The Humiliations and Gifts of Foster Parenting

One of the most important events in my life occurred more than a quarter century ago, when for three very lively months I was a single foster parent.  Which is to say that I quickly moved from being a laid-back, easy-going guy to a man constantly confronted by his short comings.  If you want to believe you are a saint, never, ever, ever, ever become a foster parent.

It soon became clear that my seemingly sweet foster son had been through hell (extensive physical, sexual, and emotional abuse), that he was full of anger and hurt, and that before he would trust me he would test and test and test me.  Parenting strategies learned from books and working in a day care were quickly exhausted, and I was revealed to myself and to my boy to have much less empathy, love, and patience than I had thought.

I decided that all I had going for me was a determination to stick with my foster son until I was carried out of our little apartment in a pine box--or a straight jacket.  And there was something wonderfully liberating about that, about realizing that all I really had to offer my traumatized boy was a promise to never give up on him.  And that seemed to be enough--in no small part because he chose to love and trust me, notwithstanding the many betrayals and cruelties that adults had already inflicted on him, and my own many frailties.

We seldom approach perfection.  There are many days when mere competence eludes us.  But we can just about always choose to hang in there.

I soon lost touch with my son of three months as he moved on to what I hoped would be a permanent family.  I like to think that I offered him a little, albeit far from flawless, bridge from a life of trauma to one that has been full of healing and accomplishment.  I know that he offered a great deal to me.