Nicole and Nina Part 3 of 5

Nicole and Nina were up for a new foster home and a new caseworker, just like thousands of kids across America every day. At ages 3 and 2, what happened to them at this critical time would build the foundation of how they would learn, grow, and experience life indefinitely.

Nicole and Nina were assigned to a new caseworker named Richard. He had been out of training for all of two weeks when he inherited the case from Robin. He and I talked on the phone several times and while he didn't seem particularly bad, he didn't seem particularly good either.

In the meantime, Nicole and Nina were placed with a single woman in her 50s. 'Ms. Katherine' worked full time during the day and attended school at night. She took the girls to childcare at 7 AM and picked them up at 6. She brought them home then left them with a babysitter who put them to bed.

Nicole had started attending a therapeutic preschool program for children who have a history of being abused or neglected and are involved in the child welfare system. Children's Services arranged and paid for transportation to and from preschool.

Contrary to popular belief, foster parents can qualify for childcare vouchers (free childcare) if they meet the federal guidelines for income which is generally below poverty. Essentially they can foster children, work outside the home, and get free childcare. In these cases, the government is paying foster parents a board rate to take care of kids as well as childcare to take care of same said kids.

I made my first home visit to Ms. Katherine's on a Saturday afternoon. It was snowing and the roads were icy. Ms. Katherine lived in a rented townhouse. I noticed right away the broken blinds that hung on the inside of the window. I knocked on the dirty white door after I realized the doorbell was broken. After a while, I stepped off to the side and peered into the window. Nicole and Nina sat next to each other on a couch which was covered with clear plastic. The room was dark, except for the glare of a big screen TV. I returned to the porch and knocked harder.

"I told you all to sit!" A woman yelled as her voice moved toward the door. It swung open.

"Come on in," Ms. Katherine said as she stepped aside and I entered. "I've never had a GAL visit on a Saturday," she said. She didn't seem exactly thrilled.

"Thank you for letting me come," I told her. "My week ahead is booked and I wanted to get out and meet you." I turned to the girls who had left the couch and were at my feet. "Hi Angels," I said as I bent down. "How are you today?"

"They ain't no angels," Ms. Katerine laughed. She was the only one. Nina held her arms out to me. My heart sank.

Side note: I love cuddling kids. One of my favorite things is when a baby or little person falls asleep on my lap. Normally I would be thrilled to have a toddler want me to hold her. But Nina barely knew me. She didn't know if I was a safe person. My arms were as good as any. That was as bad a sign as a visible bruise yet far more damaging over the long-term.

I leaned over and picked up Nina. She immediately rested her head on my shoulder. Her hair was greasy. Nicole's sticky little hand found its way to mine and grabbed it.

"I like your coat," Ms. Katherine said, oblivious to the girls' emotional needs. "Where did you get it? I want to get one of those."

"I don't remember," I replied. I didn't have to try and hide my annoyance. Worry dominated instead.

Another side note: I got over-protective when it came to the children for which I was responsible. I expected A LOT of myself and everyone else. I admit it. On occasion I was a bull in a china shop. I wasn't always right and sometimes it caused unnecessary trouble for which I had to apologize later, which I always did when I was wrong. However, sometimes red flags flapped in the wind and I usually saw them first.

I didn't care if the doorbell was broken or the front door was dirty. I didn't care that Ms. Katherine was single and older than parents of toddlers. I've advocated fiercely to keep kids with relatives or families like this when it is clear they are loved and safe. Bottom line, safety and a sense of being loved are most important. I doubted Nicole and Nina felt loved or safe in this home. How could they?

I'd been in the house less than five minutes and the flags were flapping like crazy. Nicole and Nina needed a safe and nurturing place to heal. If they didn't get it, we were setting them up for all kinds of emotional and behavioral problems later.

I hated that they had to go to childcare everyday. They'd already moved around too much by the time they arrived on Ms. Katherine's doorstep. They needed a foster parent who would make their healing a priority. Nicole and Nina had one chance at a childhood and it was in our hands. It was slipping through fingers. I couldn't stand it.

Ms. Katherine led me, with girls in tow, to the dining room table. I sat down with Nina in my lap and Nicole standing beside me. As Ms. Katherine and I talked about the girls' schedules and daily routines, Nicole, almost 4, began knocking the salt and pepper shakers together. Ms. Katherine snatched them out of her hands. A moment later Nicole picked up a stack of napkins and began lining them up across the table.

"Girl, you are going to be the death of me! You know better than that. Put those back," Ms. Katherine said sternly.

