The Power of Memories Fifty Years Later

I stepped into a print shop yesterday and back in time. The smell of fresh ink was intoxicating, at least for me. I love paper and words and letters and everything that brings them to life. The counter was lined with stacks of orders, handwritten notes and invoices attached haphazardly to boxes of all shapes and sizes.

I waited patiently for the man behind the counter to approach. Usually I wait impatiently. It's a terrible habit, one I am trying to overcome.

The man behind the counter was large in stature with black and gray hair and a long, gray beard. His black-framed glasses sat on the bridge of his nose, his brown eyes peering out from behind them. Our small talk started as he fished for my order in the sea of boxes. Triumphantly he pulled out a green and white box and lifted the lid to reveal 600 copies of a conference brochure.

"Protecting Babies, Projecting Hope," he read as he eyed the title of the conference. "What's this about?"

"It's a conference about taking good care of babies and young children so they can thrive as they grow," I answered as I dug for a credit card.

"You a therapist or something?" he asked.

"No, I worked in foster care for a long time, representing the best interests of abused and neglected children in court," I said simply as I slid my card across the counter.

"You mean kids like I was? I was a foster kid and I was abused and all that stuff," he looked down shyly, as if he had something to hide. A split second later he looked back up and our eyes met.

"You were in foster care?" I asked this man who looked old enough to be a grandfather. 

"I was. Me and my two brothers and sister. I was five when they took us away from our mom. My sister was six and my brother was three. My baby brother wasn't quite two yet. It was 1964."

I was intrigued, as if the printer itself had started telling its own story, one locked away for decades. He seemed willing to talk and I was dying to know.

"What was it like being in foster care?" I asked him. 

"I lived in four different foster homes in about five years. Some was OK, one was horrible. That lady beat the crap out of me. Once I went to school when I was 8 and I was bruised so bad I couldn't sit down. The teacher took me to the nurse and they pulled my pants down and saw all these bruises. They just put some stuff on it, called the caseworker and the caseworker just took me right back to that home and I got beat some more. I think I got it the worst because I refused to cry."

I could have sworn his eyes were misty. Still, he smiled.

"I wasn't gonna let her break me. I was determined, I guess. Sometimes being determined is my downfall."

"There's a downside to every strength," I told him. "The trick is to balance it." He took that in for a moment and then nodded.

"But eventually that lady gave me away because I got these new toy cars and was playing with them on her new carpet and she said I was ruining it so she put me out. I got lucky." His eyes twinkled.

"What happened to your siblings?"

"My baby brother committed suicide a few years back." This time the misty eyes could not be mistaken. I told him how sorry I was and he just looked at me sadly. "The other two are in and out of jail."

"So how is it that you made it?" So few kids who grow up in similar situations do.

"I don't know. Luck maybe. And determination. I left the system when I turned 18 and went to military school. I'm married with two daughters. One is a mechanical engineer. One just graduated from medical massage school. My wife and I, we help look after the woman who I call my adopted mom. She worked at a group home where I lived when I was 15. She's getting up in years now."

Our transaction long complete, we said our good-byes and I thanked him for sharing his story. I had just one more question.

"Do you mind if I ask how old you are?"

"Not at all. I'm 54."

Nearly five decades had passed and he had recounted with clarity his removal from his mother. Nearly four decades had passed and tears had formed when he talked about the beatings he received in his foster home. The colors of the toy cars he had played with on new carpet were likely as fresh in his mind as the ink in that print shop. Decades later, the brother who had committed suicide was still considered his 'baby brother'.

I walked away from him humbled by the resiliency of the human spirit, the power of memories that linger, and the incredible gifts inherent in connection and the willingness to listen to other people's stories. Good or bad, what we do matters.

There is nothing more important than creating hope, anchors of safety, and an all-embracing love for hurting children. Those gifts live on forever.

IRS or CPS: Which is More Outrageous?

