. Danielle was reasonable and polite and wanted to sit in my lap.

I let her do it, even though I hated just about every moment of it.

This morning, we went to the therapist, where FosterEema and I spoke with her first.

"How are things going?" the therapist asked.

"Bad," I said. "Although she's been doing okay this morning and last night, she's been pretty horrible since she got home from her overnight visit with her friends."

I outlined everything that had gone on, including the tantrum over the garden hose, her never-ending nasty remarks and her scathing criticism over the hamburger.

The therapist laughed when I got to the bit about the hamburger. I told her I would probably find it a lot more funny under different circumstances.

"I'm done," I told her. "I can't live like this any longer."

I told her how I was coming to the point of despising Danielle, and that if I had an appropriate place to send her, I would send her away now.

"Do you have a plan?" she asked. "Are you going to send her before or after we try medication?"

"If I had a place to send her now, she'd already be gone," I answered.

The therapist looked at me evenly, "So you are saying that you want to dissolve the adoption?"

"Yes."

The therapist turned to FosterEema, "and what about you? Do you want to dissolve the adoption?"

"No."

"That's a big difference," the therapist sighed.

Although I don't think anything really productive came out of today's session, though the therapist did promise that she would Danielle's pediatrician today to see what could be done about an assessment for medication. She spent a few minutes alone with Danielle, who came bouncing out of her office all smiles.

I'm glad for the momentary respite, but I don't expect it to last.

Shape Up or Ship Out

If you are familiar with most blogging software, you'll know that when you write a post, the blog will set the URL for the post to be something similar to the original title. This afternoon, I stumbled across a post by another blogger entitled Living with a Bipolar Child.

Interestingly enough, the URL for this post is:

http://open.salon.com/blog/hells_bells/2009/03/14/why_i_hate_my_bipolar_child

This leads me to believe that the original title of the post may have been Why I Hate my Bipolar Child.

Go read the post. I'll wait.

Much of what this woman wrote resonates with me, but her compassion and her ability to forgive far exceeds my own. She is willing, again and again, to pick up the stick for her puppy.

I am not.

Where this mom is willing to try again, I'm far past the point of being ready to send my puppy to the pound.

If it were easy and affordable, Danielle would already be living elsewhere. She would be in a residential treatment center, a boarding school, a boot camp, or even on the moon. If I had a quick and easy solution, she would not live here.

Now there's no doubt that we've struggled with Danielle's behavior from the very beginning, and I've struggled with my feelings about her. I've struggled with liking her when she did horrible things, and I've questioned about whether or not I truly loved her. Despite those emotional struggles, I've always felt the urge to do right by her, regardless of how I felt.

But now, I don't feel the same.

When Danielle punched me and left bruises, blamed me for her behavior, and showed a significant lack of remorse afterward, my feelings started to change. Although Danielle did apologize and admit responsibility later, it felt like too little, too late, especially given her escalating behavior afterward. That, combined with her dramatic lie about the house being burglarized, constant refusals to comply with basic requests, threats to falsely report us to law enforcement, the major tantrum over cleaning her room and her constant, petty vindictiveness, has left me feeling like I don't really care what's in her best interest any longer.

Worse, not only do I dislike the child, but if I am honest with myself, I realize that I'm starting to despise her.

Now I realize in so saying, I will unleash a stream of criticism and nasty comments from my readers. Of course I've been getting them for quite awhile, so scathing criticism isn't new to me. Go ahead, fire away.

But really, telling me that I should "be the adult" and tell my kid that I love her when I'm feeling the way I feel doesn't help. I've been doing my best to stay away from her because what I really want to do is slap that stupid smug smile off her face and take a belt to her ass.

So don't expect me to act kind and loving, when everything in my gut wants to beat the living crap out of the unbelievably dreadful brat that has replaced my often-difficult-but-mostly-tolerable child. Don't expect me to say nice things to her, when I wish I could throw her out into the street.

Now before you grab your phone and start dialing CPS, know this: I don't plan to do any of these things to Danielle. What I plan to do is to stay away from her, ignore her, and avoid her as much as possible.

We are seeing yet another counselor for individual and family therapy, though I have little hope that it will help after the long stream of professionals and para-professionals that have worked with us. We are also trying to get Danielle evaluated for medication, though it's already proving to be a hassle.

Right now, I have nothing left for Danielle. I'm sick and tired of being physically and emotionally abused. I'm tired of her constant arguing and complaints over trivia. I'm tired of her incessant neediness and demands that can never be satisfied. I'm tired of Danielle and her myriad unqualified therapists and para-professionals making excuses for her behavior. It no longer matters why Danielle hits, makes threats, or misbehaves. I am done being on the receiving end of her abuse, and I'm long past the point where kindness, forgiveness or empathy has any room in my heart.

It's time for Danielle to shape up or ship out.

No, It's the Same Kid, Honest!

While FosterAbba was dealing with some work stuff today, I've been dealing with getting Danielle an appointment to be assessed for psychotropic medication. I'm not normally a big fan of such things - my feeling is that we understand too little about the way the brain works to be confident of the long term effects of such drugs - but I agree with FosterAbba (and Danielle's therapist) that we need to explore every avenue to help Danielle stabilize her behavior.

But before I could make the appointment, we hit a snag.

When Danielle was issued a new medical insurance card in her new name, the vast computers which power the state bureaucracy apparently decided she was a different person. The computers then dutifully noted that this new person did not have a primary care physician, and helpfully assigned her to our (chronically overburdened) county clinic.

So, this morning, I picked up the phone and called the health plan administrator to get Danielle moved back to her old doctor. Once I explained what I needed, the administrator tapped on her computer. "Hmm," she told me, "that's odd. I don't show you as the authorized adult on Danielle's health plan."

"Who do you show?" I asked her, my curiosity piqued.

