The process of becoming a foster parent was nothing short of grueling. For those who think that lazy people who want to pocket the children's stipend become foster parents. . . well, maybe those people slipped through the cracks in the past, but not anymore. I filled out questionnaires. Endured a series of interviews. Was fingerprinted. Took medical exams. My references were called and interviewed. My employer had to fill out forms. My tax returns and pay stubs were requested. My home was inspected -- thoroughly. They flushed the toilets, measured the water temperature in every sink/tub, and looked in all the cabinets. In all, it took four and a half months. And I've been told that was quick compared to most! Oh, and I had to take 36 hours of classes on parenting and specifically about foster children and their issues.
Those classes proved to be invaluable. Because of what I learned, I wasn't surprised at all that I had to wash sheets every night for the first six weeks (most foster children wet the bed when they move into a new home). And I was prepared with changes of clothes whenever we went out. I expected the crying, the tantrums, the defiance, the "I hate you's," and I took them all in stride. I didn't take it personally -- these were children fighting for survival in unfamiliar territory.
But there was one thing I wasn't prepared for. . .
On the third day, at the playground, the 3-year-old was smiling, laughing, having fun -- and when he looked down at me from atop the slide, grinning from ear to ear, he said "Mommy! Look at me!" One five-letter word: MOMMY
