By Joy Becker
@joybellsbecker

“My name is Angie, and foster care is my jam.” I didn’t hear the next few minutes of our training course because I was so shocked that our trainer just introduced herself in this way. Foster care was her jam? I couldn’t imagine describing myself like that. Would it become my jam? Did I want that? 

Angie conducted most of her training sessions through storytelling. A social worker and mother to four adopted boys, she’d lived in the trenches of the child welfare system for nearly twenty years and had a story for every bullet point in the training manual. She talked about laminated signs, safety mantras, and floor plans with exit routes. She talked about a basket of snacks on the counter and never forcing foster children to eat “healthy, organic” food. She talked about birth fathers showing up at football games and the time she cried on the floor of her closet when it was all too much. And then she talked about not allowing anyone in someone else's bed. 

Immediately the image of my children curled up in our big bed reading books together flashed into my mind. “Like we can’t read books together in our bed?” I whispered to Stephen. 

He shrugged his shoulders and rolled his eyes, glossing over her statement as more of a suggestion than a rule. 

Before I regained my footing from that “suggestion,” she went on to tell us it was a rule in her house that no one shared a blanket. If they watched a movie together, each person had their own blanket and all hands were kept on top of the blankets. I puffed out an audible breath and zoned out for the rest of the class, trying to ignore the pit in my stomach and Angie’s insinuation. 

“I don’t know if we should do this anymore,” I said to Stephen after we got home that night. 

“Why? Because of the blanket thing?” 

“Kind of,” was all I could say. The blanket thing might be trite, but it had really knocked me off course. 

I walked down the hallway to the threshold of Charlotte’s room. Her sleeping five-year-old body takes up a fraction of the giant bed in her room that doubles as a guest bed when family and friends come to visit. It is also the perfect bed for our family, just the right size for all of us to read books and cuddle. And goodness knows we’ve done a fair share of tickling in that bed. Angie never mentioned tickling, but I had a hunch tickling foster children was frowned upon. 

I peeked into Andrew’s room; his toddler bed crammed with cars and stuffed animals. Stepping over a fire truck, I walked to the edge of his bed. His Paw Patrol blanket was carefully spread out across his 3-year-old body, covering the entire bed and sweeping down onto the floor. It was the largest blanket in the house, the one we all fit under. I was annoyed and sad at the same time as I imagined myself telling my preschool son, “Make sure your hands are out where I can see them.” I leaned down to kiss his cheek and wondered how I’d answer him when he asked why.

The vague mental image of foster care was taking shape, and I felt my strength give way. I suddenly felt ill-equipped and unqualified for such an intense role. Will my children be ok? Will our marriage be ok? Will our home still feel like a place of rest? What did we get ourselves into? 

This might be a really big mistake. 

***

We finished our final training class. Twelve weeks and thirty six hours later, we were now ready to move onto the next steps of applications, interviews, and home inspections. It was past nine by the time we drove home, and the kids were already in their pajamas after spending the evening with the volunteers who provided childcare so Stephen and I could attend the trainings together. 

“Mom,” Charlotte called from the far back seat. “How many children are going to come live with us?”

“Probably just one, sweetie, especially as we get started with foster care. And we only have one extra bed.”

She was silent for a few minutes, but I knew she had more to say. 

“But Mom, remember at Christmas when we used those air mattresses, and I slept on the floor in your room? Maybe we could do that again so more kids could come to our house. Two kids could have my bed, two kids could sleep on the air mattress, and one could use a sleeping bag in Andrew’s room.”

Sometimes my children say something so profound I’m convinced someone else must be raising them. It was a ridiculous plan and never going to happen, but it was also beautiful. I had been stuck in my fear and annoyance of the “blanket suggestion” for months now, convinced we might be making a really big mistake, questioning whether or not it was wise to have our own children sacrifice so much. But Charlotte didn’t see it like that. She saw an opportunity to bring kids into our home and trusted we could handle it. Although we rarely leave the big decisions up to a 5-year-old, I think she was right about this one.  

We’ve had eight foster children in and out of our home over the last two years and surprisingly, I haven’t really given much thought to the whole blanket and big bed debacle. All those details worked themselves out as I watched our family team up for this crazy adventure. I have seen my children happily make room for one more child in our home. They have fed babies, sang toddlers to sleep, and led frustrated preschoolers through breathing exercises to calm down. They share their bedrooms and toys, and they sacrifice their mom and dad’s attention. I spend a lot of time yapping at my children about loving others, often wondering if any of my words stick. Foster care is the messy and beautiful work that has allowed our family to live out that love.  

Guest essay written by Joy Becker. Joy is a wife and mama living in Cincinnati, Ohio. Sometimes she teaches Zumba and sometimes she pops into elementary schools as a literacy consultant, but all the time she is a mom to three young darlings, and perhaps an additional darling foster child. She is a lover of new notebooks, October, and goat cheese, and a hater of traffic, scary movies, and overcooked asparagus. You can peek even further into her love for Jesus, food, motherhood, friendship, and foster care on her website and on Instagram.