Am I really going to use artificial intelligence to generate this blog post? Where did I go wrong? I’m a journalist with extensive education and writing is in my blood. What would my first-grade teacher think about this blatant deceit? I’m a cheater, but I’ve got to do something to break me out of this year-long creative drought that I’ve found myself in. Here goes nothing. I was typing the words “write a blog post that relates pop culture to parenting” into ChatGPT long after everyone in my house had already fallen asleep and no one was around to see me commit this revolting sin. The light from my laptop shone on my face illuminating my newfound shame. Quickly, the words started to flow on the page. My skin was hot from the sheer thrill of so many sentences being formed right in front of my eyes. My breathing was long and labored as I realized that this must be what it feels like to have ideas pulled from midair and assembled so seamlessly, a feeling I had never had when writing before. Writing is dirty work. It takes all my effort not to crumble into a ball and cry on my worst days. On good days I come to the table with an idea and at least a few interesting threads, yet no clue how to tie them together. This is one of the reasons I haven’t written about my parenting experience in over a year. Well, that, and who has the time to be a writer and a parent, while also making money to pay the bills? Inevitably, I just couldn’t convince myself to write anymore. I guess the passion started to burn out around the time I finished my graduate degree last summer. We had just adopted our first child, work was endless, and the little time I had to myself I spent regretting all the things that I wasn’t accomplishing. Writing was a lover that I had grown too close to and now we had no time for each other. ChatGPT was the adulterous, forbidden love affair that I had been needing to light that spark. Almost instantaneously the bot replied with a lengthy title, something I always aspire to, which read, “Parenting Lessons from Pop Culture: What Movies, TV, and Music Teach Us About Raising Kids.” Oh yeah. That’s the good stuff. What followed was an average, not so topical, floundering essay about parenting with an introduction, somewhat of a middle and a conclusion. Reading through the text, reality started to set in. There’s no voice and no substance. This lifeless, Frankenstein essay, hobbled together with a few headings and barely a semblance of a thought could probably fool a high school English teacher, but it wasn’t going to replace my patented ramblings and musings. There was a severe absence of prose in the document that I pride myself in being quite adept at. Honestly, why was I even writing? Why today? Is it because we’re eagerly awaiting the arrival of our second foster child? Maybe work has been going just a bit better? It could have something to do with the feelings I got listening to Spanish music in the car with my son after he had a back-to-back dentist and pediatrician visit. Today the world just seemed like something was missing. While in the car my thoughts ran wild with various allusions and metaphors. My head felt clearer than it has in a while. Security was the word that came to mind, or the lack thereof. Am I secure in who I am? Secure in my ability to parent? Financially secure? What am I doing today that is going to get me to where I want to be tomorrow? Hell, with advancements in A.I. on the regular, I’m not even sure I know what tomorrow will look like. This last year has changed so much. I’ve lost people I love, while others have become distant memories. The person I see in the mirror seems to be morphing in real time. So much of who I am is being redefined and I worry about losing touch with the person I used to be or the goals I used to have. I visit small towns and the serenity of sunsets and mountains attracts me. I visit large tourist traps and the elusiveness is palpable. Yet, when I’m home there’s an overwhelming pressure weighing me down, reminding me of what I have yet to do. Every day, the to-do list grows. Maybe everybody has a running list of goals and tasks in their head? Each of us just going about our business yet never reaching a rest stop. My brain is an open web browser with too many tabs. Yet, that’s what makes us human. The unconnected dots that dangle in midair or forgotten memories that only reappear when one least expects it, those are what truly makes us different. We find meaning in the meaningless, hope in the middle of a disaster, connective tissue where there really should be none, and we write blog posts for no one else to read. Life is a fruitless labor at times, and parenting is the same. The plant grows, strong roots may form, you might even see a flower or two. Yet, unless you can present a harvest when all is said and done, the world laughs at you and says you accomplished nothing. I’m keeping a child alive, showing him love, ready to take on a second one, going to work every day, laughing when I watch my favorite TV shows, and I’m trying to create something out of nothing. Life isn’t as easy as providing a prompt to a computer and generating a written response. The work is behind the scenes and this time in my life has been spent building that foundation. I sure hope someday I look back and see the benefits, but for now, I’m happy to just see green leaves and flowers here and there. [email protected]
