Expecting at 40

I'm a former broadcaster who spent the better part of my first forty years trying to succeed in the broadcast industry. I guess to some level, I was successful. I purchased my first two homes while in broadcasting, and was even finally able to walk away from it debt-free in 1998, when I chose to move to Virginia Beach. What I was unsuccessful at, I think, was carving out a "normal" personal life. My nights ended at 9:00 (if I was a good boy and went to bed on time) and began at 5:00. A social life for me pretty much consisted of happy hour, and if it didn't happen then, it didn't happen.

Like a lot of people, when I hit a milestone year, I take a look at my life to see if it's where I had hoped it would be. I was now as close to 60 as I was to 20, and it didn't seem like it took very long to get from 20 to 40! I didn't want to look back at 60 with regrets, so I evaluated where I was in life and decided that now was the time to do the things I had always planned to do. One of those things was to become a father.

I guess I could have hit the streets looking for a "baby momma," but I couldn't see myself with an infant at 42. I was acquainted with a nice woman from the social services office who I would donate gift certificates from one of the hotels the company I work for operates. During a casual conversation, while handing over the gift certificates, I asked her if it was possible for a single man to adopt a child through the foster care program. She was quick to assure me that it was, and told me that an orientation program would begin that week if I'd like to attend to see if this was for me.

I could tell you the whole story, but I'll cut to the chase. I went through six weeks of foster parent training, which ended in November of 2003. A couple of months went by, and even though a child hadn't been placed with me, I was attending additional (required) monthly training sessions to keep my foster parent certification current. Friends of mine were helping me get my home ready for a boy between the ages of 5 and 9. One of the rooms in my house was totally built for a child, so I got to work converting it from a guest room into an actual child's room, knowing nothing about the child that would eventually sleep there.

In January 2004, I received a call from the social worker asking if I could offer respite care for an 11 year-old boy who had been placed (along with his one year-old brother) with a foster parent who needed a break for the weekend. She didn't know a whole lot about him (they never do), but she thought this would be a good introduction to the world of parenting. I agreed.

I made arrangements with his foster mother to meet up with them at a nearby fast-food restaurant Friday after work, and bring him back there Sunday evening. Then the panic set in. I'm going to be in charge of the care of a child.

I pulled into the parking lot alongside her blue jeep, and introduced myself. She was quick to unload him and his things, and nearly had to pry the GameBoy from his cold little fingers, but within a few minutes he was in the passenger's seat of my car.

With his parka zipped up, he looked a lot like Kenny from "South Park." He had bright blue eyes which I could barely see inside the darkness of the hood of his parka. His face was almost gray, though. Underneath his eyes were dark circles, and his face was very thin. He's a small boy, who looked more like an eight year-old than a child his age. I asked him if he was ready to have some fun that weekend, to which he responded with a muffled "yeah!" I told him that I had some fun things planned, but had a couple of "not so fun" things I had to take care of as well. He looked a little confused, so I clarified for him: "I need to stop at the grocery store this evening, and tomorrow I have to get a hair-cut." He looked at me, then at the top of my head, then quite clearly assured me that "that shouldn't take too long." Yup. A wise guy.

We chatted a little and I found out that the social worker was off by a year when she told me his age. He was not ten, but eleven. He liked books and video games, had been run over by a bus when he was five, so he'd be getting "a lot of money" when he turned 18. He figured he'd be moving again soon, since his mother was trying to get a place for them to stay, so he didn't much care whether he was at his current foster home or another, since he was sure it would all be temporary. He likes dogs, and said he liked basketball. He goes by David, not Dave. Inside the grocery store I told him to go ahead and pick out the cereal he wanted for breakfast. He chose a store-brand version of Cocoa Puffs.

We got to my house, where I gave him a tour to show him where he'd be sleeping and showering. We had some pizza, talked a little more, watched some cartoons, and then started winding down for the night. His foster mother had instructed me that he was to take one medication at night to "relax" him, and another in the morning to address his ADHD. He refused the night time medication, so we had some hot cocoa, spent some quiet time, then headed up the stairs. When we got to the bedroom, I let him know that when people stay in my house, they get a hug goodnight. I was guessing by the look on his face that this wasn't something he was used to, so we exchanged an awkward hug, I patted him on the head, turned on a night light, and headed back to adult-world.

The next morning he was up bright and early at 6:30, looking for something to do, or eat, or play. I got him some breakfast, administered the morning pill, showered, then we headed out to get my quickie haircut. Not even a half mile from my house, a woman runs a stop sign and plows into the right rear quarter panel of my car. WHY she didn't apply the brakes is a mystery to me, but she kept pushing my car with hers until we had spun completely around.

"Did we get hit?"

I assured him that not only did we get hit, but that we were heading in the opposite direction. I got out of the car to speak to the woman, who was just about as freaked out as I was. David ran into the yard where my bumper had landed while the woman and I exchanged information. I wasn't sure at this point who I was supposed to notify. We were both fine. I called my social worker and she made a note of the fact that we had been in an accident and that there were no injuries. I called his foster mother to let her know what had happened, then went through all of my foster training notes to see how many others needed to know about this.