"I'm not allowed to tell you that," she replied. "But let me make some phone calls and see if I can get this sorted out."

She called back a few minutes later. "I was able to talk to the Department of Social Services, and that's all fixed. Now, who do you want to be Danielle's physician?"

I gave her the name of Danielle's doctor. More tapping on the computer. "It seems she only accepts established patients, so I need to call her and verify that Danielle is actually her patient."

"When you do, please make sure and explain that Danielle's first and last name changed as part of her adoption," I told her. I gave her Danielle's old name, and explained that because she hadn't been in to the doctor since the adoption, her name hadn't yet been changed in the doctor's records. "Gotcha," the administrator told me. "I'll call you right back."

Five minutes later, the phone rang again. "You're all set," the administrator told me. "But make sure you take Danielle's new insurance card, and a copy of the adoption order, with you next time you go to the doctor."

I thanked her and hung up. My next call was to the doctor's office to make an appointment for a meds evaluation. "Yeah, the insurance people just called us about that," the office worker told me. "Let me talk to the doctor and find out how much time she needs to do a meds evaluation, and I'll get back to you in a day or so."

So, the ball is officially rolling on an evaluation of whether medication will help Danielle to control her moods and her anger. I hope so, because the road Danielle is on presently with her negative choices doesn't lead anyplace I'd like to see her go.

Ms. Teacher and the Neighbors Have Noticed

On Saturday night, I took a few minutes to speak with Ms. Teacher when she came to drop Danielle off after viewing the fireworks. I told her everything that had gone on over the past few weeks. I told her about the hitting, lying and threats to call 911. I also filled in some details about my niece's blow up, the lame excuse for her behavior, and about the letter where she instructed Danielle to report us to CPS.

Ms. Teacher was appalled. She also had noticed Danielle's disrespectful behavior when we came to pick her up on Friday, and agreed that it was a problem.

I told her everything because I wanted her to know what was going on. I fully expect Danielle to begin making false reports to her teachers, counselors and perhaps even the police, so I want to have as much documentation on our side as we can get.

"I'm just so sorry," Ms. Teacher said.

This afternoon, during my lunch break, I took a stroll with my across-the-street neighbors when they went to walk their dogs. We talked quite a bit about Danielle, and the subject of the hamburger remark came up in conversation. I asked if it had been noticed.

"Danielle is really disrespectful, isn't she?" remarked the neighbor.

"Yeah," I agreed, "and it's a real problem."

I don't think that I can adequately convey the level at which the critical remarks and disrespect come spewing from Danielle's mouth. It is constant and relentless. I only write about a small fraction of her behavior here. If I tried to document it all, I'd spend the entire day writing and I wouldn't get anything else accomplished.

Danielle's nasty remark about the hamburger wasn't the only nasty thing she said during the course of the afternoon. She later gave the neighbor a bad time because her bra strap was showing, and the fact that though she was wearing a dress, her legs weren't perfectly smooth and silky. Danielle also saw fit to complain about the fact that FosterEema chooses not to shave her legs at all.

"Danielle," the neighbor said firmly, "none of these things are any of your business. You worry about you. We'll worry about our stuff."

I backed the neighbor up during that conversation. When we talked today, the neighbor added, "I just can't believe how disrespectful she is!"

I told the neighbor that the next time I grill hamburgers, I won't be grilling one for Danielle. "Next time I make burgers, I'm going to cook mine and Eema's, but I'm not going to make one for Danielle," I told the neighbor. "When she complains, I'm going to hand her the package of frozen patties and the spatula and say, 'since you complained about the way I made yours last time, you can make your own this time.'"

"Good for you," replied the neighbor.

Her husband agreed that Danielle's behavior is pretty darned inexcusable. "And why does she care, anyway?" he asked, irritated. "You are putting a piece of meat in between two slices of bread and it tastes the same no matter how you eat it!"

I agreed, and expressed my frustration with the entire situation.

"You are doing a good job," both neighbors said in unison, "hang in there."

I sighed. "At this point, I am trying to find an affordable boot camp, residential treatment center or boarding school. I can't continue living like this," I replied. "Either that, or I am going to have to leave."

A Behavior Chart of Sorts and Money Management

Although we have come to an agreement about Danielle's cell phone, FosterEema has been arguing pretty strenuously in favor of returning the phone after Danielle gives us 30 days of good behavior. She's suggested that we set up a behavior chart so that Danielle can see how she's doing relative to that goal. I'm just as strongly opposed, figuring that I need to see a much longer period of good behavior. Danielle has demonstrated that she can hold it together for a few days or weeks until she gets what she wants, and then she almost immediately returns to her prior pattern.

FosterEema insisted we set up a behavioral chart anyway, just so we could keep track of how Danielle was doing. I thought it wasn't worth the bother of creating a separate chart, so I decided to start marking Danielle's calendar, which hangs on her bedroom door.

Yesterday, without saying anything to Danielle, I simply made a small red "x" and placed my initials on Saturday, July 4th. It didn't take very long for Danielle to notice the mark, and she stormed into our office, furious.

"Why is there a red 'x' on my calendar?" she demanded. Her eyes blazed.

I barely looked up from my computer. "We've decided to keep track of your behavior," I told her calmly, "On the days you do what you are supposed to do, without arguing, you'll get a green check mark. On the days that you argue, hit, make threats or refuse to do what you are supposed to do, you'll get a red 'x.' That way, we'll be able to make better decisions about how you are doing."

Danielle didn't really say a whole lot, but I could tell she was angry. "Oh," she replied.

I haven't said anything further about her behavior, but this morning I quietly put another red "x" on her calendar for Sunday, July 5th. Despite the red mark, we did decide to let her go shopping with Ms. Teacher's niece, as having a few hours of quiet will give us a needed break.

We also decided to let Danielle go shopping because we hoped it might drive home a lesson about money management. She only has a total of $17, so she'll have to make some decisions about where she spends her money today.