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Last weekend, I was driving on the freeway across state boarders at eight o’clock at night. My son was in the passenger seat, curled up asleep with his head on a pillow resting against the glass of the window. The light from his Nintendo Switch glowed on his face. I wish it weren’t only the moments he’s sleeping that I feel at peace. The last 10 months has had a lot of ups and a lot of downs. I honestly wasn’t sure at some points if we were going to make it to adoption. Now, closer to that date, I’m beginning to wonder what the next mile marker will be in our lives. It’s very clear that we won’t be going back. Long gone are the days of just my husband and I spending the nights alone on the couch. (We’re still alone on the couch, but now we can hear the shouting from our son’s bedroom upstairs.) I guess as time goes on, being able to measure our progress gets harder. When our son first moved in, he would hit himself over and over. That’s happening a lot less often. At first, he wouldn’t talk about his feelings at all. He’s gotten a little more comfortable in that regard. Last week the team of teachers at his school told him there was nothing left they could do for him. This week he started at a new school and has worked so hard to turn around his behaviors and actually try to do some academic work. I found it so hard to say “no” to my son at the beginning. For me, the mark had to be moved slowly, testing things, taking leaps at times and barely moving at others. Ten months in, I’m much more comfortable in this parenting role and less of a “friend” like I needed to be before. If I can move the mark for myself, I realized I could start moving the mark for my son too. I’m no longer content with him just going to school. I had to push to try and get him to go to school and also not get in trouble. Now I’m working on making sure he doesn’t get in trouble, and he also learns. It’s difficult and there is a lot of backsliding, but I have had to become accustomed to the knowledge that progress isn’t going to be consistent. By now I would like to be able to stand up on my soap box and declare that I know exactly what I’m doing. But I can’t and, frankly, maybe I never will. However, I can proudly and confidently say, “I’ve got this.” I don’t want to brag, but as I sit here writing these words, I’ve come to the realization that I CAN do this. You’d think, “geez, shouldn’t you have figured that out months ago?” But no. I’ve doubted myself time and time again, but now I know that I’m good at this parenting thing. I’m not perfect and I get things wrong, but I really know that I’m making a difference and that I can handle this. Why? Well because I’ve always been raising a child. At first it was myself, trying to fill in the emotional gaps that was left from my own trauma and learning how to grow. Then it was my husband, as I passed on the knowledge I had gained. I still make progress every day helping him figure out how to navigate the trials of mental health. Now, I’m a father and I help my son every day figure out how to be a better communicator and discover his emotions. I know that just because I’ve got a good handle on this parenting thing, that doesn’t mean everyone around me will be able to appropriately deal with my son’s behaviors and emotions. Honestly, my husband has been struggling for some time now, which has only made me dig my heels in the dirt deeper and make me want to be the last hope for this kid. I’ve got this. I’ve got this. I’ve got this. I’m not trying to convince myself. I’m not even trying to convince you. I honestly just have to keep telling myself that I can do it because I have been doing it and I have no plans on never NOT doing it. Just keep swimming, as Dory says. I’ve learned that perseverance has been my strong suit. It isn’t fun. It’s exhausting. However, the more of myself that I put into this family, the more that I can hope to endure with them. I’m trying to build a sturdy foundation on a rock that is very slippery and unstable. So, I’m moving the mark again today. I’ll move it again tomorrow. Inch by inch, my job is to make sure this child becomes the best version of the person he could be. Maybe the first school and teachers don’t work out. Maybe I have to constantly switch incentives. Hopefully just the knowledge that I’ll always be there for him will be enough to get him to that finish line. When adoption comes, we’ll just be rounding out year one. Seven years until graduation. I worry I won’t be able to reign him in even at fifteen or sixteen, so my time is limited. As I’m with my son every day, the good times are starting to outweigh the bad. I expect that the mistakes, the opportunities for growth and learning, and the number of times I ask myself “what the hell was he thinking” are still going to be plentiful. But if I continue to see my son grow and flourish as much as he has the past few months, then I know that I really do "got this." [email protected] Yesterday, during a team meeting, my child’s caseworker said that it was time for them to “start transitioning” themselves “out of our lives.” Of course, this is an exciting moment in our journey because it means we are close to solidifying our relationship to this child in a legally binding way. But it also feels like that final badge of approval telling me that I’m going to make it as a parent. So, there couldn’t possibly be any surprises this late in the game, could there? Especially on my side because I started planning for this a year and a half ago. Yet, sadly, I’m riddled with doubt on whether my husband and son will ever actually bond or if one is going to silently resent the other while the child becomes more standoffish. On the surface, my husband gets along well with our son. He’s able to take care of him and he is a stickler for following the rules. But he’s not actually connecting with him. He spends so much time reprimanding him that he forgets to take joy in the silly moments or allow mistakes to be made. Perhaps three of us is a crowd, because I know I have a much easier time handling my child’s emotions when it’s just us, one-on-one, but my husband doesn’t report the same thing when he’s left alone with the child. Usually he just says “oh, he’s been in his room all night” or “I made dinner and then he went and played.” There’s nothing wrong