As the newest political firestorm surrounding the IRS unfolded, something much more horrific was unfolding also. As Tea Party-affiliated groups demanded investigation into IRS practices, desperate grandparents and a devoted teacher begged for an investigation into multiple, ongoing bruises covering an eight-year-old little boy. As President Obama took the national stage and declared the actions of the IRS ‘outrageous’, the painful sobs of a helpless child echoed in vain.

In addressing the behavior of the IRS unfairly targeting Tea Party-affiliated groups, Obama insisted, “I have no patience for it. I will not tolerate it.” Meanwhile, another child died of torture and abuse, all under the nose of children’s protective services (CPS), the government agency charged with protecting children.

Why do we have patience for that? Why do we tolerate that?

Eight-year-old Gabriel died last week after suffering from multiple injuries including broken ribs, a skull fracture, and burns. His mother and her boyfriend have been arrested in conjunction with his death. His grandparents who had previously raised him before he was returned to the custody of his mother tried in vain to get authorities to heed their concerns regarding his safety.  His teacher made calls to Los Angeles County Department of Children and Family Services after he came to school with bruises on his face and told her his mother shot him with a BB gun.
The responsibility for his death rests squarely on the shoulders of those who inflicted harm. However, the responsibility to protect him when his mother failed him belongs to the government.

Which government agency needs more scrutiny and more transparency with the ultimate goal of providing better services: the IRS or CPS systems nationwide? Where should we direct our outrage and intolerance of failure? You could ask children like Marcus Fiesel, Gabriel Myers, Vyctoria Sandoval, Isaac Lethbridge, Summer Phelps, Damarcus Jackson, Alize Vick, and Neveah Gallegos. Oh wait. You can’t ask them. They’re all dead. Utter failure on the part of the child protective and/or family court systems cost these children their lives. Their numbers measure in the hundreds across the nation.

The Tea Party-affiliated groups may have been subject to invasive questioning. Were they subject to torture, starvation, broken bones, and burns as these children had been?  These groups may have had their right to freedom of association violated.  These children had a right to safety and freedom from abuse but suffered brutal deaths on the government’s watch.  Which is more outrageous?

Unfortunately these children don’t have a political voice, an ability to organize, or financial resources to impact change. They are chattel, property of their parents even if their parents allow them to be tortured and killed. Why else would Gabriel’s dead body sit in the coroner’s office because his mom is in jail but refuses to allow it to be released to next of kin? Even in death, Gabriel is not free from the heinous, long arm of his mother.

The time has come to channel our outrage and intolerance effectively to improve the child welfare system and laws designed to protect children. Too often, our government makes a lousy parent and a lousy protector. That will not change until we all get involved and use our voice to speak for abused and neglected kids. Our collective voice is the most powerful one these children have. We must strengthen and use it.

We need to see our president or political leaders on a national stage demanding transformation of a system charged with our most important task: protecting vulnerable children and families. Then the rest of us need to roll up our sleeves and do what we can to help.

Anything less than that is outrageous.

Visit www.invisiblekidsthebook.com to learn how you can help.

 

 

Nicole and Nina Part 5 of 5

By the time Nicole and Nina moved to the Warren’s foster home they had been in the custody of Children’s Services for six months. They hadn’t seen their biological mom since they were removed from her care. They’d had weekly visits with their biological dad, Jason, who was making steady progress toward achieving sobriety and stability. During these six months, Nicole and Nina lived in two different foster homes. Nicole had turned four without any fanfare and Nina turned three in much the same way.

According to the ‘court clock’, their biological parents had six more months to make steady progress toward reunification. Adoption Safe Families Act (ASFA) is a federal law passed in 1997 to prevent kids from languishing in foster care. Children's Services can file for permanent custody if children are in temporary custody for 15 out of 22 months. At the two year mark, Children’s Services must be ready to move kids out of temporary legal status to something permanent. Children’s Services can file for permanent custody to sever family ties and make the children available for adoption. It can file for custody to be returned to parents or custody given to approved relatives. In the case of teenagers where there is no family and little chance for adoption, Children’s Services can file for Planned Permanent Living Arrangement (PPLA) which really is long term foster care. This is the legal status for kids who ‘age out’ of the system at age 18.