"Is it okay if I give her a piece of paper and some crayons?" I asked. When Ms. Katherine nodded, I ripped a piece of paper off my yellow legal pad and pulled a few crayons out of my briefcase. I always tucked some in there in case of emergencies. Once when I didn't have a pen in court I was tempted to use a crayon instead but decided that probably wouldn't look very professional.

Nicole began scribbling. I was pleased to see she held the crayon well. By now Nina was sound asleep on my lap.

Ms. Katherine's only concern was about Nicole not sleeping. She didn't fall asleep for hours. Ms. Katherine wanted to talk to a psychiatrist about medication for her. I made a note of it with no intention of consulting a psychiatrist until we got Nicole settled and feeling safe. Finishing up our conversation, I asked to see where they slept. I gently put sleeping Nina on the couch in the living room and covered her with a blanket. Nicole sat next to her and returned to her television show. Ms. Katherine and I walked down the hall to a small room with a toddler bed and crib. The blankets were threadbare and the windows were drafty. It was freezing.

"Are they warm enough at night?" I asked Ms. Katherine.

"Oh yeah, they're fine," she replied with conviction.

"Are there extra blankets they can use if they are cold?" Maybe this had something to do with Nicole not sleeping. I never slept when I was cold. It was torture.

"Sure," she said. At least I planted a seed. I returned to the living room to say good-bye.

"Where are you going?" Nicole asked as she looked up from the television.

"I have to go to my home now," I told her, "but I'm going to come and visit you again."

"When is my mommy coming?" she asked without emotion.

"You must be thinking about your mommy. Do you think about her a lot?" I asked, diverting the question and taking this opportunity to learn something, anything, about Nicole's relationship with her mom. She just shrugged her shoulders. I said good-bye again and turned to leave. With one hand on the doorknob, I heard Nicole speak again. I turned around.

"Stay," she said, her blue eyes fixed on mine.

If there was ever a time in my career when I suddenly wanted to scoop up a couple of kids and take them home with me, this would have been it. My arms ached to pick them up and carry them out the door. For a split second I actually wondered how much trouble I would get in if I did just that. I knew their entire futures were at stake and I felt completely helpless. There was nothing blatantly wrong with their placement, at least not in regards to foster care rules.

"You know that lady can't stay here," Ms. Katherine said with exasperation. "She's got to go home now."

"I'm going to come and see you again soon," I told Nicole after I walked over to her and bent down one more time to be at her level. She turned away.

That night I woke up at 2 AM and immediately thought of the girls. Were they warm enough? Were they safe? I couldn't bare the thought of them shivering in the dark, alone and scared.
The next morning I emailed my good friend who is a priest and asked him to pray for two little girls named Nicole and Nina. A long time ago when I had told him how much I worried about the children I represented in court, he offered to light a candle to hold them in prayer and light throughout the day. In turn I offered to buy him votive candles in bulk. Over time he rubbed off on me and I started lighting my own candles, up to six at a time, with my favorite book The Tree That Survived the Winter in the background to remind me to trust and have hope. My sister and her kids added Nicole and Nina to their nightly prayers as well. Everyone can do something to help foster kids.

Whenever I felt this helpless, I reminded myself that these kids belong to God. I relied on a prayer written by Bishop Ken Utener. It is often called the Romero Prayer, wrongly attributed to former Archbishop Oscar Romero. I kept this prayer taped to the bottom of my phone at my office. It is below:

It helps now and then to step back and take the long view. The reign of God is not only beyond our efforts. It is beyond our vision.

We accomplish in our lifetime only a tiny fraction of the magnificent enterprise that is God's work. Nothing we do is complete, which is another way of saying the reign of God always lies beyond us.

No statement says all that could be said. No prayer fully expresses our faith. No confession brings perfection. No pastoral visit brings wholeness. No program accomplishes the church's mission.

We cannot do everything but there is a sense of liberation in realizing that because this enables us to do something and to do it well. It may be incomplete but it is a beginning, a step along the way, an opportunity for God's grace to enter and do the rest.

I went back to sleep that night after putting them in God's hands. It was all I could do at 2 AM and it had to be enough.

Coming Very Soon:
Part Three: Nicole and Nina Catch a Break

Nicole and Nina Part 2

A week after the first court hearing I arrived for my scheduled foster home visit to meet Nicole*, Nina, and their foster family. Per Ohio law, as the Guardian Ad Litem (GAL) representing the girls in court, it was my job to get to know all I could about their situation and make recommendations to the magistrate about what I believed was in their best interest. I consulted frequently with the children’s services caseworker handling the case as well as all other professionals involved. Because Nicole and Nina were in foster care, children’s services held custody of them. The caseworker was required to monitor their placement and services they might need as well as refer the biological parents for reunification services.