Unfortunately, I think the money lesson will be somewhat muted by the fact that she still has several gift cards left over from her birthday and the December holidays. Although she's most certainly cash-poor, she's got at least another $55 in gift cards to spend before she's completely exhausted her ability to buy anything.

Given Danielle's recent tendencies with money, however, I don't expect those cards to last long.

I've been hoping that she'll soon face the lesson of wanting to spend but not having any funds to do so. I've made it a point to tell her friends' parents of our plan, in the hopes that they won't bail her out. Though it probably sounds mean, I want Danielle to learn this lesson now, while the financial stakes are low, rather than waiting until life's money lessons slap her with the consequences of bad credit, repossession, or eviction.

The Semi-Final Verdict on Cell Phone, House Key and Allowance

FosterEema and I have spent a lot of time talking about Danielle's cell phone, house key and allowance.

Here's what we have decided, at least for now:

• Cell Phone - The cell phone is gone, at least for the foreseeable future. We may elect to give it back for short durations of time if she has a specific need to have a phone for a short period, but she isn't going to have unlimited access to her phone until we see a dramatic improvement in her behavior.
  
  
• House Key - Also gone. Given Danielle's threats, violence, and lies, it's clear that she isn't mature enough to be left alone and unsupervised. If we can't trust her to be in the house by herself, then there's absolutely no reason she should have a key.
  
  
• Allowance - A final determination about the plan for her allowance hasn't been made, so we gave Danielle her cash minus a deduction for her cell phone. Not counting the parental controls and the phone locator service, her phone costs $10 per month to add to a pooled minute plan. Since she had lost her phone for 80% of the last billing cycle, we deducted $8 from her allowance. Danielle had been warned, almost from the day she received the phone, that if she lost it for bad behavior, we'd deduct from her allowance. After thinking it over carefully, we decided that it was time to follow through on that promise. I could tell Danielle was disappointed when I gave her $12 instead of the usual $20, but she didn't try to argue.
  

Arguing About Everything

The level at which Danielle is arguing about everything is starting to become more than exhausting.

This afternoon, FosterEema realized we were missing a key ingredient needed for dinner, so she headed out the door. On her way out, she asked Danielle to take out the kitchen trash.

Instead of just taking out the garbage, Danielle made an angry snorting noise and argued, " You were supposed to take it out when you cleaned the kitchen!"

"I did," FosterEema replied, "but it got full again."

"No you didnt!"

"Danielle!" I called somewhat sharply, "Why do you have to argue everything?"

"No I don't," she argued back. Then she realized she had just argued again and gave us an embarrassed smile. She had been caught.

"I will be happy to grill you a hamburger once you have taken out the trash," I added.

Danielle took out the trash.

But of course during dinner Danielle had to make herself more unpleasant. As I was pulling the burgers off our grill, Danielle felt it was her place to chastise me.

"FosterAbba," she demanded snottily, "why do you always put the hamburger on the wrong side of the bun?"

"Sorry," I apologized, "next time you can cook your own hamburger if you don't like the way I make them."

Next time, I will cook only two patties and she'll be on her own. Either that, or she can make herself a peanut butter sandwich.

Just as well, since the frozen hamburgers we usually buy come wrapped as pairs. Cooking a third patty for Danielle means we always have an odd patty left over.

Hose Hissy Fit

Our afternoon July 4th celebrations were pretty enjoyable, mostly because Danielle wasn't here for most of the afternoon and evening. Although she managed to pull things out of the ditch for part of the morning after pitching a fit, it wasn't long before she threw another, even more spectacular, one.

The second fit started after Danielle had been calm for a while. I had gone to the grocery store to pick up a few things for our BBQ. After bringing the groceries inside with Danielle's mostly cheerful help, I went out to the RV to clean up. My mother was expected at any minute, and I had realized, rather late, that the trailer was still dirty from the last time we had overnight visitors.

As I headed out the door, Danielle jumped out of her seat. "Can I help?" she asked, eyes beaming.

I really didn't want her to help, because I knew her good mood wasn't going to last, and I knew I could do a better job without her. Still, I kept my negative feelings to myself.

"Sure," I replied. "Thanks for the help." We headed out to the trailer. I gave Danielle the window cleaner and asked her to clean the mirrors and inside of the windows. I took the bathroom cleaner and headed for the bathroom.

While we were cleaning, my mother arrived. I'd finished most of the scrubbing, but we were still waiting for clean sheets to come out of the washer. FosterEema came out of the house, and pretty soon all four of us were in the RV, chatting amiably. I started cleaning the galley (kitchen) sink and counter top, and had to step out for something, and almost tripped on a garden hose that had been left lying on the driveway.

"Danielle," I called cheerfully, "can you do me a quick favor?"

"Sure," she called back, equally amiably. She jumped down the RV steps.

"Can you please take this garden hose and put it back on the hose rack? I'm worried grandma might trip on it."

As soon as the request came out of my mouth, the clouds rolled in. Danielle went from being cooperative and amiable to disrespectful and insulting in less than one second.

"Why do I have to do it?" she demanded.

"Can you please do it?" I asked again, "I would hate for grandma to trip and get hurt." My mother is 71, and I had visions of a broken hip dancing through my head.

Danielle angrily grabbed the end of the hose and marched towards the house. I went back into the RV to resume my cleaning, and we could hear her screaming. She suddenly "didn't know how" to put the hose back on the rack, and she said she would end up breaking the succulent plants that grow in front of the rack.

She screamed, she ranted, and she raved.

"I have every faith in you," I called from the trailer, "and I'm sure you can figure it out."

Before I knew what was happening, Danielle started screaming at FosterEema, who had gone back into the house. She was screaming something about how the succulent plants that live in the flower bed near the hose bib would get in the way, and she would break them and then she'd be in trouble for it. She didn't know how to roll up the hose anyway, and there was no way she was going to do the job.

