Part one: our children.
“Please don’t take this the wrong way, but have you had him assessed?”
I’m sitting in the children’s playroom at a busy fast-food restaurant, watching a child who has refused to leave for the past 45 minutes.
“Why won’t that boy listen to his mom?”
“He’s being bad!”
“People need to control their kids.”
From whispers to shouts, I’ve heard these phrases float through the room over the last hour.
I try to ignore those words. I try to focus on the child I’ve been tasked to care for.
“I know you’re having a tough time, let’s go home.”
He won’t.
I ignore the stares. Of course, people are staring.
And now, approaching me, is another mom. She looks at me with compassion.
She tells me that I’m not a bad mom, and with that one word of encouragement, I want to spill everything:
I want to tell her I’m not even his mom.
I didn’t create this situation and I’m not responsible for all the trauma that led up to this moment.
She looks like she would be as shocked as I was when I heard the history.
I want to tell her that we have a diagnosis, and I want to tell her what happened at counseling today.
Because if meds and a therapist can’t control behaviors, how am I supposed to?
I want this mom, a stranger, to know I am a good mom. That I’m doing my best, even though this is so hard. In that moment, I forget about protecting his self-image and start to think about protecting mine. The details would be entertaining if I share them like it’s the latest gossip. If I tell his story the right way, she might even think that I’m a really good, self-sacrificing person. This could quickly become a story about me (a brave and resilient caregiver) – at the expense of a brave and heartbroken child.
Each child who enters our home has experienced profound loss. They’ve lost normalcy and predictability, which is often compounded by situations so far beyond their sense of control. Sometimes the only possession – the only part of this entire experience- that a child gets to control, is their story and perception of who they are in this chapter.
As adults, we choose (often subconsciously) the way that we speak about the children in our homes and community. Consciously editing our mental and verbal narratives can not only create a shift in a child’s perspective of themselves and their situation but also can change our experience as foster parents.
Words cultivated wisely can offer dignity to the children we are tasked to care for.
The way we speak about our children should protect and honor them in this most vulnerable moment.
The words we choose set the tone for the way we allow ourselves and others to speak about our children, their families, and their experiences.
When we use our words with intention, we can start to build a developing brain’s framework for inner wealth and healthier inner dialogues.
The words we use, the boundaries we set,
and the culture we allow can either create a relationship that feels safe, or a relationship that feels just as uncertain as everything else.
It took me a long time to find and build community once I became a foster parent. Confidentiality was confusing and isolating. Navigating modern-day opinions and unsolicited advice about parenting was overwhelming and as a foster parent, there were moments when vulnerability felt like flirting with failure. But through the years, I’ve found that the foster parents I trust the most are the foster parents who have proven themselves to be trustworthy. They are confidants of complicated and fascinating stories that aren’t theirs to tell. I’ve learned that a child’s story and struggles can be protected even in a conversation that validates my struggles and experience as a foster parent.
This year, as we prepare for court,
And new placements,
And holidays,
And visits,
And school,
And adoptions,
And evaluations,
And everything in between…
Let’s remember to prepare our words.
Let’s commit to speak about each child with compassion and respect.
For all who encounter us, let’s build relationships and community and a culture that feels safe.
