Parenthood Redefined

From Dating to Foster Dad

Parenthood always seemed a long way off. I mean, I’d been dating throughout my twenties, but hadn’t found anyone that I really clicked with — I couldn’t be a parent before that happened, I figured. Of course, I’d discussed kids with some of my long term girlfriends before so I’d had the basic plan figured out:

“How many?” Two.

“Genders?” One of each.

“Extracurriculars?” Baseball and Scouts.

Thinking back now, those ideas are pretty much the White Picket Fence of parenting — you just sort of imagine that your life will head in a certain direction, come with all the fixings just as you like them and that you’ll have at least some basic degree of control over the way everything pans out.

But then I met Shelly.

If there was a word for Shelly, I think it would have to be “mother.” I can’t honestly say that I was looking for kids at the time, but it was definitely her warm, compassionate and loving nature that drew me in. She was a teacher working at a private school for kids with behavioral and emotional learning difficulties and was always thinking of what she could bring back to the classroom even after she’d left the school.

We met at a housewarming party one night, but the truth is, my relationship with Shelly is a secondary player in this story. All you really need to know is that we met and fell in love. A year into the relationship, and I knew it was serious. I still remember quite clearly when everything changed; it was late September and we were at her apartment, ready to settle down to a new episode of Chopped.

***

“So, I was thinking,” she began, tentatively. I was half-listening while I navigated the menus to Netflix.

“Not too hard, I hope,” I joked, reflexively. Netflix began loading, I hopped on the couch next to her and waited for the next screen.

“Well, we’ve talked about kids before,” she said, stating it definitively as though she needed a solid foundation for what she was about to say. Of course, it was a statement that immediately caught my attention, and I finally took notice of her demeanor as I turned to look her in the eye. She was tense, looking down at the floor and rubbing her hands together.

“That’s true, we have,” I replied, cautiously. After a moment of silence on her end, however, my own mind got the best of me and I spat out, “Are you pregnant?”

She gave a brief laugh, which was a little relieving, but very quickly got serious again. Nervously, I turned away to look at the TV, which now, somewhat humorously, bore the goofy smiley faces that accompanied our account names. Orange Smiley and I locked eyes for what felt like an eternity before Shelly spoke up again.

“No, I’m not pregnant. But I might as well be,” she started. “I know I should’ve talked to you about it sooner, but I just didn’t know how to bring it up, and I kept saying, ‘I’ll do it tomorrow,’ but then finding some stupid reason why it wasn’t the right time, and I just didn’t know how to approach you with it an-“

The rambling was confusing and comforting at the same time — Shelly clearly wasn’t on familiar ground here. I cut her off.

“Hold on, Shel, what’s happening? You ‘might as well be pregnant’? What does that even mean?” I don’t think she even realized that she hadn’t told me what she was so nervous about.

“Okay, well, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, and if you want to leave that’s fine — I’ll be hurt but it’s fine — but I feel like there’s so many needy people out there, and if I can help, I should just help, you kn-“

“Shelly. What’s happening?” She grabbed my hands before giving her response, which came with a small smile and a little nervous tear.

“I’m going to be a foster mom.”

***

Almost two years after that awkward conversation, after helping Shelly with all her applications and background checks and training, I find myself walking the Seaside Heights boardwalk during a music festival, Flaming Lips in my ears and diaper bag in my hand. Well, I call it a diaper bag because I’m still kind of clueless like that, but I guess there aren’t any diapers in it. Malcolm’s five, and we’d successfully navigated his Fear-Of-Toilet phase just a few months ago. Parenthood feels a lot closer.

Malcolm was born almost a full month premature to a woman who suffered deeply from a heroin addiction. I was told that a few months after he was born, only weeks after he’d been released from the hospital, a neighbor found his mother passed out with a lit cigarette *outside* of the apartment while Malcolm was inside. Malcolm entered care, and his mom entered rehab. He was already 4 before he made his way into Shelly’s ever-compassionate arms, and by association, into my life.

I am going to have to be honest here and say that Malcolm’s arrival put a real strain on my relationship with Shelly. Gone were the long nights spent at the beach, the parties and the concerts, the quiet mornings where we’d eat a simple breakfast in relative quiet; from the moment Malcolm arrived, priorities changed. Suddenly, our romance came second.

Now, Malcolm wasn’t a bad kid, but we could see how being shifted around through different placements had made him untrusting of adults. He seemed to operate on the assumption that the people who came into his life were destined to leave it, and only Shelly, with her big heart, had managed to pierce that insecurity. It wasn’t long after Malcolm’s placement with us that Shelly got him to give her a sincere “I mean it!” hug, and soon enough they were like best friends.

I guess I don’t quite have her warm disposition though, and pretty quickly, without hesitation, Malcolm began letting me know he didn’t like me.

***

“Good morning, Malcolm,” I said as I opened the door to Shelly’s place , bearing bacon and eggs for Sunday Brunch.