I couldn't see what was happening, but I could hear every word.

FosterEema replied calmly, "well if the plants get broken, then they get broken, but FosterAbba asked you to put the hose away, so please do it."

I heard her go into the house and Danielle followed her in. FosterEema again reminded her to go outside and do the task she had been asked to do. Danielle went silent for a moment, and then I heard a terrible amount of pounding and screaming.

I was just about to stick my head outside to see what was happening, when the intercom on the cordless phone I'd brought out to the RV started beeping. FosterEema was paging.

"Hello?" I asked tentatively, wondering what the heck was going on.

"If you need to come back into the house, let me know and I'll open the door for you. I just latched the screen door because Danielle refused to coil up the hose and kept coming back inside the house."

Just as I started hanging up the phone, Danielle started kicking the bottom of the screen door. She was screaming that she wasn't going to put the hose away, and we could not make her. I didn't respond, and FosterEema remained in the house.

Eventually, the screaming and the pounding stopped. My mother and I just stared at each other in complete disbelief. Danielle had been screaming so loud I was sure the entire neighborhood heard the commotion.

After a few minutes, I paged FosterEema with the intercom, and she told me that it was safe to come in. Danielle, after all the fuss, had coiled up the hose and had gone inside. When we emerged from the trailer, I found a small piece (perhaps two or three leaves) of the succulent had been broken off and were dead center in the middle of the front step. It looked too deliberate to be accidental, but I said nothing.

When we came in, Danielle was huffing and puffing and slamming around the house.

Calmly, I asked her to sit on the love seat so we could talk.

She stomped in and threw herself into her seat.

"Now I understand the plan was that you were going to go watch the fireworks with Ms. Teacher and her niece. Is that correct?" I asked, calmly and quietly.

Danielle glared at me through her hair, which was covering her eyes. Her arms were crossed defiantly across her chest. "Yes," she surled.

"Do you want to go to the fireworks this evening with Ms. Teacher and her niece?"

"I don't know," she grumped. Then she added, almost haughtily, "I hadn't really thought about it."

"Okay," I continued softly, "let's look at this from my perspective. Can you honestly tell me that you have been behaving in a way that would make me want to let you go?"

"No," she sulked.

"So what do you think you need to do?" I asked.

"Behave better," she growled.

"Well I want to make something really clear: I don't care if you go or not. However, I am getting very tired of your abusive behavior. So, here's the deal -- if you don't pull this out of the ditch right now, I am going to decide for you. If I hear one more disrespectful word out of your mouth, if you refuse to do one more chore, or you even so much as roll your eyes or make ugly faces at me, then I will call Ms. Teacher and I will tell her that you can't go to the fireworks. Furthermore, I will tell her why you aren't going."

Danielle sat on the loveseat and positively glared at me.

I continued, "You have a choice here. If you want to go to the fireworks, then you will pull this out of the ditch. If you don't, that's fine, but you will spend the rest of the day in your room. When [the across-the-street neighbors] come for the BBQ, you will stay in your room, and you won't enjoy hamburgers with us. You won't watch the fireworks, and you won't go with Ms. Teacher. You get to decide, and I don't care which you choose, but I want to make it very clear that this is your choice. It's completely up to you, and the consequences of your actions are on you."

Danielle stared at me in disbelief, then went to her room and grabbed her art book. She calmed herself down and started drawing and writing poetry. She managed to hold it together long enough to be granted permission to go, which was a great relief to all of us.

Of course she had to be nasty when she came home. I dared to asked her to change her clothes because she'd been wearing the same two layered tank tops for at least two days. She was wearing them Friday when she came home, she slept in them Friday night, and she'd worn them all day Saturday. They looked dingy and enough was enough. She pitched a fit, but did change, and I took the clothes and threw them in my laundry basket.

While she was at the July 4th festivities, she got another invite to go shopping and get her hair cut with Ms. Teacher on Monday. I've reminded her several times this morning, that her behavior today will determine whether or not she'll be allowed to go.

Danielle, on her own initiative, has decided to spend most of today in her room so she won't be tempted to get into trouble.

Unpleasant Reunion

From Tuesday night until Friday evening, Danielle had been staying with Ms. Teacher's niece. It worked out that it was more convenient for the girl's mother to drop Danielle off at Ms. Teacher's house, so after we went out for fish and chips (which Danielle hates) we dropped by to pick her up.

We found Danielle, sitting at Ms. Teacher's kitchen table, munching on a hamburger. She didn't even look up when we arrived.

We visited with Ms. Teacher for a while, and during the visit, Danielle kept making scoffing sounds and rolling her eyes.

Eventually, after a few minutes of Danielle slowly and angrily munching her burger, she suddenly brightened. "Did you miss me?" she asked.

I refused to answer the question. I said nothing. Danielle had just treated us to a good 15 minutes of snottiness, and I didn't have very much nice to say.

"You are mean!" Danielle accused.

Finally, FosterEema asked her, "If we had been treating you the way you have been behaving the past few weeks, would you have missed us?"

"Well yeah," Danielle scoffed.

I said nothing. We continued our visit with Ms. Teacher, and Danielle continued to interject snotty remarks. We told Ms. Teacher about my niece's explosion and her justification for her behavior, but didn't explain what Danielle had done to be grounded. Ms. Teacher was shocked and told us how sorry she was.

In the meantime, Danielle kept trying to make rude little remarks, in between trying to get hugs from me and trying to sit in my lap. I have her a half-hug, and I did let her sit in my lap for a moment, but the chair I was using wasn't comfortable enough for the both of us, and Danielle finally gave up.

Danielle kept making snide remarks, so finally I told her, "I don't like it when you speak to me in this way. Would you like me to tell Ms. Teacher what you did to get in trouble?"

Danielle made a few more scoffing remarks, but shut up soon after.