with that on the surface, but my spouse hardly recognizes when the child is looking for connection. Often times he confuses normal child behavior with disrespect. I don’t want to pretend that I’m the moral center in this situation. I’ve had numerous occasions where I’ve said the wrong thing or made a bigger situation out of an emotion than is needed. However, I trust my experience learning how not to trigger the child and how to make my job easier. Ultimately, I’ve had more one-on-one time with our child, taking him to doctor appointments, therapy, volunteering in his classroom and being the one that the teacher calls when our son needs someone to talk him off a ledge. That’s all on me. I’m the type of person who likes to be in control. For years it has felt as if I was the parent to my husband and he has recognized that and really has stepped up. But it’s not as easy for him and it all comes back to our upbringing. As a child, I was allowed to make mistakes. I shouted and fought with my parents. I did drugs and stole as a teenager. Everything I did lead me back to my parents for support and they were always there. When my son says or does something wrong, I have an easier time putting myself in their shoes and saying, “oh yeah, I understand why he’s acting this way, because he hasn’t learned better.” I understand that it takes repetition and time. However, my husband sees the same actions and immediately shares his disapproval because he knows that he could never get away with the things our son does when he was a kid. Is that for better or worse? I don’t know. I believe my husband has turned into a decent human-being, so I don’t fault his parents. However, I also know my husband has turned into an emotionally distant, traumatized individual, and I do fault his societal upbringing for that. It’s something I’ve had to deal with myself, and it’s definitely something that our son is dealing with too. Unfortunately, the emotional burden of helping two boys in my house (aside from myself) escape their man box has been brutal. Just trying to help them share their feelings and embrace a deeper connection with each other is a herculean task. Some might think, “well how can a gay person possibly be trapped in a man box?” And let me tell you, it’s definitely still there. It’s a bedazzled man box, but it still keeps us caged just like it does so many other men. Don’t cry. Don’t talk about your feelings. Be strong and take charge. Be independent. All of these things including misogyny and homophobia are things I see in my household every day. My son is spending so much energy trying to “fit in.” He has an idealistic version of who he wants to be which includes curly hair and expensive shoes. At only 11-years-old I’ve already seen “how do I look thinner?” in his Google search history. He also has a specific way that he thinks “men” talk like, throwing around words like “bitch, whore, and faggot.” He doesn’t ask for help, he doesn’t want to be told what to do, he demands respect without earning it, and he treats girls like objects. Meanwhile, my husband has made much greater strides, obviously because he’s older, out of the closet, and married to me, but still, he finds it difficult to share his emotions. He never had a role model growing up who taught him how to talk. Like many gay boys, he had his mother to talk to. If we had a daughter, I don’t think this would be so hard for my husband. However, with a heterosexual son, I can see that he’s letting his own limitations stand in the way of connecting. It takes time, but ending those generational teachings is hard. [email protected] Yes, I’ll admit it. I let my child run outside bare foot during a snowstorm this week. I know, I should have been concerned about him getting sick, or maybe I should have cared about what the neighbors would think. Let alone, I should have not let this happen at 10 PM on a school night. But here’s the thing, I’ve decided that I want to look at the world through my son’s eyes. I want to see everything the way a child would see it. In the moment that he was out sliding on the slush in the road, laying face first in the ground, looking like what only can be described as a Walrus on the beach, well, I could see myself in that child. Not only the person I want to be right now, but the child I was 10 years ago. As a kid, I used to go everywhere barefoot. I’d show up at my Grandparent’s house with no shoes or a coat and they’d playfully tease that I was adopted or raised by wolves, no offense to wolves. Now, as a parent, I’ve noticed how easy it is to snuff out the light in my child’s eyes just by reacting too quickly. Often times I have to ask, “is this really going to matter five minutes from now?” and if the answer is no, then I try to relax and let whatever happens happen. For example, I try to give my child the benefit of the doubt. Is it annoying if he leaves his socks on the floor? Yes. But I try to give him the chance to pick them up before I say anything. When he asks to bake cookies and then wanders off without setting a timer, I could get mad. I could swoop in and save those cookies, but instead I’ve decided to let those cookies burn. I’ve realized that it’s important to me to encourage a state of play, but also encourage mistakes, let consequences happen, and try to remember what it’s like to be a kid. For my son, the world looks a lot different from what it looked like when I was his age. Not only is there more technology, more knowledge at his fingertips, more expectations, and things to compare himself too, but also an entirely unfamiliar cultural zeitgeist that I know nothing about. So, while I stress how important it is for him to learn all the things that will help him become a functioning adult, it’s also important for me to learn all the things that could help me tap into that childlike wonder again. And for my son, it’s not just external