I pulled up to a two-story house with white vinyl siding, green shutters, and a rickety old fence surrounding the property. Nicole and Nina had been in this foster home for a little over a month, ever since their mother signed over custody to children’s services. I met their caseworker, Robin, at the curb. We planned to come together after she voiced her concerns about the foster home and wanted to know what I thought. I had known Robin for many years as we had previously worked cases together. Although we hadn’t always agreed in the past, we found a way to work through our differences. I liked her.

I knocked on the door and a petite woman dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt opened it. She held her hand out and introduced herself as Janet, the foster mom. In turn I introduced myself as the girls’ GAL. She led us inside and we took seats in a comfortable, cozy living room where two adorable little girls were sitting on the floor playing ‘kitchen’ with plastic food. They were carbon copies of each other. They both had jet black curly hair and brilliant blue eyes. Nicole, the three-year-old, was intent and serious with her play and barely looked up when her foster mom told her to say hello. Nina, age two, was all smiles, showing perfect white little teeth lining her gums like soldiers standing at attention.

I was always looking in kids’ mouths on the sly. Were there dark spots on their teeth? Chalky white spots? Parts of teeth missing? A pediatric dentist who was as passionate about kids’ teeth as I am about kids drummed it into me over the years: oral health is as important as medical health. Pay attention and make sure foster kids, an underserved population, are getting the dental care they desperately need. 

I digress.

“I just can’t do anything with her,” Janet dove right in before either Robin or I said a word. “She doesn’t listen. She’s a bad influence on her little sister.” Clearly she was talking about Nicole.

I glanced over at Nicole who was carefully stacking plastic pancakes on a pretend plate. She looked up and caught my eye then went right back to the task in front of her. Um, I think she listens, I wanted to say to Janet. Robin had warned me about this. Janet was constantly criticizing Nicole.

 

I hated when foster parents talked about kids like they weren’t even there, especially if they talked about behaviors or case plan services or biological parents. Little people come with awfully big ears and not enough common sense or skill to accurately make sense of what was being said. The imagination of a traumatized child can be huge and terrifying. Why feed it?

With that, Nina toddled over and handed me a toy cup. After pretending to take a drink, I asked her if it would be alright if I played ‘kitchen’ with them. She giggled and nodded her head. I slid down onto the floor and crawled over to the make-believe smorgasbord.

I’ve always thought someone should design a line of clothing that was professional and stylish enough to wear to court but comfortable and forgiving enough to wear while playing on the floor. It would need to be easy wash and wear and reasonably priced of course.

I digress AGAIN.

“My name is Holly,” I said as I slowly approached Nicole. “Nina thought it would be OK if I played with you. She made some delicious chocolate milk. Would you like a sip?” I asked her as I handed the toy cup to her. She sized me up for several seconds before she took the cup from my hands.

“I’m making pancakes,” she said as she continued stacking one round, plastic disc onto another. I was happy to hear her speak with such precision. I stole a glance into her mouth to see perfect white little teeth. Yay! 

“I like pancakes,” I told her. “Here, would you like an egg? That might make your breakfast even yummier.” I held up a rubbery white circle with a yellow spot in the middle.

We continued on while I monitored the conversation between the adults in the room. Robin did a good job of keeping the conversation focused on what might be helpful for the girls.

“Nicole has been referred for a therapeutic preschool program where she will go four half days per week and work with a therapist on-site. We talked about this last week. The therapist hasn’t been able to get in touch with you. Did you remember they were going to be calling?” Robin asked.

Robin had previously told me Janet had many reports about Nicole’s behavior and they were all bad. She was ‘manipulative’, a bad influence on Nina, and had terrible meltdowns at nighttime. She also reported Nicole was a ‘bad girl’ because she often had her hand in her pants and was touching herself.

 
"I told you preschool was not going to work with my schedule,” Janet responded with a touch of irritation. “Like I said before, it is not good for Nina to be with such a bad influence. I think the girls should be separated. I’m willing to keep Nina.”

“Why don’t we continue this discussion another time?” I asked as I stood up. “I had a few questions about the girls’ schedules and how they are sleeping and eating. Other matters we can discuss by phone when you have some privacy.” Deep, deep down I felt my temper starting to flare.