I did get my hair cut, and we did go to an arcade after that. On the way, I had asked David about the video games he liked, and about how long he thought we would be at the arcade. "That depends on how much money you want to spend." We started with ten dollars worth of tokens, but he wasn't playing the kind of games that require "video game skills." He was going for all the ones that spit out tickets or plucked a prize from inside a glass case. Every now and then he would duck out of site, and I'd find him crawling around on the floor under the video games looking for more tokens, or money, or an escape route. I reminded him that I had more money and that if he ran out of tokens (which he wasn't even close to running out of) we could get a few more. He ran from one end of the arcade to the other, looking for unclaimed tickets that he could use to get more prizes. I gave him the ten minute warning, then the five minute warning, then the two minute warning, then we headed for the counter to pick out the prizes he wanted. He chose a basketball for himself, and ten SpongeBob mugs that looked more like thimbles. We stopped at Chick-Fil-A for lunch, where I watched him zig-zag through the line of people trying to cut to the front. When I called him back, he asked if he could use the restroom, then he zig-zagged back through the crowd. When he returned to me, I told him that he should say "excuse me" when he's barging between people. "You have to," he said. "I'm a kid, so I can get away with it."

The rest of the afternoon was spent visiting good friends of mine, Colleen and Jason, and then it was back home to continue getting acquainted. By Sunday evening, we had played cards, put together a puzzle, played Monopoly a few times. It was time to pack him up, which didn't go over well with him. He began to pout, and stomped up the steps to get his things. On the way out the door, I asked him if he'd like to take the cereal with him since I probably wouldn't eat it, and wrapped my neck scarf around his neck to keep him warm. I could tell he didn't want to go back to his foster home, but it was my job to return him. He opened his Harry Potter book in the car, stuck his nose in it, and refused to talk anymore.

Before I let him out of the car, I let him know that I had a good time with him, and that I would see if we could do it again sometime. I don't remember exactly what he said, but it amounted to a "yea, sure." I told him to hang on to my scarf.

The next day I called the social worker to see when he could come back for another visit. She reminded me that foster families are typically permitted one respite weekend per month, so it might be some time before I could have David back for another visit. During the conversation, she asked if I had considered taking him into my care full time, to which I replied that the thought had crossed my mind as I was getting to know him. While he had a tendency to be a handful for his current foster mother, he was relatively polite and pretty low-keyed during his visit with me. What I did see was a boy who needed a chance to just be a boy.

From what I knew of his history, he had been thrown into an adult role fairly early in his life, taking care of his baby brother. Out of respect to his biological family, I'll not go into too much detail about what his life prior to foster care was like. I can tell you that he was quite strong-willed and extremely impulsive.

His second visit to my home was in early February 2004. His brother, who had been placed with him at his current foster home, was turning two. Social services had asked if I'd be interested in having them both visit for the weekend, so in the interest of keeping siblings together, I agreed to host them both. When I went to pick them up on Friday, I was informed that only David would be coming to visit. The social worker explained that they felt that part of what was delaying David's progress was the fact that as a parentified child, he was disrespecting the authority of the adults in his life, and that they'd like to see how he responded to being an only child.

They also felt that he would do well with a strong male role model, as he had been exposed to very few responsible men in his life. He never knew his biological father. His uncle and grandfather were serving time. His brother's father had bailed (for the time being). In addition, the brother's paternal grandparents were interested in taking him in. No one was stepping forward to take David in. I told them to give me another weekend and let me decide, which they agreed to do.

Knowing that video games were huge for a child his age, I told David that I was thinking about getting a Playstation 2, but didn't know much about them so needed his help in finding one "for the house." He was quick to tell me about a flea market he knew of that sold them at a discount, so we went to see what they had, checked to make sure the system would be under warranty, saved about $10.00 off what I would have paid at Best Buy, snagged a couple of games and headed back to the house. Within fifteen minutes, it was up and running, and David was planted on a large pillow in front of the TV. I let him play "Sly Cooper" for a little over an hour, then pulled up some floor behind him so I could see how this thing worked.

One of the red flags we had learned about in foster parent training was a child who was quick to show affection. Sometimes children are taken into foster care for one form of abuse or another, but the totality of what they've been through won't come out for years. One sign that a child might have been sexually abused is that they're very affectionate very quickly. When David leaned back into my chest, I realized that I might be putting myself in a compromising position, so I scooted around so that I was positioned by his side. After another hour, we had some cookies and he got ready for bed.