Days after Nicole and Nina moved into the foster home of Darryl and Beth Warren, I drove an hour north, away from the urban core and into wide open country fields. The tiny town the girls had moved to had only a handful of traffic lights. I found their new foster home easily. It was a modest orange brick house with large front and back yards. It was a completely average home; nothing fancy and nothing worrisome.

I knocked on the door and moments later a tall, thin woman with long red hair opened it.

“Holly, come in. I’m so glad to finally meet you,” Beth exclaimed as she held out her hand. I shook it with the same enthusiasm she had. We had talked so often on the phone I felt like I knew her.

Nicole and Nina each had baby dolls in little strollers and were pushing them around the living room when I walked in and said hello. They both completely ignored me and went on with their play.

I was thrilled. They appeared comfortable in their environment and didn’t seem to be worried when they saw me. Sometimes the sight of a caseworker or GAL causes a foster child to believe something bad will happen. Once I was GAL for a five-year-old boy who always went to get his little suitcase from under his bed every time his caseworker visited because he thought she was going to take him away. With as often as they moved, I was starting to worry Nicole and Nina might do the same thing. Happily, it seemed like they wanted to pretend I wasn’t there and I did not blame them.

In an adjoining room, Beth and I sat down to talk about how they were adjusting. Nicole was still awake most nights and had trouble sleeping. They had seen the doctor earlier in the week. Nina was given antibiotics for pneumonia and Nicole was treated for a skin condition. Beth’s concern and empathy for the girls was evident in every word she spoke. Compassion radiated in her eyes. When a fight broke out between the girls over a play diaper bag for their baby dolls, Beth immediately got up and intervened in a gentle but firm way. She seemed to understand Nicole’s anger and forceful personality and worked with it. Beth was the kind of foster mom I wished every child had.

Darryl walked in from the garage out back and introduced himself. He exuded the same kindness as his wife. We talked for a while as they showed me around the house including where the girls slept. By the time I left I was confident that the girls were going to be just fine. No matter how long they lived with the Warrens, whatever they soaked up would stay with them long after they left.

For the next five months, the caseworker and I worked diligently to monitor the girls’ placement as well as Jason’s compliance with court orders. Nicole and Nina continued to do well but they both struggled with intense temper tantrums, especially Nicole who was easily ‘set off’ by minor issues. The caseworker referred Nicole for therapy while Beth and Darryl continued parenting the girls with a tremendous amount of love and a healthy set of boundaries.

Nicole and Nina were also introduced to a large church family who gave them their first sense of community. Although Nicole and Nina weren’t baptized and not permitted to be without parental consent, they played in church groups and enjoyed fun times with new friends. Through these frequent events, they came to know a couple by the name of Kevin and Debbie. Kevin and Debbie didn’t have any children and weren’t looking to adopt. Kevin and Debbie were good friends with the Warrens and spent quite a bit of time with them. On Sundays after church they often went out as a group for breakfast and developed a little ritual. Each week Debbie asked Nicole if she was sunshine or a raincloud.  In response Nicole would giggle or scowl depending on her mood. Over time, Nicole was more sunshine than raincloud.

In time, Nicole and Nina developed wonderful relationships with them. As a result, Kevin and Debbie offered to be backup babysitters for the girls and had their background checks completed so they could watch them on occasion. Soon thereafter they offered to watch Nicole and Nina every Friday night so Beth and Darryl could go out. It was hard to tell who was happier with the arrangement: the adults or the children.

Five months later, Nicole and Nina were returned to the custody of Jason after expanded visits including overnights and weekends. Jason had maintained his sobriety and kept his home orderly and maintained for the girls. He had sufficient income because he received disability due to his chronic health condition. Their visits with Jason went well and they had grown in their relationships with him. Jason had joined in Nicole’s therapy sessions and got a positive report from the therapist. Beth and Darryl had been open to communication with Jason and he had talked on the phone with the girls often as well as visited them in their foster home several times.