Thirty minutes later Robin and I said our good-byes and left. We walked slowly to our cars with our heads bent low, talking.

“I’m telling you Holly, that foster mom is not right. I don’t feel good about this,” Robin said seriously. Despite my own heavy heart, I had to smile. Usually I was the one raising issues first. Robin beat me to the punch.

“I know,” I sighed. “I’m going to call her when the girls are taking their naps later and I’ll talk to her about my concerns with her discussing things in front of them. I think Nicole is taking everything in and she certainly will sense how they feel about her. I’ll make another visit next week too. In the meantime, make sure the preschool doesn’t give away her spot. Tell them we are working on it.”

“No kidding,” Robin said, “I made that referral three months ago when the girls were still with their mom and Nicole’s name just came up on the waiting list. By the way, I got Jason an emergency assessment for substance abuse treatment and he is, as we speak, getting processed for an in-patient drug treatment program.” I was shocked. The court had ordered the girls’ dad to complete an assessment and follow recommendations but that normally took weeks, even months.

“You are GOOD! How in the heck did you get that done so fast?” I asked her.

“I got my ways,” she said mysteriously and laughed. “All kidding aside, I was able to slide him into an open spot.”

“You rock. You are awesome. I love working with you,” I told her.

“Yeah, well, I’m working toward that bonus you know,” she joked and we both laughed as we parted ways. There were no bonuses for caseworkers in this line of work. None that came in the form of money anyway.

Two weeks later, Nicole and Nina’s lives turned upside down. Their foster mom refused to have Nicole participate in therapeutic preschool and subsequently gave her notice of removal for only Nicole. Robin and I agreed the girls should not be separated. As much as I hate moving foster kids, I knew it was necessary in this instance and I was a little relieved. Children know when they are wanted or not. They know when they are loved or not. Nicole was neither wanted nor loved in that foster home and that would kill her spirit which has already suffered enough damage to last a lifetime.

 
Around the same time, Robin called to tell me she had received a promotion and would become a supervisor. As happy as I was for her and although it was well-deserved, it meant a new caseworker for the family.

Ugh.

Foster care is a game of chance and the dice were being rolled not once but twice: the girls were up for a new home and a new caseworker.

Next Week Part 3: Nicole and Nina’s Next Home

*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.

 

 

 

 

What Makes a Mother a Mother?

When do a child’s rights supersede her mother’s rights? 

When do we stop giving chances to mothers and start giving chances to babies instead?   

Or can we give them each a chance at the same time? 

So the questions ran through my mind as I drove to visit nineteen-year-old Alexis*. She had just given birth a week earlier to baby Myra*, her third child in as many years. Her premature newborn lay in the NICU at the local hospital, recovering from a blood transfusion. Alexis lay in her nearly empty apartment, recovering from childbirth and pumping bottles of breast milk for her baby. 

A single, drug-addicted mother raised Alexis until she was 11 and her mom's boyfriend raped her. She was placed in foster care and never returned home to her mother. She bounced around in foster homes and group homes for a while until her behavior escalated out of control and she posed a risk to herself and others. She had difficulty controlling her anger and once punched a therapist in the face. She then went to live in a locked hospital-like unit for severely troubled teens.

Alexis was in such a locked unit for troubled teens when she gave birth to her first daughter at 16.  Her little girl went to live with the father’s mother, who eventually took legal custody of her. 

Alexis made progress emotionally and behaviorally and was moved from the locked facility to an unlocked group home. She immediately ran away and stayed gone for eight months.  She returned belligerent and aggressive, pregnant for the second time. She was placed in another locked facility. One day she became so angry with her therapist that she took her anger out on her belly, beating on it so severely her body was thrust into labor a month early and baby number two emerged. He went to live with his one-year-old sister.   

Alexis eventually was discharged from this facility and placed in a different group home. She ran away after two weeks and emancipated from foster care on her eighteenth birthday with her whereabouts unknown. Somehow she managed to pull herself together, seeking help for aged-out teens and moving into an apartment on her own even though she picked up one criminal charge for prostitution which was dropped. She gave birth to Myra, baby number three, six months later. Myra was born premature. Alexis tested positive for marijuana.  

This time, she insisted, she was going to do it. She was going to be a mother. She had a place to live. She was attending classes to obtain her General Education Degree and had started parenting classes on her own. She was willing to do drug treatment, anything, in order to bring her baby home.

Alexis and I sat and talked in her apartment.  Tears streamed down her face as she talked about not being able to get herself together for her first two children. She accepted responsibility for her mistakes and was determined to do better. All she wanted was a chance to do right by this baby.  Would I give her that? Please? 

