It’s on. As of yesterday, our home is an open, certified New York State foster home. In theory, a fosterwee could arrive any time.
Carrie expected us to be certified this quickly. After all, we’ve completed the MAPP course, CPR certification, personal interviews, physicals and psychiatric evaluations and home studies. As a literalist, though, I didn’t think we’d be certified until we actually completed everything we’re working on (the latest punchlist includes window guards in Blitzen’s room and CPR certification for our backups). I suspect the agency was blinded by our earnest charm, our rapid-fire email prowess, our signifiers of professionalism, our white privilege, and our posse of backups ready to help. (They suggested we might want more NYC backups and five applications were on their desk the next morning.)
My lack of imagination makes me unable to imagine any future that looks different from the present, so until last night, I had been completely not-nervous about being a foster parent. Now that we’re a phone call away, though, the anxiety closet is filling up. Mostly it’s the logistics that spook me. Carrie bought a two-pack of toothbrushes, but what if Blitzen wants a toy? Or an article of clothing? Or a juice box (what the young folk drink when they’re not busy with their text messaging)? Where should we send Donner to school? Who’s gonna babysit after school? How will we manage our multiple weekly visits with the birth parents?
No wee will arrive in the next six days — Carrie’s leaving town and I shan’t single parent. After that, though, I guess we’ll keep our cell phones charged and the second bed made