factors affecting his viewpoint, but also numerous internal factors. Setting aside the trauma responses, my son also has two specific filters on his world that I can’t begin to fathom. First, my son has ADHD. His impulse control, ability to focus, and his actions are all affected by this. Children with ADHD tend to get a bad go at things right off the bat. His teachers, principal, and friends all try to reign him in while he doesn’t understand what he’s doing wrong. This also means that the lessons I try to teach him don’t stick on the first try. Instead, I have to constantly remind him of the right protocols and how to ask himself “what might happen if I do this?” Then, I also have to realize that those lessons don’t always transfer over. Maybe I tell him not to say inappropriate things to kids at school. But then I have to remind him not to say those things to his friends. Then I have to remind him not to say those things to teachers. Then I have to remind him not to say bad things to strangers or anyone. And even after that, he still might do it in a scenario where he thought he found a loophole. In the same sense, If I tell him not to ride in the road on his skateboard, I also have to tell him not to do it on his bike and again a third time not to do it on his scooter. Each time he’ll respond with “but I’m not on my skateboard/bike/scooter” and I wonder if I’m getting through to him at all. Second, my son has a red-green color deficiency. This means he’s colorblind and can only see shades of blue and yellow. I’m only recently realizing how big of a difference this is to him versus how I see the world. I look at our Christmas tree and see green branches with red bulbs and bright white lights. However, for my son, the entire tree looks yellowish-brown. I realized that Iron Man and Spider-Man to him look golden brown and his favorite football team, the Baltimore Ravens, look blue to him instead of purple. In storytelling, we might say that my son is an unreliable narrator. (Granted, everyone can be an unreliable narrator because we all filter things through our own world view.) So how can I ever expect his world view to line up with mine? Maybe as the adult it is up to me to adjust my expectations and my view so that I can lift my child up gradually. As my first year as a licensed foster parent comes to an end, I want to look ahead to 2022 with the goal that I will always take time to look at the situation the way my son does. I already know that it won’t be easy. I can be quick to anger and quick to react. My gut instinct is to be baffled that my son doesn’t know everything. In 2022, I want to meet him halfway. Over the last year I’ve had to rewire my brain. As this journey continues, I want to teach myself to look at every angle. My New Year resolution is to nurture my own sense of childlike wonder. [email protected] If Hamilton had taken that break in upstate New York, his entire life would have changed. We all know that Rachel and Ross said, “they were on a break,” but maybe they needed to reconsider their definition. And for goodness sakes, the makers of the Kit Kat bar have been telling people to take a break for a decade at least. So as parents, why do we feel so averse to the idea of taking a break away from our kids When fostering, it’s routinely reminded to providers that they should take advantage of childcare opportunities so that they can spend time away from the day-to-day struggle, yet so few people actually use the respite care at their disposal. For my husband and I, it has been tough to figure out when these “scheduled breaks” could happen in between school, therapy, caseworker meetings, family time, work, and the multiple other appointments that have popped up on our calendar since becoming adoptive parents. Recently we were able to take a day to ourselves and see a movie, apply for a credit card, shop alone at Costco, and eat out. The day was enjoyable but nothing to write home about while our son went adventuring on an ATV. After that we were able to get a babysitter to see a theatrical production of “Frozen: The Musical.” Aside from those instances, we have been at our child’s beck and call for the majority of the past five months. During this period, I’ve had to leave early from work on multiple occasions for IEP meetings or to help calm my child after they’ve thrown a tantrum at school or bullied a classmate. The “good moments” have been very rare. That isn’t to say we haven’t loved having a son, but the expectations and loaded feelings that come with the role have been noticeable to say the least. Finally, this Thanksgiving weekend, after three days of “family time” on steroids, we were able to “let it go” and get away as a couple for an extended break on a beach in Mexico. Quite frankly, being two-thousand miles away from the child we have spent so much time initiating into our family does feel sad in a way. The distance leaves me longing for that child more than I expected. Ironically enough, every update I get from his caretaker while on vacation reminds me why I needed this break in the first place. I have learned a few things about myself and my relationship with my son while on this vacation. First, I’m not the only one figuring out how to handle him. Sure, I know his teachers and principal are having a hard time with his non-compliance and obnoxious whims, but my sister, who’s a seasoned veteran in the motherhood game, is also finding it difficult to lasso his rambunctious self. For me, this means that I don’t need to be so hard on myself when worrying that I’m doing something wrong. Even a mother of three doesn’t have all of the answers, all of the time. Second, I really do see this kid as a part of my family. Sometimes I wonder, or often I do, whether this kid is just temporary or if he actually wants to be in our family. This makes me wonder if I have a real relationship with