Shortly after Nicole and Nina returned to Jason, I transferred the case to another Guardian Ad Litem (GAL). My book, Invisible Kids, had been released and I was suddenly catapulted into a world of media and marketing and publicity. I was exhausted after spending every spare moment I had writing it and it was beginning to take a toll on my own three kids. I knew it wasn’t fair to them or the kids on my caseload. My oldest child was 12 when the book came out. One night I overheard her tell my husband she thought it would get better when I was done writing the book but it was only getting worse. She was referring to my stress and the late nights. That was all it took for me to realize something had to change. Besides, I was afraid I would drop a ball on a case and I couldn't imagine how I would feel if something happened to a child on my watch.

The hardest thing I ever did as a GAL was quit and see my caseload scattered onto the desks of other GALs. They were all competent, good people but handing over my cases was tough. I loved my work and I loved the CASAs I supervised but I also felt drawn to write my book. I didn’t exactly think through where it might take me and I wasn’t prepared to lose what I loved so much. Still, the loss came and hit hard, leaving me bewildered and not just a little afraid of what was ahead.

Nicole and Nina returned to Jason and initially did well. They were both in preschool about a half mile away which enabled him to attend AA/NA meetings in the morning while they were gone. Nicole remained in therapy through the transition home and Jason continued attending with her. My biggest concern upon their return was his lack of support system.  Who would he call to get one to school if the other was sick? Jason didn’t drive and walked them to school every day. How were they going to get to school in bad weather? Jason was parenting two busy preschoolers who were dealing with yet another adjustment. While the system had ‘shored’ him up as best it could, there would always be a gap.

Within three months, Jason was increasingly exhausted. His emphysema worsened and he had difficulty walking the girls to preschool without getting winded. The girls got lice and he couldn't seem to get rid of it although he apparently tried. He was increasingly frustrated with Nicole and Nina and yelled often. Around that time, the biological mom contacted him and wanted to see the girls. The court had told Jason not to permit contact. The biological mom was ordered to file for visitation prior to contact. She was still on drugs and living with a sex offender. Jason later admitted he allowed her to visit two different times. Although he wasn’t supposed to, this infraction wasn’t enough to remove the girls from his care. Jason’s health continued to spiral downward and the girls’ absences at school began to pile up.

The court terminated their case on the girls, finding that Jason had done all that was requested of him to the best of his ability and it was good enough. There was no imminent risk of harm that necessitated the girls’ removal from him. All of the legal parties including the Children’s Services caseworker and GAL agreed. Still, the case that was no longer my responsibility continued to nag me. I had to let it go. There was nothing I could do.

A full year had passed when I opened my email one morning and received a message from Beth Warren. The subject line was in all caps. It read: NICOLE AND NINA ARE HOME with a long trail on exclamation points.

One Sunday morning after the case had closed in court and Children’s Services and all the professionals were gone, the couple from Darryl and Beth’s church, Kevin and Debbie, woke up with an open day before them and a desire to see the girls. On a whim, they decided to drive down into the city to find them. They had met Jason one time when he was visiting and the Warrens had brought him to church. They knew his name and easily found his address as well. They knocked on his door and he opened it, looking haggard and worn and breathing heavily. The girls heard the voice of their friends from church, squealed with delight, and ran to greet them. Upon seeing the girls’ excitement, Jason invited Kevin and Debbie in to visit. They talked for several hours and exchanged phone numbers. They visited several more times over the next couple of months. On one such visit, Jason pulled Kevin aside while Debbie played with the girls. Jason confided the stress of caring for Nicole and Nina proved to be too much for him. His health was deteriorating and he barely had the energy to get out of bed. He also admitted he had started drinking again. With tears streaming down his face, Jason asked Kevin if he and Debbie would be willing to take custody of the girls. He could hardly take care of himself.  He had no family. There was no one else to help him. He didn't want his girls back in the system but just couldn't take care of them the way they needed and deserved.

Before long, Kevin and Debbie sat in a courtroom alongside of Jason and the girls. Beth and Darryl accompanied them as well. The magistrate formalized the adoption arrangement and with the pound of the gavel, Nicole and Nina were officially adopted by Kevin and Debbie.