The next day, he was up bright and early once again, expecting to immediately jump onto the PS2. I told him he could play later, as I'd planned to spend some time together so I could get to know him better. I had purchased an inexpensive remote control car for him to play with, there were cards and board games and other more "interactive" things to do that day, which we did--all day. He began to open up a little about his current situation, and how he felt his foster mother didn't really like him. He knew that she loved his baby brother, but it was pretty clear to him that she could care less whether he was there or not. He told me stories of how she had thrown a stack of DVDs at him when he "told the movie" they were watching (I guess he was telling them what was coming up before it happened). He shared a room with his brother, neither of whom had a set bedtime. He only liked vegetables in cans. He had watched "R" rated movies. He had run away from his school last year because it bored him.

I asked him what his medication does for him. He said sometimes it makes him lose his appetite (at 11, he weighed 62 pounds and was in a boy's size 8). All of the clothes that had been packed for him were size 16. His underwear were a size 14. These huge clothes only made him look even smaller than he already was.

It's not often that we get significant snowfall in Virginia Beach, but on Sunday, we awoke to light flakes falling. They got larger and began accumulating more and more as the day wore on. By evening, we had a few inches of snow on the ground and were looking forward to playing in it. I had tried to call his foster mom before loading him up to return him, but there was no answer. There was no answer at her mother's house. I packed him up and took my time getting back to where she was supposed to meet us. When we got there, the parking lot was empty. I tried again from my cell phone to call her, but still no answer. After about a half hour, I asked if he was hungry, which he was, so we went into the fast-food restaurant and grabbed a bite to eat. In the middle of our meal, she returned my call to tell me that she "can't drive in this." I asked if she'd heard whether or not schools had been closed yet, to which she said "I won't be sending them, anyway." I told her it was fine with me if he stayed another night, which is what he did.

When he heard that he was staying one more night, his face lit up, and he began wanting to plan all the things we would be doing that night and the next day. We wound up playing "War" over a couple of cups of hot cocoa while we watched the snow continue to fall.

Even though he didn't have school the next day, I did have work. We headed for my office, where I had hoped there would be other children who would have come to work with my co-workers, which there were. We set the kids up with some movies to watch in a vacant office, planned a lunchtime pizza party, and went about our day. On the way home from work to get him packed up to return to his foster mother's--again--he told me that he wished it would snow another foot so he could stay another night. I told him that social services had been good enough to allow another visit for us, so I'm sure we could do this again.

What he didn't know was that I had spoken to the social worker while they were watching movies and told her that I would be interested in taking David into my care on a full-time basis.

Prior to David's moving in with me on a full time basis, two social workers paid me a visit to have a little chat about what I can expect from him. In their words, "We need to let you know what this child is capable of."

He had a very strong sense of entitlement, and saw no reason to stop and think before taking what he felt he deserved. Because of his ADHD, and lack of prior "classroom" experience, he was having a difficult time in traditional classroom settings, was behind in his ability to write legibly. Because of his "other health impairment" status, he was on an IEP and receiving special instruction and concessions with regard to handwriting: he didn't have to fill in the "bubbles" on standardized tests, he was permitted to have an adult write out especially long assignments, and he was allowed to use a keyboard in class so the teachers could read his work. Like most 11 year-old boys, he was hooked on video games, was an avid reader, and enjoyed watching TV. I asked if he was interested in any sports, to which one social worker replied, "Now where would he have been exposed to organized sports?"

I was thinking "On TV," but I realized her question was meant to be rhetorical.

He was a "digger," meaning that he would be plowing through everything I owned looking for whatever he could find. He had learned to steal, and should not be trusted with valuables. He liked taking things apart and putting them back together, but was sometimes unsuccessful at the latter. In his life, he had been diagnosed with Oppositional Defiant Disorder(ODD), Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD), had been a candidate at a local youth boot camp, had burned his mother while she was sleeping, had wandered off from home to buy grapes from a store, had ripped his hair out and put it into a bucket during a tantrum, had thrown himself down a flight of stairs to get what he wanted, and had been monitored for possible bi-polar disorder.

He was a "parentified child," who, from a very young age, had either taken--or was forced to take on--an authority role, caring for his younger brother and truly acting as the "man of the house" for his family. It's like he had been elevated to "adult" status within his small familly unit, so didn't feel it was necessary to ask permission from anyone to do anything. Ever.

Now they tell me. But what they did feel was important was that he finally have a father to teach him about respect and responsibility. He was still fiercely loyal to his mother, which might have explained his disdain for anyone stepping into that role. By placing him in my care, they were not replacing his mother, but were adding a father into the mix, something he had expressed (sometime, somewhere, before me) that he wished he had.

"Do you have any questions?" I did not.

"Are you still prepared to proceed with this placement?" I was.

"In the event that we are unable to return him to his biological mother, would you be prepared to adopt this child?" I would.

They instructed me on the current medications that had been prescribed for him, which included the meds for his ADHD, and another for "bedtime." I remember one of the long names for the drug he was prescribed ended with "amphetamine," which sounded serious to me. I told them I'd be happy to discuss what these medications do with his pediatrician once I get an appointment scheduled for him (the good news here is that he had been seen by the same doctor since he was seven) to see that the dosages were where they were supposed to be.

By the end of the week, they'd be bringing this boy home.