him or if it’s just fabricated. Maybe I’m the second place for his broken family. But leaving him alone this week has made me realize that I do see him as a vital part of my family and an extension of my love. Third, I need to change something…anything. When learning about trauma-based reactive behaviors, it is suggested that the parent start off easy and slowly work up to more responsibility and more accountability, adjusting the bar when they see that the child can handle it. In my case, I have started to sense that maybe I’ve been keeping the bar too low. Sure, it often feels like my child is meeting the bare minimum, but if he’s able to withstand a week without me, maybe I can start asking more from him, especially in school and in social interactions. Finally, no matter how hard I try (r rather “do or do not” as Jedi Master Yoda says) I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this new feeling of parenthood. It’s been over a year of training and nearly six months of implementation and every day I am being surprised or baffled with new parenting tests. I don’t feel like a parent. I feel young and like I have so much to prove. Yet, while simultaneously being a parent, I’m proving myself every day. I’m not longer practicing for the game. I’m constantly in the third quarter trying to score a touchdown. But if there’s one thing I know about football, it’s that when you win the Superbowl you get to say, “I’m going to Disney World” and that seems like the best break imaginable. If I keep pressing on, these breaks will pile up and I’ll have a sense of normalcy in the craziness. The lessons I learn during the breaks are invaluable because that’s when I have time to reflect on the craziness that is my new normal. [email protected] When I was younger, I had an uncle who lived near my family. We would often visit him and his kids and help around the house as needed. One time I was sitting outside their trailer house while my dad worked on replacing tile in my uncle’s bathroom. My uncle's teenage son, a cousin I guess but I didn't know him as such, told me that when he turned 18, he would leave home and never look back. He couldn't wait to get away from his family. At the time I was in fourth or fifth grade. I was shocked that this was something that a person might want. To leave their family? Sure, I had heard that teenagers were “always angry,” I am the youngest child after all, but I was still young, naïve, and thought my parents were perfect. Soon after this encounter, I would start to see the flaws in my home life, and I would realize that I too needed to leave my home and be free. Cut to 2021 and I'm now the parent of a pre-teen. Every single thing I do, I'm terrified of this child rejecting me the same way. We don't share blood. He didn't choose us. There's nothing keeping him with us. Every other person has given up on him, he’s ran away, and if we upset him too much, maybe I'll lose my chance to be his parent too. At least, that’s how I feel. This has been on my mind a lot lately as the reality of meeting my child's family has started to set in. Will I ever have a connection as deep with him as he has with his biological family? Does that even matter? My husband’s parenting is much different than mine. I feel like I'm leading with my heart, willing to be broken by this child. Maybe he's smarter for making parenting a chore. This is a job for him. For me, it’s a story. I’m expecting a proper ending. Of course, nothing I’ve learned about life or foster care has led me to believe that everything will be wrapped up with a bow. Still, I want to have the same connection with my son as every other parent has with theirs, but I have to learn to be comfortable with the fact that my connection won’t be the same and that’s okay. So instead, I’m giving myself permission to just feel things. This weekend singer/songwriter Adele released a new single called “Easy on Me.” Her last album, six years ago, came at a formative time in my life where self-love was my biggest struggle, and now, learning to love a stranger is my new goal, and it’s hard. Adele sings: “Go easy on me, baby. I was still a child. Didn't get the chance to feel the world around me I had no time to choose what I chose to do. So go easy on me” And like every Adele song, it just rips open a hole in your heart that refuses to be closed and the lyrics speak to the human existence. Personally, I’ve been lingering a lot on the choices that I’ve made and what has led me to make them. Every time, all I can come back to is this need for connection in my own life. Leaving home because I wanted to find someone who cared about me unconditionally, staying close to home in case that person was my family, coming out publicly because I thought a connection with myself would fix everything, getting married because I wanted to validate my relationship in other people’s eyes, and maybe this child is my latest attempt at figuring out how to love, be loved, or feel normal. But this chorus from Adele, “I was still a child, didn’t get the chance to feel the world around me. I had no time to choose what I chose to do,” well, I can relate. I don’t want to say that everything goes back to childhood, but according to Alan Downs (author of “The Violet Rage”) with queer youth, it basically always does. I feel like my past really makes me a great parent. I’m ready and open to loving this child as my own. However, the ironic part of foster care is that these children also didn’t get a chance to feel the world around them. Or maybe, they felt it more deeply than most of us ever could. So, it’s entirely understandable that my son wants to stay in touch with his biological family members. He’s looking for the same connection as I am. He just doesn’t know how to communicate it, or maybe he doesn’t even know that’s what he wants. Either way, he has no reason to equate our connection with