Later that night, Debbie and Kevin tucked six-year-old Nicole and five-year-old Nina into their beds. Nicole put her two hands on Debbie’s cheeks and pulled her head close.

“Me and Nina are adopted, right?” she asked.

“Yes, you are adopted now and you are going to live here forever,” Debbie told her.

“I get to stay forever?” she questioned.

“Yes, you and Nina get to stay here forever but you can still visit Daddy Jason too. He loves you just like we love you,” Debbie assured her. Nicole’s brilliant blue eyes bore into Debbie’s as if to search for the truth. Seconds passed before Nicole smiled.

“That’s like sunshine,” she whispered in Debbie’s ear. Then she giggled. Debbie hugged her tight.

"That's right," Debbie said. "It is like sunshine. There will be many sunshine days ahead but some raincloud days too. No matter what, I love you."

That night was the first night Nicole slept soundly for a solid ten hours. When she awoke, she ran into Kevin and Debbie’s bedroom.

"I am sunshine today," she announced.

Today, Nicole is ten and Nina is nine. Nicole loves animals and all things purple. Nina excels in sports, especially soccer and basketball. Neither like math but both love to read. Jason visited often after they were first adopted then gradually dropped off after he moved six hours away. He still calls on occasion. There are sunshine days and raincloud days.

Thank God for sunshine.



*As always, all names have been changed to protect identity.

 

 

 

Nicole and Nina Part 1 of 5

I arrived at juvenile court on a snowy November morning to sign in as Guardian Ad Litem (GAL) for the first court hearing held regarding Nicole and Nina*, three-and-two-year-old sisters who had been placed in foster care one week earlier. Their mother had voluntarily signed custody of the girls over to children’s services and walked away. 

I approached the security guard and exchanged pleasantries while he handed me the court complaint. I shrugged off my coat and began reading it while juggling my briefcase, purse, and gloves, never once taking my eyes off the paperwork in my hands. It was a window into these two little precious, vulnerable lives, and I wanted to catch every glimpse I could.

Nicole and Nina’s biological mom was allegedly living her boyfriend who was a convicted, registered sex offender. She had refused to make him leave knowing this choice would force the girls to leave instead. She also allegedly was addicted to prescription painkillers and had a history of untreated bi-polar disorder. A man named Jason* was listed as the biological father with address unknown. No other family members or significant others were identified.

The security guard leaned across his desk and told me someone had signed in for the hearing. I scanned the courthouse waiting area as the guard pointed to a petite man with dirty jeans two sizes too big and long, gray hair pulled back into a greasy ponytail. Somehow Jason had made his way to court. That almost never happens.

Jason was seated on a hard metal chair beneath florescent lights. He held a battered pad of paper in his wrinkled fingers and an old, frayed backpack on his lap. I walked over and shook his bony hand as I introduced myself as the girls’ court appointed Guardian Ad Litem.  I couldn’t help but notice gentleness behind his tired, worn blue eyes. He was 41 years old going on 70 after living a hard life of alcohol and nicotine addiction. He coughed incessantly courtesy of emphysema. He had started drinking at age nine with his father and never stopped.

Jason lived under a bridge near the river. He was forever hopelessly in love with the girls’ biological mother whom he met at an AA meeting years before when both were trying to get clean for a minute. He learned of the girls’ placement in foster care when he called the mom the week before.

Attempting to build respectful relationships with biological parents is the single most important step in moving a case swiftly through the court process. As professionals we are not here to judge. We are here to work toward solutions. The first meeting is critical.

The first meeting is also a pivotal moment to gain as much information about the history of children in case such relationships later head south. Sometimes against our best efforts cases languish for years and by the time court moves toward adoption the biological family is long gone, taking with them important information such as family medical history and which hospital houses birth records.

Jason and I sat together for twenty minutes while I collected as much information as he was willing to give me. In return I answered his questions about what comes next. He had yet to meet his public defender who was caught in another hearing down the hall.

