Three months before his fourth birthday, he wasn’t potty trained and was attached to his pacifier. He spoke the F word like it was his job. Racial slurs flew from his mouth. He had three little fingers and one thumb folded down while proudly displaying his middle finger. He could not be contained. Several social workers had to form a circle around him to keep him from running. It took hours to get him in the car and secured in his car seat.
Fast forward five months and you will find where we are today. Thanks to the foster mom he had right before coming to us, he doesn’t use a pacifier and he is potty trained. I haven’t heard him say the N word since the first day he came to us and it’s been a few weeks for the F word. He still uses other undesirable words on occasion, but for me, that’s a big improvement.
We are still trying to teach him about personal space. Hitting, spitting, pinching, kicking, pushing, tripping, and biting are a work in progress. There are definitely deep-seated anger issues. His obsession with guns and killing doesn’t seem to be letting up. The tantrums we experience are the stuff parent nightmares are made of. The defiant behavior and incessant chatter are enough to make any sane person question their sanity. No matter how many words I use, there is no way to truly explain it all. Yet, I have grown to love the little guy.
Earlier this week, there was a panel of interested parties that met to discuss Evan’s case. Their recommendation was that he go to residential care. I didn’t even know what residential care was. It’s like a group home. There isn’t one parent or set of parents, there are employees that work there in shifts. The children have their own bedroom and bathroom. There is one living room and kitchen that they share.
Yesterday, his worker called and told me they were looking into a new program for younger children like him. He will be there for 90 days. I asked if he could come back to us when he’s finished with the program. She said only if our home is available and we are open to adopting him. I was assured that I will be able to visit him while he’s there.
Eleven weeks ago I had never seen his face. He had not yet made me laugh by making silly smiling faces and saying “cheeth.” I had never heard of GAD and I had definitely never seen a child this hyper. I didn’t know the exhaustion and stress that is brought on by such a nonstop kid. Eleven weeks have changed my life.
Never have I been so afraid for anyone’s future as I am right now. I tried looking up the program but with it being so new, there is very little information available. My fear is that he will be around so many troubled children that he may pick up more bad behaviors. I feel we have made progress and he is comfortable here. He has made a connection with me as his mother figure. Will this move set him back? Is he going to think I abandoned him?
So many thoughts go through my mind. My heart is broken. Everything is so uncertain. No one knows for sure if this program will help him. We don’t know if he will be able to come back to us.
Trying to see the positive side, I realize I will have so much less stress. I can go in public again without humiliation from him telling a stranger they are fat or old. Just imagine all the sleep I will get!
Guilt starts to take over and it’s unbearable. How dare I look for joy in a time like this. I’m not reading a book or watching television. This is real life! A life that will forever be changed by these 90 days. There is no way for me to know if that change will be positive or negative.
Monday I will receive a call letting me know if they have a bed available. My trust is in the Lord. Everything happens according to his plan. I have to believe the social workers are doing what they believe is best for him. They have seen many more cases than I have. The system has been in place long before I became a foster parent. So for now, I wait.