Ms. Teacher looked very concerned.

"Trust me," I told her, "it was bad."

Ms. Teacher gave us a tour of her garden, and all the while Danielle kept mooching for hugs and asking if we missed her. I gave her half hugs, and tried my best not to completely push her away. She alternated between being sweet and telling us that she missed us and loved us, and being completely rude and snotty.

I did give her a hug and a kiss on top of her head, but when she said she loved me, I said nothing. I responded by giving her a kiss on top of her head. I was too annoyed to say anything else.

When Danielle asked for what was probably the tenth time if we missed her, FosterEema replied, "I missed the Danielle who is helpful, sweet and cooperative. I missed the Danielle who doesn't argue, or call us names. I didn't miss the Danielle who does all mean things you have been doing for the past few weeks."

Eventually, we headed home, and Danielle continued being a snot for most of the evening. She groused about having to go to bed and having to help out with the evening chores. It was a relief to go to bed just to be rid of her.

This morning, I woke her up just a little past 8:00 AM. I'd warned her last night that since we are planning a July 4th party, we were going to have to do some chores around the house. The list of all that needs to be done is quite long, but I gave her only three chores: 1) thoroughly clean her bathroom, 2) clean the bird cages, and 3) vacuum the living room, dining room and hall. I wrote the list on a sheet of paper, and handed it to her.

"This is what I expect you to do this morning, please." I said as I handed it to her.

Danielle began ranting and raving about how unfair it was that she had to help out, since it was our party, (people she likes are coming, too), that she'd just cleaned her bathroom (several days ago) and she wasn't going to do any of it.

"I can understand why you might feel that way," I told her, "but I won't let you go to the fireworks display with your friends if your chores aren't done."

Danielle continued to rant and rave. I did my best to ignore her and say as little as possible. When I said anything at all, I just repeated what I had said previously. "I can understand why you might feel that way, nevertheless, I won't let you go to the fireworks if your chores aren't finished."

Eventually, after at least a good 30 minutes of fussing, Danielle settled in and did her chores with no further complaint.

Although things are peaceful now, I wish we had somewhere else to send her.

Bye Bye Cell Phone, Bye Bye House Key

FosterEema and I have been spending considerable amount of time recently discussing Danielle's cell phone, house key and allowance. It's pretty clear that the arrangements we've set up for all three aren't working.

At the moment, Danielle's cell phone is in our lock box, and her house key is in the dish with the rest of the household keys. I think both will remain where they are, at least for the foreseeable future. Danielle has no legitimate need for the cell phone or the house key, and I think until we can see a substantial and consistent improvement in her behavior, I'm going to consider the cell phone to be off limits. I believe a cell phone should be a treasured bonus for exemplary behavior, not simply something she gets because she breathes.

As for Danielle's allowance, I'm still considering what to do about it. We had told her, previously, that if we had to confiscate her phone, she would have to pay us for the amount of time it was out of her possession. Our cellular phone bill just arrived, and during the 30 possible days she could have had the phone, it was locked up for a total of 24. If we are to remain consistent with our earlier statements, I would deduct $8 from her allowance check.

Although I haven't made up my mind about her allowance, I did go back into her room and remove the check from her desk. I put it in my tickler file with a due date of Monday. By the time she returns from her sleepover, it will be too late to go to the bank tonight, and she won't be able to deposit the check on Saturday on account of the July 4th holiday. This will give us the weekend to decide what's reasonable, as it will also give us a couple of days to review her behavior.

I expect she won't take the news regarding her cell phone very well, so this could be potentially an explosive weekend.

The good news is that my mother will be coming down on Saturday, so if things get too out of control at least we'll have a witness.

I am hoping that things will go smoothly. I am dreading that they will not, because Danielle has a long history of acting out after having too much fun.

The Fate of Cell Phone, House Key and Allowance

When we got Danielle a cell phone back in April, I was opposed to the idea. I felt, and I still feel, that Danielle really doesn't need a phone. I acquiesced because it was something Danielle wanted, and we thought that it might act as a form of currency to entice better behavior. It worked for a short time, but it didn't take long before threatening to take the phone actually resulted in an escalation of bad behaviors. It also didn't take long before I had to threaten to cut the phone off at the source, because Danielle wouldn't hand it over.

The biggest argument in favor of the phone was that we thought, once adopted, Danielle would be able to enjoy greater freedom. Once the odious foster care rules were lifted, we thought we would be able to let her visit safe places on her own, and we might leave her at home alone for short periods of time.

Unfortunately, Danielle has made it abundantly clear that she's not ready or mature enough to enjoy greater freedom or to stay home by herself. A kid who gets violent, threatens to call 911, and lies about burglars, should not be left unsupervised. It's clear that even though we are no longer required to constantly supervise Danielle, it is unwise not to do so.

So the need for Danielle's cell phone has vanished, since there is no possibility of her being left alone, without the company of an adult.

Since Danielle cannot be trusted to be in the house alone, it also removes the need for her to have a house key. When she goes out, she rarely remembers it, even when reminded. During one recent departure, I asked her if she had her key, and she assured me that she did, patting her pocket. Not two minutes after she left, I found her key in the living room, not in her pocket as she'd claimed. I took her key and put it in the dish with the other household keys, but now I question whether or not she really needs to have it back.

I am also thinking that our current system of paying her allowance isn't really working either. For nearly two years, we've been giving Danielle a small allowance that hasn't been tied to completion of chores or behavior. In the beginning, we paid it weekly, and Danielle expressed a considerable lack of gratitude concerning the arrangement. Later, we switched to a monthly payment, because it was easier to manage with our cash flow. We gave the allowance, regardless of behavior, because we wanted Danielle to develop money concepts and at least a small desire for stuff so that we might use it to motivate her.