“Case of Nicole and Nina Moore.”* Hearing the names of the girls called out in the large waiting room was our cue that the magistrate was ready. As Jason leaned forward to stand, his backpack fell to the floor and piles of crinkled paper spilled out in every direction. They were covered with scratchy handwriting and dirt stains. He looked almost apologetic as I bent down to help him retrieve them.

“I like to write,” he said. I was surprised. I’d never met a homeless alcoholic with tired, kind blue eyes and a backpack filled with writing. He had no way of knowing that I did too and was stealing every spare minute I could to write Invisible Kids, a book I wrote in snatches of time like lunch breaks during day-long trials. 

We headed into the courtroom and took our seats at separate tables while the hearing was called to order. I pulled out my own yellow legal pad of paper and flipped to a crisp new page, ready to write down every detail disclosed during the hearing. Being charged with representing Nicole and Nina’s best interests in court, having a say in their lives and how their futures would unfold was one of the most powerful, important tasks a professional could ever have. It would never be just a job to me. It was sacred.

On that snowy, November day I had no idea what course the case would take. I could only do my very best to advocate for two traumatized little girls I had yet to meet. On my fourth page of notes I wrote their names one more time. Nicole. Nina. Then I ran my finger over the ink and silently said one word. Promise. 

Part 2 Next Week: Meeting Nicole and Nina in their foster home.

 

*Names have been changed to protect identity.

 

 

 

 

Swapping Stories

I had lunch yesterday with a colleague who is a child therapist and works with young children who have been abused or neglected. A dozen years ago we started working cases side-by-side. She taught me almost everything I know about young children and largely shaped the ideas portrayed in my book, Invisible Kids, regarding the importance of relationships as vulnerable children grow and develop.

We sat across from each other in booth at a crowded Panera swapping horror stories we'd read in the local paper or heard on the news in recent weeks.

Did you hear about the nine-month-old baby who died of burns from a heater? Did you hear about the two-year-old beaten to death by his teen father? What about the mom who over-dosed on heroin in a restaurant restroom and left her three young kids sitting at a table in the dining area? What do you think of the three-year-old little girl who was found dead in her bed? Did you catch the story about the two-year-old who was severely scalded with hot water?

Not your typical lunchtime conversation, to say the least. Maybe it should be.

These stories are just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to what has been happening in the past MONTH alone in our neck of the woods. Horror stories like these dot the landscape of our daily paper, sandwiched between news on the economy and the silliness of city council meetings. Do we even notice these stories? Do we think about the surviving siblings of battered babies and what their lives look like?

We need to, hard as it is to come face-to-face with children's pain.

I'm sorry. I wish I could spread happy sunshine about how we live in a wonderful world and stop there. But I can't. The reality is that we do live in a wonderful world. And because we do, we must step into this hell and help these kids and families find a way out.

Today, please visit my Invisible Kids Facebook Group and click on a link from Zero to Three that gives you information about using your political voice to help young children. Read up on your ability to inform public policy. It won't take you long.

I have faith that our most vulnerable children can live in wonderful worlds. We just need to help make that happen.

Safe Families for Children

Amanda* is twenty-three years old and a product of the foster care system. She drifted through foster homes and group homes for years until she was emancipated at the age of 18. Her parents are both deceased, as is the father of her two little girls, ages 2 and 1. Amanda is on her own today, without the support of any extended family or friends.

Most kids who age out of the foster care system don't do so well on their own. Amanda's older brother was found shot dead just months after he aged out of the system. Her younger brother was incarcerated within a year of his emancipation and is in prison today. Many former foster children suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder at rates twice as high as US war veterans. Less than half have a high school diploma and many are homeless within months of being on their own. For more sobering statistics on kids who age out of the system, CLICK HERE.


Compared to her brothers, Amanda is a success story. She earned her high school diploma while in foster care and has managed to meet her own basic needs, as well as those of her infant and toddler. But every day is a challenge, and the challenges are mounting to the point where Amanda wonders if she can face another day.

Amanda is currently homeless and without a job. She is also significantly depressed. This makes parenting her children nearly impossible.