the ones he has with his biological family members. And that’s okay, or at least that’s what I have to keep telling myself. What type of connection I need, and with who, I’m still figuring that out. I get angry at my son’s classmates who treat him differently because he’s trying to figure out his emotions, and because his family looks different from theirs. I get jealous of the parents I see with kids who act exactly how they raised them. I get upset with myself for thinking things like, “maybe next time, I’ll get a younger child” just so that I can have more time creating this bond. I get scared when teachers or the neighbors come to me with their complaints about my son’s behavior. I’m trying to stop seeing his actions as my failures. The closer I get, the more I’ll get hurt when one day he inevitably says, “you’re not my real dad” or he chooses his family over me, or he leaves our home and never calls us again. Right now, I’m trying to learn that every connection doesn’t have to be perfect. I can get different things from different people. For now, I just hope life will take it easy on me while I figure it all out. [email protected] When I was growing up my family loved to huddle around the TV and watch “American Idol.” We started way back in season one with Kelly Clarkson and watched every year as contestants were chosen and eliminated based on the wills of millions of viewers, each armed with cell phones and a number to call and vote. I always hated the first month of episodes where the show focused on the auditions, the sob stories, and winning the golden ticket. I much rather preferred “Hollywood week” where the knives came out and everything became super dramatic almost instantly. That was the fun part. I loved seeing people break under pressure, be voted off the island (to mix my reality show metaphors), and watch the judges tear into the contestants. As time goes on in my foster care experience, I’ve come to realize that auditions are over and I’m DEEP into Hollywood week, or what I like to call “parental hell.” It’s only Wednesday, but it seems like this week has gone on forever. Calls from the principal, calls from our son’s teacher, complaints from the neighbor, my son giving me the silent treatment, and my first experience with laying down the law and having to discipline the poor kid. It’s been brutal. I suppose if my life right now is actually like a reality show, then I already know I’m the winner, right? Like, I’m the one who has to come out at the end. Honestly, I’m the only contestant. Though, if this is a game, I guess it’s more like “The Price is Right.” I’m standing on the stage being presented with random items and I’m supposed to guess correctly or as close to correct as I can. However, imagine an alien from another planet playing “The Price is Right.” They would have no clue how much a microwave is worth or how it compares to a bottle of shampoo. In this scenario, I’m that alien and every item I’m being presented with is a different behavior that my son has suddenly started exhibiting. How I respond to that behavior will determine if I “win the game” or if I get sent home empty-handed. But I have no clue what the answers are. I’m just trying to get as close as possible. Of course, I know that this job isn’t a game. It’s serious. There’s a lot of laughter and I’ve quickly come to realize that I’m the “fun parent” but at the end of the day the stakes are higher than a million-dollar grand prize or a trip to Hawaii. Since I create the rules, I’m kind of like the host of the game show. So why am I the one who ends up crying at the end of the night as if I was just eliminated? All I can think is that I want everyone to win. Participation trophies are on the house. But in the parenting game, you have to get really comfortable with losing. Every time your child gets a penalty, it feels like you’re taking the loss too, and you’re not even on the field. My husband says that the advice contestants receive from the judges “helps to make them better.” Maybe he has a point and knows what he’s talking about since he binged multiple seasons of “Master Chef” in a week. Yet I bet you could ask any contestant right after they’ve been eliminated if they’re grateful for the critique they received and they’d say, “absolutely not.” I’m not either. Friends and family can tell me “you’re doing great!” I can get pointers from the caseworker and read up on the best practices for parenting all day, but when the score is being kept, it’s a zero-to-zero tied game and the match is forfeited. It feels horrible and no matter what I have to wake up tomorrow and play the game all over again. Such is life. (And yes, I know there are obvious board game references that I could make to the actual game “Life” but I’ll spare you on my relentless metaphors.) When it comes down to it, I’m writing the rules while playing the game. I’m building the plane while we’re already 50 thousand feet in the air. I don’t know if I’m doing it right or if there even is a “right” way to be a parent, but I’ve got a really great team and we plan to take this all the way to the championships. Practice makes perfect, or so I hear. If parents were awarded medals, like at the Olympics, then I could at least judge myself against others, but there’s no rubric. There’s no score board. There isn’t even a way to know when the game is over. For now, I just have to get through “Hollywood week.” For what it’s worth, most of the singers who actually had a successful singing career after American Idol were contestants who got eliminated. Many of the winners faded into obscurity. Maybe I don’t have to win, I just to have confidence in my decisions and keep pushing forward. [email protected] Chapter Six: Setting Aside Expectations, Hitting Lightspeed, and Keeping My Head Above Water8/29/2021 Okay, full stop. Or maybe “time out” and everything freezes around me like Zach Morris on “Saved by the Bell.” Either way, finding time to write a blog post with a 10-year-old boy in the house has proven difficult. But wow, it does feel good to be typing again.
