OYM Day 13: Hamburgers, Weddings in Jamaica, and Jesus - Part 1

We were in week 6 of our 10 week training to become foster parents. Daniel sat next to me, staring at the binder in front of him. We all had one, filled with so many papers it resembled a telephone book. Our foster care training class…was a shit show. That was the note I sent him, scribbled in furious blue ink. He tucked my note into his binder without acknowledging its legitimacy.

I know. Foster parents don’t all have a great reputation. The program itself is pure chaos, let alone the people walking through it’s (metal detectors and then) doors.

As far back as I can remember, I knew I didn’t want to have kids. That’s right. I said it. I didn’t want a family. I didn’t understand why you would. My mom had 4 of us… 4! What was she trying to prove, anyways?! We were a nightmare. Straight terrors. The highest level of Jumanji. I would look at my sisters fist fighting and the other one licking the cheese dust off the Doritos one by one before putting them back in the bag. DEMONS.

I think a lot of my trepidation about having a family was quite simple. At least when I was still young enough to play house with the neighborhood kids. Boys? Gross and unreliable. My body morphing into something the size of a car port? No thanks! Having a thing come out of my butt (hadn’t gone through sex ed yet) that has a heart beat and needs?! By this point I was strapping on my rollerblades and ready to get the fuck out of those thoughts. Bye!

Then, I lost my grandparents. First my grandma, then my grandpa a handful of years later. They were saints and I loved them in the way that you only realize after you can’t tell them in person anymore. My grandparents adopted 2 children: my father and my Uncle. From the stories I heard, they had a pretty great childhood. And from what I could tell from every time I visited, they either thought I was the most unique, precious human being to walk this Earth, or they just loved kids. I know it’s too late now, but I wanted to and want to be like them.

I still wasn’t able to come to terms with the whole body morphing into a car port thing, but adopting… this I could do. Maybe. The state of Nevada says that before you can wonder such a thing, you need to come in for an information session. Daniel was hesitant when I told him about the whole idea, as I present him with terrible ideas all the time (let me cut your hair or paint the driveway or host a silent disco at our house!). He knew it was important to me so he agreed to go, but also reminded me that this is just an info session and no decision had been made yet. I had planted the seed! Victory was to be mine, I just knew it! All I had to do now was get through this information session with a list of valid reasons why we could do this and how I wouldn’t let this bowl me over like a high speed train of emotions.

Guys, I sobbed. The kind of sob where you are trying to hold the tears in as you stare a young teenage girl in the face who has been through the RINGER and are trying to show her that you would never do that to her and that everything is fine and most certainly you are NOT ugly crying and wiping your snot on your nice sweater sleeve. If you go to an info session like this, you will apply to be a foster parent. And if you leave the session realizing you can’t do it, you really know your limitations and I respect that. Whatever you decide, it’s going to hit you where it hurts.

Soon after the info session we were getting finger printed and learning our training schedule. Two classes a week, three hours long, 10 weeks in total. We could that. What I could NOT do were the other foster parents to-be. As we went around the room on that first day of class and listened to each person introduce themselves, I had to be mindful to pick my jaw up off my binder.

Getting a room ready for a child I knew nothing about. Age, gender, ethnicity, trauma… but we were ready as we could be.

These people were psychos. Trust me I took a few minutes to search for other words, but nope, psycho is it. They were mostly couples, some family members getting their training to take custody of a niece or nephew. There were a few elderly single women, all saying they were guided there by God. One woman had a bulging eye, slurred speech, and smelled like grain alcohol. Another couple didn’t speak English (which we somehow found out 4 weeks in to our all English instruction class). One couple showed up an hour late, mid argument about their wedding planning. Another couple sat down with a big bag of McDonalds and the man started eating a stack of burgers one after the other, without blinking. But this is not why they’re psychos. No. So far, I could be friends with all of these people.

It gets much, much worse.