The shaky ground on which she has been treading is slowly crumbling and she is desperately clinging to the hands of each of her babies, terrified of losing them to the very foster care system that raised her and turned her loose. Even so, she can't do it anymore. Is there a way out this nightmare?

If she lived in Indianapolis there would be. Or Chicago, Orlando, Jacksonville, or a handful of other cities across the United States. What do all these cities have in common? They are home to a program called Safe Families for Children, a program born out of the brilliant vision of it's founder, Dr. David Anderson. I first read about Safe Families in the New York Times last May.

Dr. Anderson is from Chicago. Like you and I, he watched news accounts of story after story in which a child died of abuse at the hands of a parent. These stories moved him to search for a better response and a way for parents to get help before they abuse or neglect their children.

In 2003, Safe Families for Children was started with a handful of volunteers. Biological parents facing problems such as homelessness, illness, or incarceration have an option of placing their children briefly with volunteer families who agree to care for and support children. Biological parents retain custody and volunteer families are not compensated for their services. The goal is always to provide respite and support to children and families like Amanda and her little ones.

The beauty of this model is that it is a community or family responding to those most in need of stability. Foster care is necessary and life-saving, but the Safe Families model helps families and children before blatant abuse or neglect occurs.


Because there is no exchange of custody and no reimbursement involved, everyone stays focused on resolving the issues that led to the need for placement. Being a volunteer family is a great alternative for people who've often considered fostering but have been overwhelmed by the lengthy process of licensure. Safe Families complete background checks, references, and homestudies, but the required training is all online. It is also short-term in nature, a perfect fit for families who are unsure they have what it takes to be a foster parent with placements that can last indefinitely.

I wish with all my heart that Amanda had Safe Families here in Cincinnati to turn to during this crisis. It would give her children the stability and safety they need while she focuses on getting her feet back on solid ground.



If you are intriqued by the idea of bringing this brilliant, caring alternative to Cincinnati's families in crisis, comment on this blog or email me at admin@invisiblekidsthebook.com. Maybe if we all work together we can find a way to make this a reality for our most precious resources: our children, our families, and our communities.

Thanks for reading and for caring!

Childhood Stability

I'm not really the type that frequents bars, much less on a cold Sunday night in December. I'm more of a homebody and prefer hanging out with good friends and family. However, as I headed out of my house last night, I was looking forward to seeing friends from grade school that I hadn't seen in 20 years. Twenty-something of us had been together nine months a year, five days a week from the time we were in first grade until we went to high school. That's a lot of togetherness.

Last night those of us who gathered relived our years in Catholic elementary school in Cincinnati, Ohio. We laughed a lot.

"Remember third grade when you got your legs stuck in the desk after you sat in it backwards and the principal had to cut you out of it with a saw?"

"Remember when you got me suspended in eighth grade after you dared me to climb the ladder that went to the roof of the school?"

"Remember when the boys got into a fist fight after school in sixth grade? They hit each other, started crying, then shook hands."

"Remember when you got a demerit for modifying the announcements on the school PA to include a message in the office for Tinkerbell?"

The remembering went on for several hours and we laughed ourselves sick. But it wasn't all fun and games.

We toasted our classmate, Warren, who is forever age 10 after dying from cancer when we were in fourth grade. We talked about the Dad's Club fall out in seventh grade, when a bunch of parents fought over whether there would be one or two boys' basketball teams. We remembered how, in 1983, the school brought in professional counselors to talk to us about our feelings. We were a small class. We had one classmate die and another diagnosed with Hodgkins Disease. In the middle of that, my classmates came to my childhood home one evening a week before Christmas to sing carols for my father, who died of cancer a week later on Christmas Day.

We saw some tough times, but we saw them together. Nine months a year, five days a week.

As I drove home last night, I thought about what a gift it is to be anchored, to experience stability in childhood when things change rapidly, without warning. People get sick. People die. People can be cruel and so can life. But in relationships with others, we find our way around the tough stuff and can emerge better people because of it.