First off, a bit of housekeeping, which is basically all I do anymore offline so I might as well translate that here, but this blog is officially rebranding. Yes, it’s still going to be called The Dadalorian, and yes, I am still going to be bringing you a monthly update on my life with fun anecdotes about navigating the foster care system, but now, I’m not going to box myself in with trying to squeeze a Star Wars reference in every post. Instead, I’m going to open up the comparisons to pop culture of all sorts. So, every great TV sitcom dad is on the table. (But not really because I relate to the TV mothers way more.) Now, a few updates about my life. We have officially hit the 30-day mark with our foster son. Part of that time was spent on a California-Disneyland vacation and the rest of it has been spent setting up a bedroom, starting Fifth grade, and for some reason deciding that getting a hamster would be a smart idea. While I’m still clearly in the honeymoon phase of being a foster parent, I can admit that the biggest lesson I’ve had to learn so far is to set aside all of your expectations. I thought our son hated us before he moved in. Maybe not “hate” but he didn’t see too interested in getting to know us those first few months. Of course, it’s hard getting to know some random strangers who walk into your life, but because of the hesitancy at the start, I couldn’t have predicted that only three weeks in he’d be calling us both “dad” and writing our last name on his school papers. We’ve blasted into hyperspace, and everything is happening fast, yet somehow naturally too. Then again, it can all change almost instantly. Every time I think I know this child’s personality, he surprises me by growing in ways I didn’t even consider. He talks way more than he used to so, in turn, the persona he tried to project at first is starting to melt away. Sure, he still thinks he’s a “gangster” but now I know he also likes to be tickled, wants to learn to bake, listens to pop music, and squeals in delight when he sees a cute animal. For a while, my expectations (or maybe my own insecurities) were keeping us from bonding. I’ve spent some time thinking about Disney’s “Aladdin” in regard to my recent interactions with my son. Maybe for each of us the roles are reversed, but when I think about it, I see myself as the protagonist of that story. A man who is trying his best to fit into a role that wasn’t truly him, all to impress someone else. Of course, the moment I met my son (and the months of preparation beforehand) has made me believe that I had to keep him comfortable. The prevailing thought in my head has been “don’t say ‘no’ or he won’t like you” and also “don’t let him get bored or he won’t like you.” Yeah, I’ve spent a lot of time trying to make a 10-year-old boy like me the past few months, and anyone who knows 10-year-old-boys knows that they simultaneously couldn’t care less about their parents and also idol them. I’m still trying to realize that being myself is enough when it comes to parenting. For Aladdin, it wasn’t the clothes or riches that made Jasmine like him, it was him. In my case, I don’t have to appease everything that he asks for. Saying “no” and ultimately having to reprimand my son will come. I have to trust that he’s going to still like me afterwards even if he doesn’t “like me” in that moment. That’s hard for me. Coming from my background, losing so many people in my life at a time when I was living more authentically than ever, I still worry about how others perceive me. I naively thought that I wouldn’t care what a child thought of me, but I do, maybe even more than anyone else. Between work, a master’s program, and now my new normal at home, I’m just trying to keep my head above water. Realizing that I didn’t have to put on the parent persona and that I could just be me (and bonus, my son actually bonding with me) has been a huge weight off my shoulders. I expect that as the months go on, I might need to put the genie back in the bottle. I’m fully planning on behavior issues to arise, for rejection to come, and that this 10-year-old sweetheart might turn into a nightmare, but for what it’s worth none of my expectations have been right yet. For now, I’m just taking it one day at a time (and one month at a time) into the holidays. Pumpkin spice lattes may be the only thing that can save me. -Erick L. Graham Wood [email protected] This month I didn't want to write a full blog post, as the heat is as unbearable as the sands of Tatooine and I'm enjoying new episodes of "The Dad Batch" err, I mean "The Bad Batch."
While summer rages on and we get closer to welcoming our foster placement full-time in our home, I think right now is a great time to take a break. May the Force (and the popsicles) be with you. This month has been incredibly long. Picture the first time we see a super star destroyer in Star Wars and the ship just glides over the camera to that John Williams score and it keeps going, and going, and going. Well, this month has felt longer than that. See, it all started after Mother’s Day when I received an email from a placement coordinator telling us that she has been unable to make contact with me over the phone about a potential child-in-care. Turns out the scam blocker on my phone had been making it impossible for this specific coordinator to get through, so she decided to follow up via email. Frankly, I’m so glad that she did because I called her right back and learned about a 10-year-old boy (who I’ll reference as Bear) who is looking for a forever home. It took another eight days before I was contacted by Bear’s caseworker and then another week before we received approval from the placement committee to