It hasn't really worked out that way. Danielle still isn't particularly motivated by stuff, and seems to have a very poor understanding of money. Since the beginning of the year, she has blown through her entire savings account, and didn't seem all that distressed by the fact that she had no more money. Other than a few items of clothing, Danielle has spent nearly all her cash at the liquor store next to her school, buying chips, soda pop and candy.

I'm no longer sure that giving Danielle $20 per month, just for breathing, makes sense, especially when her behavior has been so difficult. I'm pondering tying her allowance to both chores and behavior, in the hopes that it might make a difference. Perhaps her behavior will improve if she sees that good behavior and completing chores affects her income in a positive way, while explosions and failing to do her assigned work affect it in a negative way.

But then again, it might not.

Given her behavior, I am considering the fate of her cell phone, house key and allowance, because I'm not sure any of them are necessary or helpful at this point in time.

Lunch with Mme. Attorney

We had lunch with Mme. Attorney today.

It was a very nice lunch, and it was nice to see Mme. Attorney again. She asked where Danielle was, and we told her she was off spending the night with friends. We also told her about all the troubles we've been having, including the assault, threats to call 911, and her lies about being pregnant and our house being burglarized.

Mme. Attorney just sat there with her mouth hanging open. She believed us, opined Danielle definitely needed counseling and told us how sorry she was.

"It's not your fault," I told her.

We also shared the news about the blow-up with my stepmother and niece, my niece's excuse, and the letter inviting Danielle to call CPS. Again, Mme. Attorney could scarcely believe what she was hearing, and again told us how sorry she was.

"It's hard to believe, isn't it?" I asked her. "If I wasn't living the tale, I'd have a hard time believing it myself."

Small Reprieves Around the Neighborhood

It seems there have been a number of small reprieves all around the neighborhood:

• Danielle is gone until Friday night.
• The slow-paying client for the big, bad project has assured us that our check will be mailed no later than tomorrow, which means we'll likely get it by Monday.
  
• FosterEema's client informed us that the bookkeeper will return sooner than expected, and they will pay our first invoice "as soon as possible."
• Our across-the-street neighbor, who was stressing over what they thought was an overdue bill, learned that the bill isn't due until the end of September.

Money Runaround and Allowance Docking

Collecting from clients has to be one of the worst aspects of being self-employed. It's not bad when times are good and money comes in at regular, or at least semi-predictable, intervals. When times are tough, it's simply nerve wracking.

Remember the big, bad project? That's the project where I averaged 50 hours per week on that job alone, in addition to the work I did for other clients. That's also the same project that, during the final week, I put in almost 70 hours of client-billable time.

I still haven't been paid for the job, even though the invoice was sent due on receipt. When I spoke to their A/P (accounts payable) clerk last week, he told me he was going to send the check out right away. I called yesterday and wasn't able to reach him, so I e-mailed the organization's president. She e-mailed a reply saying she'd get back to me, but when I didn't hear back this morning I decided to call again.

I called the A/P clerk this morning and was told the check hadn't been sent because the president hadn't given the okay to pay the invoice.

WTF?

I left two voice mails for the president (one at her office and one on her cell phone) explaining the problem. I reminded her that we had gone to considerable effort and expense to deliver a completed project on the substantially-shortened deadline, and that we'd really appreciate prompt attention to our invoice.

I wish that this were our only payment woe, but it seems that FosterEema's new contract is likely going to take the full 30 days to pay. When we signed the contract, the client said that they'd "try" to pay sooner, but that they wanted the extra wiggle room since they use a bookkeeper to pay all their bills, and she works part-time. We found out yesterday that the bookkeeper is on vacation, so nothing can be paid until she returns at the end of the month.

Likely our next check will come from our main client, who usually pays us around the middle of the month. So, unless we want to break our rule of credit card spending, or borrow from our savings account that contains our estimated tax payments, we'll have to figure out how to make due with $60 cash, plus my $61 leftover allowance, and the remaining $3.73 in our checking account.

Oh yeah, and we forgot we are supposed to host a July 4 party.

Danielle isn't here, and I'm tempted to take back the $20 allowance check I left on her desk. I'm tempted to use the excuse that since she's lost the use of her cell phone for several weeks, we should not have to pay for it. She lost her phone shortly before school let out because she had a meltdown, and didn't get it back on schedule because she punched me. She had it for only a few days before we confiscated it again in response to Father's Day, when she threatened to call 911 and report us for abusing her. Given her most recent explosion over being asked to clean her stinky room, there are currently no plans to give her the phone back any time in the foreseeable future.

So, we certainly have a valid argument for docking her allowance. We shouldn't have to pay for her phone when her behavior has been so bad she's not allowed to have it.

Danielle is a "Pleasure"

Just a few moments ago, FosterEema's cell phone rang. It was Danielle's friend's mother, who called to extend the sleepover invite until Friday.

"Danielle is being a pleasure," the woman said.

A pleasure?

Oh, this woman does not know this child.

I'm glad that Danielle is behaving nicely for her friend's mother, because it gives us another couple of nights of alone time.

But, it also makes me really angry. I am tired of dealing with escalating explosions, hitting, threats and lies, when Danielle is capable of so much better.

Counting our current therapist, Danielle has worked with a total of six mental health professionals or para-professionals. She has also undergone three psychological evaluations -- one done by the county, one done by an organization that assists developmentally-delayed children and adults, and the last done by the school. Not one of these professionals has ever felt that Danielle has any form of mental illness or attachment disorder, yet they cannot explain why Danielle explodes in the way that she does.

Our current therapist, who is actually a licensed therapist has had the most insight, but even what she says is sort of a great big duh.

"Danielle has suffered a lot of abuse and trauma," she's told us.

Well duh, we'd already figured that out. What we need is something that will bring Danielle's tantrums under control. They are, in many ways, getting worse and not better, and I no longer believe that the lull between storms is an indication of lasting change.

