I was a novice—completely inexperienced, having never parented a typical child. I had no idea how to approach a child who had endured trauma and neglect. After three years of unsuccessful attempts to conceive, I found myself sitting in a training session, eager to open my home to a child I could love and nurture. During the session, an older, seasoned foster parent shared her experiences with the group. She looked worn and weary. Her stories ranged from heartfelt reunions with biological parents to successful adoptions. Then, she mentioned her struggles with particularly challenging children, her voice taking on a more somber tone as she described a current placement who was struggling in her home. This child was in kindergarten and had already been moved multiple times due to her behaviors. At that moment, I felt a strong desire to help this little girl. I wanted to wrap my arms around her and make her feel secure. Surely, this foster parent was just too exhausted and cynical to manage such a spirited child.
My heart raced with excitement when I learned that the same little girl from training would soon be arriving at my home. We had previously cared for a boy who was doing well, and now it was her turn. When the truck pulled into our driveway and the door swung open, she dashed out, her messy blond hair shimmering in the sunlight. She looked up at me with her big blue eyes and declared, “You are my fifth Mom.” I was enchanted.
However, reality quickly set in. I was horrified to discover that a time-out had led to the f-word being carved into the woodwork with what appeared to be an innocent pen. It wasn’t a single occurrence; it had been etched repeatedly. “I didn’t do it,” she insisted, her calm demeanor unsettling me.
Fear gripped me when I saw the charred mark on the floor of her room. The image of our home burning down while we slept flashed through my mind. I held her tightly, asking what was wrong. “Nothing,” she replied. “Why?” I probed. “It wasn’t me,” she said, her eyes steady.
I felt a surge of frustration when she went missing while I was upstairs. Just as I rushed outside, I witnessed the bird’s nest we had admired that morning crash to the ground. “It slipped,” she said nonchalantly, dropping the wooden board at her feet.
I woke up one night to strange noises and found her startled, cheeks stuffed with cookies. “I was hungry,” she said, and I was taken aback.
The sight of baby ducklings floating lifelessly in the water left me speechless. “They cannot swim underwater,” she explained matter-of-factly.
As days passed, I became increasingly protective, especially when an old, dilapidated car began to cruise slowly past our house. She wouldn’t leave the house for weeks.
Hope blossomed when she stood on the stairs one day, her face twisted with anger. “I don’t trust you,” she spat. “You are an adult.” I took this as a sign of progress.
But my heart sank when, on a return trip from visiting family, I heard the dreaded rip. She had torn her brand-new sweatshirt, declaring, “It’s ugly.” The rejection stung deeply.
I was mortified when her tantrum led to a display of books crashing down in a store, causing a scene as I carried the screaming child through the mall.
Then came the day I felt pure joy as she was officially adopted, becoming my precious daughter. Yet, that happiness was quickly overshadowed when, during a joyful dance in the living room, she unexpectedly pressed her hand against me inappropriately.
Tears flowed when I learned about the trauma behind her anger during time-outs, a result of being tied to a chair for hours in her past. I had been oblivious.
I couldn’t believe my eyes when I drove home to find the side of our house splattered with blue paint, empty buckets strewn about.
Fury boiled over when I received a call from a local bar with a drunken woman inquiring about my girl.
Yet, gratitude filled me each year as I saw her succeed in school with the right support and modifications.
Her laughter lit up my heart when she sang with friends at her first birthday party. But I felt crushed when her behaviors isolated her from most of her peers, leaving her without anyone to invite over to play.
Exhaustion settled in as I spoke with the police about her stealing a friend’s car and crashing it. I felt her pain deeply when I had to tell her that her birth mother had stepped into traffic and died while under the influence.
Despair washed over me when her adoptive father struggled to manage her behaviors. I felt pride as she walked across the stage to receive her high school diploma.
Despite the ups and downs, I still hold onto hope. Her life is undoubtedly better than it would have been had she not fought so hard. She has taught me invaluable lessons along the way.
I am no longer the inexperienced novice I once was.
For more insights on navigating parenting challenges, check out this informative post on our other blog. If you’re interested in the topic of home insemination, Make a Mom is a great resource. For an in-depth understanding of the process, you can refer to this Wikipedia article.