I looked around her apartment that sported one threadbare couch and a chair. A flower arrangement sat on a scratched up table with one broken leg, dried old petals littering the table and even the floor below.  It looked as if had been there for months and when I asked her about it, she indicated it was.   

“My public defender sent those to me two months ago.”  She lovingly removed the card that accompanied them and read it to me.   

“Congratulations on your new apartment.” She looked up at me with a smile of innocence. “That was the first time I ever got flowers.  I didn’t know they could be sent in a vase by a man who rang my bell and handed them to me.”  She delicately replaced the card while three more petals fell to the floor.   

I saw her pain medication sitting on the counter in the kitchen and thought back to the times I delivered my three children.  Unlike Alexis, I had a husband to hold my hand through labor pains and friends and family who delivered dinners to my house in the days after I brought my babies home. Alexis delivered her baby alone, then returned to a nearly empty apartment, greeted only by the months old dead flowers that sat on her table. I sighed. There are never easy answers. Things are rarely black or white in this line or work, only endless shades of gray.

How could she successfully raise this vulnerable, precious new life? Who deserved a real chance?  

*name changed to protect identity
 

Your Children Need You

The death of two-year-old Damarcus Jackson allegedly at the hands of his biological father has sparked three independent investigations regarding a juvenile court decision to reunify the former foster child with his biological family.

These three investigations may or may not give us a glimpse into the decision-making process that placed Damarcus squarely in the hands of the man who allegedly killed him. When the investigations are concluded, what will be different? Will the system apply whatever it might learn from these investigations? What will be gained?

Every time a foster child or reunified child dies as a result of abuse we do this. We get outraged. We cry for the lost life and the child who suffered horrifically despite the child welfare system’s involvement. Think three-year-old Marcus Fiesel who was brutally murdered by his foster parents after they pinned his arms behind his back, bound him, and left him in a hot closet where he died of hyperthermia. Think two-year-old Californian Vyctorya Sandoval who was reunified with biological family despite the protests of veteran system workers and died of abuse on Easter in 2011. Think Florida’s ten-year-old Nubia Barahona who was adopted and later killed by foster parents despite multiple red flags raised throughout the span of her short childhood. Think seven-year-old Gabriel Myers, a Florida foster child who hung himself in the shower of his foster home.

These cases devastate us for a little while. We demand accountability. We demand change. In response, investigations are initiated and promises made and then we are back to business as usual. Until the next child dies. Then we start the outrage and demands all over again.

It must change. Not just the system itself, but the mindset that these children are not our collective responsibility. Foster kids are under the custody and control of the government.  They belong to the system as opposed to a loving family. As taxpayers, foster children belong to all of us.  Therefore, their needs and our understanding of those needs and commitment to meeting them should be among our highest priorities. They deserve more than a few weeks of our attention and outrage when something goes wrong.

Infants and toddlers like Damarcus are the fastest growing group of kids coming into foster care.  he deck is stacked against them from the start. They’ve experienced trauma at a time of rapid brain growth which can have life-long impacts on their cognitive, social-emotional, and behavioral development. They are more likely to be abused and neglected than older children.  They are thrust into an overloaded child welfare system that sometimes works and sometimes fails.

However, foster care is necessary and often life-saving. Eighty percent of all homicide child victims are under age four.  Eighty percent of those kids are killed by their parents.

This is a community problem demanding a community response in addition to a government response. We cannot expect the system to fix itself. We have to step in if we have any hope of improving outcomes for vulnerable children. Get educated about the complex issues facing the child welfare system and the children and families it is designed to serve. Get Involved. Give your time. Use your voice. 

Your children need you.

Brain and Best Interests Should Trump Blood

It is not about her bloodline. It is about her brain.

This is the reason why Baby Veronica should have stayed in the custody of her loving adoptive parents, Matt and Melanie Capobianco, with whom she resided from her time of birth until the age of 27 months when she was put into a pickup truck by her biological father, a virtual stranger, and driven 22 hours to her new home. Science proves that trauma of separation from loving, primary caregivers interupts brain growth and development.

Who do you think Veronica would say her parents are? The people who cared for her day and night and loved her into a happy, thriving two-year-old or a stranger whose DNA she carried?

Dusten Brown signed a legal document after Veronica was born stating he would relinquish his parental rights. Then he walked away.