Although Danielle can behave as sweet as pie, she can also be violent, vicious and dangerous.

Yesterday afternoon, I got a surprise call from the Friendly Social Worker. I was surprised to hear from her, because she was here the night I had to leave, and I figured she wasn't too happy with me.

But, surprisingly, she called and asked if I could give her a ride to her auto dealer so she could pick up her car after it received an oil change. We talked about what was going on, and I told her that I was still considering leaving, because I wasn't prepared to be on the receiving end of threats and physical violence.

She agreed it wasn't appropriate for Danielle to be behaving in this way and that something needed to be done. What that mysterious something might be, she didn't know.

I said that I was considering boot camp, and she suggested that Danielle might need residential treatment. That might be the case, but I think it would a hard sell, given that Danielle isn't violent and explosive all the time. When she's nice, she's really nice. When she's not, she's really awful, but she does a pretty good job of letting nobody but us see her absolute worst.

The Friendly Social Worker asked if we were documenting everything. I said yes, and she opined that the next time Danielle exploded, even if it wasn't that bad, we might want to call the emergency mental health hotline or even the police.

"If you call," she said, "then you'll have even more documentation on your side."

Everybody is Feeling the Pain

In response to Fat A/R, Thin Wallet, Stacy wrote:

My husband got laid off this week and as of tomorrow after paying bills we have $400 to live off of for a month and that includes groceries, gas, meds, etc...I understand your pain...

It seems like everyone I know is suffering the pain of the lousy economy.

On Tuesday, the frozen food delivery guy stopped by the house. He complained that business was so far down that he's only had one week this quarter that he's made any commission from his sales. "If my job didn't have a base salary attached to it," he said, "I wouldn't have any money at all!"

Our neighbors across the street are struggling. We want to help them, but we really aren't sure how. We just don't have money to spare, so there's little we can do to help them find housing. Since they have no other options (and two dogs that FosterEema is highly allergic to) we are cleaning out our garage just in case they need a temporary place to stay.

The idea of someone staying in our garage sounds absolutely horrible, but I can honestly say that sleeping in a clean, warm garage is probably better than a homeless shelter or living on the street.

Better, but not by much.

Of course the neighbor did hear of another job lead, so perhaps he'll have work before garage living becomes necessary.

It's a scary time, and every day I am grateful that my truck and my travel trailer are paid for, free and clear. If we lose our jobs and we lose our home, we'll be able to stay in the trailer. It would be uncomfortable with three people and three birds, but it would certainly be better than having no housing at all.

I've lived through a lot of scary economic times, but this is the first time I can remember thinking, "if I lose my job, I might not be able to find another."

Just Like Summer Camp, Only Free

Just a few moments ago, FosterEema's cell phone rang. It was Danielle, calling from her friend's cell phone.

"Can I stay longer?" she asked.

FosterEema and I quickly agreed, so FosterEema replied, "If it's okay with [friend's mom], then it's okay with me, but please have [friend's mom] give us a call and let us know it's okay."

It sounded like Danielle wanted to stay a few more days, which is completely fine by us.

It's just like summer camp, only free.

Sometimes I Wish Our Kid Was White

This is a post that I originally wrote back in February 2007, but for some reason never posted. Although a number of things have changed since I wrote this, I still think it is worth posting just the same.

Atlasien, over at Upside-Down Adoption, frequently blogs about race. Recently, she posted links to an interesting video and article about trans-racial adoption, and it got me thinking about issues of race. I've blogged about the subject several times, but I'm finding that as time has passed, my opinion has changed.

Last May [2006], before we had our first placement, I blogged about Racism In Foster Care. In that post, I was none too happy with foster and adoptive parents who only want children whose race matches their own. I wrote:



As we went through our foster parent training classes, one of the things they taught us was that we should do our best to keep an open mind. They told us that there are kids of all races in the foster care system, and that homes are needed for all of the kids. With that in mind, I've been surprised to see quite a few people post on foster parent and adoption listservs that they aren't willing to take a kid that isn't of the same race.

My reaction is, "Excuse me?"

FosterEema and I have actually been hoping that we would end up with a kid that is not the same race, simply because we think it would be an opportunity to share a learning experience with our kids. We'd have the chance to learn about and experience our children's culture, and they would have an opportunity to learn about and experience ours. To us, it sounds like a wonderful opportunity to share, learn and grow.


Although I certainly haven't changed my mind about fostering kids outside our own race, and I still hold a certain amount of emotional outrage for foster and adoptive parents who aren't willing to cross racial boundaries, I have to admit that my enthusiasm for crossing racial lines has dimmed somewhat.

It's not because we've suddenly decided that having kids that don't "match" our skin color is a problem. It's not because we've had random people make snotty comments. We live in an area that's racially diverse, and it's not uncommon to see whites dating (or marrying) people of color.

I'll admit that the county's attempt to move "Danielle" made us reconsider future placements with children whose first language is not English, but that's a question of language not race.

I don't mind that "Danielle" is brown. In fact, I kind of like it because she reminds me of the time I spent in Tahiti when I was a child. Even though she's not Polynesian, she reminds me of the kids I played with there, and I think back to one of the more happy times in my life. But, even with those positive associations, I don't look at her skin and think "what a cute little brown girl." I look at her and I just see "Danielle."

Most of the time, I don't consider her race or the color of her skin. When I do, it's because we are going out in the sun and I'm slapping SPF 1-million sunscreen on my pale, burn-in-five-minutes skin. She probably could get away without sunscreen at all, but I oblige her with some SPF 15 when she asks so she doesn't feel different. She drinks vitamin D fortified milk, so I doubt the extra sun protection will hurt her.

Compared to all the other things I have to worry about, such as her progress in school, her behavior, her emotional challenges and her clinginess, her race is far, far down in my thought queue. Most of the time I don't think about it.

And yet, sometimes I find myself wishing she were white.