“Ngggh,” was his reply. Simple, and effective, right? Responses like this let me know pretty definitively that he didn’t want to talk to me. It wasn’t until Shelly stepped in that I’d get any real recognition.

“Malcolm, come on now. Ben just brought BACON! Be nice and say good morning.”

“Grr Mrr Mrrg,” he begrudgingly muttered, not wanting to disobey Shelly, but not wanting to give me the satisfaction of hearing him actually greet me. Shelly shot me a pleading look, as if to say, “Sorry!” I smiled and nodded and didn’t say anything more — I wanted to correct the kid, to demand respect, but I knew that was a losing battle and that in the end, Shelly would bear the brunt of its fallout. “He’s just a kid,” Shelly would say when I got frustrated.

For a long time, it only ever made me feel worse — this kid was never going to like me, and not only was there nothing I could do about it, but I was expected to put up with it. I was always going to come second.

***

But what could I do? Shelly helped me realize pretty quickly how silly it would be for me, a grown man, to attempt to demand respect from a 4 year old who, by all accounts, had already had more struggling and suffering in his brief 4 years than I’d had in all of mine. How could I even be upset when this kid just wants a solid, consistent family? The best strategy I could think of was to grin and bear it. I was letting the outward expression of Malcolm’s collected fears drive me off. Shelly really helped me to remember that this was a suffering little boy, a kid who just wanted to be loved but who had been disappointed by the people he cared about. If I wanted him to like me, I needed to make a difference in his life, and to do that, I had to be different from the caseworkers and foster parents who had come before me. I had to be more like Shelly — present, no matter what. Malcolm was afraid to be abandoned again, to swap houses and families and be jerked around endlessly, so I decided that I would show him, no matter how stubborn and rude he might be, that I was there for him, just like Shelly was. I was new to parenting, but I was also learning.

I’m not sure if it was one particular moment in which I won him over, or if it was the months of my nearly-worn out patience, renewed attempts at understanding him, or just that he simply got comfortable, but I do remember the exact moment he finally let me in. I was playing a video game in Shelly’s living room while she and Malcolm played with some Legos on the floor.

***

“Hey, just keep an eye on him while I use the bathroom, okay?” It was a familiar request, one that Malcolm had begrudgingly accepted long ago. I listened for the typical sounds of annoyance from him as I navigated my character around the screen, but I was surprised to find him quiet. It was such a unique moment for us that I stopped and stared at him as he sat on the floor. My eyes were fixated on him when he pointed at the screen and turned to look at me.

“You died.” Sure enough, he was right. I let my character get knocked off the screen without even realizing it. Breaking out of my momentary shock, I laughed.

“Heh, yeah I guess I did.” This was new territory for me — most of our conversations consisted of me telling him something and Shelly repeating it so he would listen. Now, without our translator, I was finding myself at a loss for words.

“I think I like this game,” he said, conveniently. Did he realize he was giving me an in? Was he trying to open up to me?

“Oh yeah?” With the clear opening, I had time to gather my senses. “Want to play with me?”

“NO, I like the GAME I don’t like YOU,” he said, defiantly. By this point, I’d grown mostly immune to this sort of behavior, so instead of giving into the reflexive hurt, I tried a different approach.

“Oh. Well, do you want to play it by yourself?”

“Well. Maybe.” He got up slowly and came over to me. He made sure to keep his distance as he pointed at the controller and said, “Show me what to do.”

For the next fifteen minutes straight, he actually let me teach him how to play the game. Of course, he didn’t listen to any of my advice once I showed him what to do, but I knew I had made progress. Shelly, who had come out and seen this little moment of connection, quietly sat back and watched us.

When Malcolm realized she was there, he quickly dropped the controller, stuck his tongue out at me, told me I smelled, and ran back to her, asking her to play the game with him. Things quickly went back to business as usual.

Maybe it isn’t most people’s idea of a perfect bonding moment, but for me it was like someone lit a match at the opposite end of a dark room. There wasn’t much light, but I could see the spark clearly.

***

When Shelly told me she was going to become a foster parent, I was a total mix of emotions. When Malcolm came into our lives, I felt like I’d never be able to make a difference. Now? He’s got me on call 24/7 as his official Player Two in case he needs a hand in one of our favorite games.

As for my relationship with Shelly, we’re getting married next January, and I’ve already completed my PRIDE training. I never thought I’d be excited to be fingerprinted and background checked, but the truth is Shelly and I are excited to begin this new chapter of our lives together as partners in fostering. I said before that I imagined my life would head in a certain direction, that I’d have at least some basic degree of control over the way everything pans out. I had so many ideas of what it is to be a parent, the sorts of decisions you’d need to make and the problems you’d encounter, but the truth is, I didn’t understand at all. Parenthood was an item on a To-Do list, something that would eventually become a part of my character when I got “old enough.” Now, when Shelly and I talk about our next placement, our next child, the conversation looks a bit different:

How many? Two.

Genders? One of each.

How can we help?