But he came back later claiming he was part Cherokee and Veronica was too, affording his parental rights special protection under the Indian Child Welfare Act of 1978. The court and the Indian Child Welfare Act threw open the doors for him, slamming the door on Veronica’s right to live with her loving family free from the intrusion of government.Never mind that in Veronica’s eyes she was with her parents, the two people who loved and nurtured and cared for her unconditionally. Never mind that her non-Indian biological mother enjoyed an open adoption and maintained contact with her and has now lost that. Never mind that Dusten Brown never mentioned to bio mom he was Cherokee or behaved in a way that showed he was connected to his Indian heritage. Never mind the science that proves babies as young as six months experience grief, loss, and depression following separation from their primary caregivers. 

Never mind that if the court really put Veronica’s best interests first, it would have at least required the biological father to stay in South Carolina for a period of time visiting with Veronica daily and developing a relationship with her before he hauled her off across the country.

Never mind, indeed.

Hopefully the US Supreme Court will right all these wrongs and send Veronica home to her real parents, the people who fought to protect her from the time she took her first breath.

Public opinion matters. There is strength in numbers. The civil rights movement started when Rosa Parks refused to move to the back of the bus and the number of people supporting her swelled to epic proportions. It is time for children’s rights to matter and time for you to use your voice on their behalf.

Visit www.saveveronica.org to learn more or join the Save Veronica Facebook Page.

 

For My Three Kids on Mother's Day

I cringed when the babysitter told me you played social worker instead of doctor and wondered if, despite my diligence, you picked up bits and pieces of overheard work phone conversations at the tender age of five.

I cringed when midway through a trial I remembered that I forgot to send you to school with money for the flower sale. My heart sunk, imagining your six-year-old self sitting off to the side while your classmates carefully chose and picked out their favorites.

I cringed when you called me because you forgot your lunch and I couldn’t bring it to you. It was fish stick day. What horrible timing.

I cringed every time the stress of my job created stress at home and you soaked it up much like your skin soaked up the sun the day your babysitter forgot to re-dose you with a hefty amount of sunscreen.

Most days I balanced your needs with needs of motherless children. I often worried all of you were short-changed. I did the best I could and tried to convince myself it was good enough.

It was.

I swelled with pride the day you boldly proclaimed I did not need to come with you as you took your little foster cousin outside to play. From the living room window I watched you spread out a quilt and sprinkle it with toys and books. You set her down and automatically bent her legs at the knee just like the physical therapist suggested. Her little hand reached out to you and you instinctively leaned in and kissed her on the forehead. Such tenderness coming from my boy astounded me. Maybe somewhere, somehow, seeds of compassion were sown into your heart when I wasn’t looking.

Relief washed over me when you bounced out of school with delicate hands full of tiny plants ready to grow. You were all smiles when you relayed how your teacher slipped you a five dollar bill. Somehow, your carefully chosen plants were made more special by the fact that someone other than your mom took care of a problem for you.

I laughed out loud when you told me your aunt brought you McDonald’s on fish stick day. What started out as a mini-crisis morphed into a treat. I laughed harder when you suggested perhaps you should forget your lunch more often.

Growing the three of you in this world reminds me that when I fail or forget or mess up, it will be OK. I’ve learned there are others who will right my wrongs, remember when I forget, be there when I can’t. Because of this, I know that despite the horrors, the suffering of so many, the anger and hatred spewed over politics and other contentious issues, the world will be OK. Really, it will be, as long as we help each other and the helpless.

As you have grown, your gifts to the world have grown as well. I remember this when another mom randomly stops me at the grocery store and thanks me for raising such a great kid. You’ve been extraordinarily kind to her daughter at school who’s been having a hard time. I want to save the facebook message I receive from a woman who echoes the same sentiments about your sister. I hang onto all the words I’ve heard in dozens of parent-teacher conferences for the three of you over the years. Compassionate. Kind. Driven. Problem-solver. Joy. Bright. Helper. Funny. Determined. Gift.

Gift indeed. What a gift each of you is and what gifts you bring to our hurting world.

Happy Mother’s Day to the stay-at-home moms who helped me in a pinch. Happy Mother’s Day to the working moms who covered for me when my own kids needed me more. Happy Mother’s Day to the teachers who cherished my children and went the extra mile for them. Happy Mother’s Day to their aunts and grandmas who do things like bring them McDonald’s, take them shopping, take them on vacation, and love them wholeheartedly.

Finally, Happy Mother’s Day to the mothers of the motherless who stand in the gap and lovingly care for their foster children with a fierce and loyal love that will stay with those kids forever.

Gift indeed.