I don't wish this because I think there's a problem of her skin color, or that I wish she looked more like me. It's not because I'm worried about having to try and explain racism, and it's not because I really care what other people think. I sometimes wish she were white because if she were, I wouldn't have to worry as much about keeping her in touch with her culture and her primary language. Although that's the deal I signed up for, sometimes it's hard work.

What makes it hard is that there are many aspects to her culture that I don't like. Many people in our community live up (down?) to certain cultural and racial stereotypes, and that's not the life I want "Danielle" to see. She's witnessed plenty of abuse, poverty and bad environments already. We want her to see examples of successful people from her own cultural and ethnic background, but we are having a very hard time finding role models whom we like, and more importantly, trust.

Sometimes we tire of watching television programming in her language, especially when we don't understand it. We tire of letting her have a turn controlling the car radio, because we really don't enjoy her music. Most of the time, I'd rather eat sushi than her favorite ethnic food, let alone hang out in her favorite restaurant for hours and hours so she can chit chat in her first language. Sometimes, I just don't feel like it.

I realize, though, the importance of doing these things, and I do them, even when I'm not in the mood. I do them because they are good for "Danielle", and she needs them. I don't particularly enjoy feeling like the "outsider" every time we visit people from her cultural and ethnic group, but I also recognize that she might feel that way living with us. We are different; we are white.

I recognize that everybody needs a taste of home once in a while.

Now that I've had a taste of trying to maintain cultural ties for a child of a different race and culture, I've realized that it's not exactly on my top ten list of things I enjoy. When I signed up to become a foster parent, I thought I'd enjoy it more than I do, and I thought it would be a good opportunity to learn about other cultures and ways of living. Although I've learned a lot, I've also learned that I'm pretty set in my ways, and hanging out with "Danielle's" cultural group isn't very enjoyable, especially when I don't know the language. I thought that learning a new language would be a fun experience. Unfortunately, I've discovered that I'm must less interested in learning the language than I originally thought. I'm already bi-lingual (English/American Sign Language) and in school I loved studying foreign languages. As a working adult, trying to learn anything that sucks up much in the way of bandwidth isn't interesting.

Maybe it's just because I'm exhausted from trying to keep up with my work, get "Danielle's" behavior under control and catch her up in school. Maybe it's just because I can be somewhat shy, and trying to swim in a completely unfamiliar social mix is even harder than socializing with people I don't really know. Maybe it's just that I'm lazy.

As we fast-forward a bit more than two years from when the post was originally written, I've discovered that Danielle has gradually expressed less and less interest in keeping in touch with her culture or her first language. Two years ago, Danielle was pretty enthusiastic about socializing with others who speak her first language. As time has passed, she's become more and more reluctant. Although she still wants to go to her favorite ethnic restaurant, she doesn't nag us incessantly until we relent, and usually wants to leave as soon as we are done eating, instead of chatting with the owner for hours and hours.

These days, when we offer to watch a movie dubbed in her first language while we watch the subtitles, she always refuses, claiming that the dubbed version "sounds stupid," or in the case of a comedy, "isn't as funny" as the English. I'm content not to force the issue, and I'm not particularly worried about her losing her language abilities. I learned American Sign Language in my teens, as a second language, and then drifted away as an adult for a number of years. When I came back to it, I was rusty, but I came back to my original level of fluency very quickly. My mother learned to speak French as a child, then drifted away, and came back. It didn't take long for her fluency to return, either.

So I'm content to let Danielle take the lead with regards to her cultural involvement (or lack of it) because, first and foremost, she is a U.S. Citizen. As time has gone by, we've realized that she didn't have a great deal of cultural literacy anyway, so the importance of keeping her in touch with something she didn't know in the first place seemed rather silly.

Now that we aren't suffering through cultural displays that none of us (including Danielle) really enjoyed, I no longer find myself wishing she were of a different race. Most of the time, I don't consider it at all, except when I hear someone making a disparaging remark about racial stereotypes.

Although I can't say that I'm completely colorblind, because I am a product of my racially-divided upbringing, I can say that I spend a lot less time thinking about this issue, and I guess that's probably a positive thing.

Fat A/R, Thin Wallet

As if we didn't already have enough stress on our plates, we've now got a new thing to stress about:

slow-paying clients

Our A/R (accounts receivable) looks fabulous. If all our clients were to pay us today, we would have enough money to pay our taxes, and our personal and business expenses for the next four to six weeks.

Remember the big, bad project? That client hasn't paid yet, even though our invoice was marked "due on receipt."

Our main client usually pays about Net 15, so we won't see a check from him until probably the middle of the month.

We've invoiced our new client for the work FosterEema has done so far, but that payment likely won't arrive until the end of the month. Although the client was very eager to hire FosterEema, they insisted on longer payment terms, and will pay Net 30.

So there it is, six weeks of living expenses out there, untouchable, until the checks come in.

It would feel very comforting, except for the fact that, as of today, our personal checkbook has a balance of only $3.73. The good news is that this is after I paid the mortgage, insurance, credit card, Danielle's allowance, and other bills due during the first half of July. The bad news is that this is before we bought groceries or paid our share of cost for FosterEema's two trips to the ER for her cut finger and bladder infection.

Now we could just live off credit cards until the checks arrive, but as part of our reconciliation agreement in the wake of FosterEema's financial infidelity, we no longer spend money with a credit card unless we have the cash in hand to immediately pay it off. We've set up a system where whenever we make a credit card charge, we transfer that amount of money to an interest-bearing account, and when the credit card bill comes due, we pay it in full. Since we don't have money in our checking account, it means the credit cards are off limits.

We won't starve. We have food in the freezer and I have another $60 cash in my wallet. I also have another $61 of own money, saved from previous months' allowance, hidden away.

Still, it's a bad feeling to have a fat A/R and a very thin wallet.