I'm grateful for the anchoring my classmates and my school gave me from the time I was 6 until I was 14. It helped build the foundation for my future. But I also think about the children who aren't so lucky to experience this kind of stability, like foster children who move from home to home and school to school regularly. I think about how they lack relationships, the one thing that can really help them heal when life hands them devastation.

If you are so inclined, think back to those who offered you stability in your own childhood and thank them for it. They gave you a vital gift. And if you are so inclined, consider how you can become or help find stability for foster children who aren't quite so fortunate.

A Rare Gift

Life handed me one of those rare gifts a couple of weeks ago when I was reunited with a young man I had known 15 years ago.


He was five years old when I removed him from his drug-addicted, neglectful mother. I was his Children's Services worker at the time. I vividly recall finding him home alone in the middle of the day, with no food and clutter strewn throughout the apartment. The police were called and his mother was arrested as I received an emergency order of custody from a magistrate, allowing me to place him in foster care. I strapped him in the back of my white Ford Taraus and delivered him to an emergency foster home in Cincinnati.


I had often wondered what had happened to that sweet little guy, particularly when my own little boy turned five. I got my answer when he and I came face to face at an unexpected meeting.


He stood before me two weeks ago, a meeting orchestrated by another child welfare professional. He was all grown up now. Even so, I could see a hint of the little boy with chubby cheeks. He wrapped me in a bear hug and thanked me for saving his life. Tears swimming in his eyes and mine, we talked for an hour while I answered his questions about his early life and he filled me in on his subsequent childhood spent in "the system," bounced from one foster home to the next until he was 17.


The system didn't provide a magic answer for him. It usually offered a bed and some food and nothing more. Out of all the thirty-plus foster homes he lived in, only one he referred to as loving. But still, he thanked a caseworker from long ago for saving his life. And that spoke volumes about how horrendous it would have been for him to remain with his mother.


Surely we can do better. We can put our heads together and figure out better ways to raise our children who have no one to protect, love and nurture them. Find a way to get involved. The kids are waiting for you to help.

Welcome to my Invisible Kids Blog

It took me six months to finally launch myself into the Blogsphere. For some reason, I find it a little scary to start blogging, which is really funny, because I wrote an entire book. When I was writing my book, Invisible Kids, I imagined myself sitting down with a reader and having a conversation with them about kids in foster care and how we can all do something to help them. My imaginary reader was a nice and interested person.

While blogging, I feel like I’m standing in front of a classroom full of people waiting for me to say something meaningful, if not brilliant. I’ll plow ahead though, assuming you are all as nice and interested as my imaginary readers (who became real, by the way, when my book hit bookshelves in January 2009).

My name is Holly Schlaack. I am a child advocate, author and mother of three. I have spent fifteen years on the front lines of child abuse and neglect, first as a caseworker for Children’s Services and later as a Guardian Ad Litem (GAL), representing the best interests of abused and neglected infants and toddlers in juvenile court.

I’ve learned a lot about children and families over the years, as well as the laws that govern the lives of foster children and the system responsible for overseeing their care when parents fail to protect them. Sometimes the foster care system works. Sometimes it fails. Sometimes it destroys the very children it is designed to save. And when this happens, there are grave consequences not only to the people involved, but also to our entire communities.

I have a passion for these children that is matched by a passionate belief that the time has come for all of us to stand together and fix this broken foster care system. It is the only way we will save children and families. There is something we can all do to help, and the responsibility to do so rests directly on our shoulders. If we are willing to reach out, we can change the course of thousands of lives and directly impact our communities and a future generation.

Child abuse and neglect is a heavy topic and many people don’t want to discuss it because it is sad. Trust me, I know. It is sad. However, there are happy endings too, though they seldom make headlines. And there is little else that brings the kind of satisfaction and joy that comes from playing a small part in a happy ending. You can play that part.

Look for me to post an entry once a week, telling you a little about some of the foster children in our communities and most importantly, how you can get involved and help them. I welcome your comments and look forward to our discussions about abused and neglected children and making the world a safer, more loving place for each one of them.

To learn more about me, my work experience and the book I was drawn to write, please visit www.hollyschlaack.com.