potentially be Bear’s foster parents. It has now been 29 days since we first learned of Bear and we are waiting on approval from the adoption committee to finally move Bear into our home, but tomorrow will be the first time we get to meet him in person, and we can’t wait. Of course, the details of Bear’s life are his to share and I wish to be extremely sensitive to his trauma, but I can say that Bear’s case is different from anything we expected. First and foremost, we were unsure if we would be the right fit for a child who is already 10 years old. However, we quickly got over that shock and decided if not us, then who? We haven’t met Bear and already we feel like he will be a wonderful addition to our family. The other thing about Bear’s case that surprised us is that reunification is off the table. This means that if the adoption committee approves us, then we will be going straight to foster-to-adopt (in a six-month window) rather than foster-to-reunify. This means that our decision to be Bear’s guardians is even more vital because it will be forever, not just temporary. But that’s all I can say about Bear’s case for now, though there will obviously be more about Bear in the months to come, if all goes well. Aside from our excitement and impatience with the placement process, this month has also been one long series of mental breakdowns, starting with health issues, continuing with returning to work in an office after 444 days of quarantine, and finally with my own emotional issues regarding Pride Month and the LGBTQ community. Since this blog is all about foster care, there will certainly be plenty of my parenting journey in the months ahead. But because this blog is also about Star Wars, I can’t help but entertain the idea to write a prequel, or origin story, out of order. Sure, I could have done that at chapter one, but six months into our journey just before we get the final word on becoming parents to a 10-year-old boy seems like a suitable place to me. God. Parents of a 10-year-old. Me? Ten years ago, I wasn’t even in high school. I was 13 on the day that Bear was born. I was homeschooled, just discovering my sexuality, and probably just as overweight and emotional as I am today. All that time I spent growing up into adulthood, the last 10 years, Bear was being moved around from home to home probably feeling just as unsure about life as me. Now, for some reason, the universe has put us together on the same path. Five years ago, I don’t think I even knew I wanted to be a foster parent. I met my husband five years ago and married him a year later. I know in 2017 adoption was on my mind because my spouse and I attended an information session with Utah Foster Care. Back then, we figured this was something we’d decide to look into when we turned 30. I was only 20 at the time, definitely too young to be a parent. Now I’m 24, and still probably too young to be a parent. But over those three years (2017 to 2020) the idea of being a parent stuck with me. But I kept telling myself, “you can’t be a parent if you haven’t figured yourself out yet.” I also worried that my need for parenthood was just a way to fulfill my craving for unconditional love, which is more of bio-parent thing, if you ask me. With foster care, we already expect the children to despise us. Anyone who decides to foster in hopes that it will satisfy their need for love is fooling themselves. Then when the COVID-19 pandemic happened, I realized that putting off the call to help children in need, wasn’t because I wasn’t ready to be a parent, nobody is ready. It was because I didn’t think I was worthy of being a parent, and I still hadn’t come to terms with loving myself the way that I had hoped I had. Being in lockdown gave me a lot of time by myself to think about this and work out my problems. Halfway through the summer of 2020 I decided that I had extra love to give, and my spouse and I could carve out a place to give a child a more stable life and a peek at what a loving family looks like. So, we started the process. But why us? Why two queer men? Well, that’s something I’ve been asking myself a lot lately, especially this month as June marks Pride Month once again. As I’ve said before, I was raised by wonderful, loving parents. I’ve also said that I was raised by flawed, parents who passed down generational trauma. I could try to make this part of my story interesting, maybe insert a couple Star Wars references for continuity, but honestly looking back, I just feel broken. Yet, being in such a good place as I am right now, I also know I’m more whole than ever. That’s the power of a loving home, and if we can give that to Bear, I hope he will give us that chance. Of course, I never saw myself as a dad. I still think I’m coming to terms with the idea of it. When I was 17, my girlfriend at the time falsely proclaimed that she was pregnant with my baby. Despite that eventually being revealed to be a lie, I stopped pursuing women shortly after that. As I’m writing this, I still think of myself as bisexual, so I could have a child the old-fashioned way if I wanted, but I’m married to a man so that option has been taken off the table. It speaks volumes about my relationship though, doesn’t it? I went from not wanting to be a dad, to pursuing the idea, and eventually adopting just because the man who walked into my life made the insane seem obtainable. I’m sure this isn’t the last time I’ll talk about LGBTQ issues or my upbringing on this blog, but the closer we get to parenthood becoming a reality, the more it feels like this new normal isn’t something I need to be scared of. However, ask me again in three years when I’m 27 navigating a teenager and my own health insurance. May the force be with me. -Erick L. Graham Wood [email protected] |
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June 2023
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