In Honor of April, a Month for Child Protection
By Anne Scheck
This is the story of two foster children --- one adopted by us, one we knew for only a short time. I thought about them both every day this month. Sparkling blue pinwheels were everywhere, a reminder. Now, on the last day of April, I want to say thank you to the people who help children.
When we brought home a tiny little girl with night terrors and the seeming inability to cry – communication was either by screaming or stone-cold shutdowns tighter than a clam shell – I grew to recognize the underlying grit on display. We were determined to become her parents.
It seemed like forever for the adoption to go through, but when it did, in a wood-paneled courtroom, all I felt was relief. The judge and lawyers, meanwhile, looked more jubilant than the family they’d just congratulated. Photos that day show both a surprisingly somber child, with one parent wearing the expression of a tired traveler from a long, hard-fought journey. Which was me, of course.
My daughter had a difficult childhood, but every hard step was followed by a leap. In the place where we lived then, I had great help – from the state. Most of it came from a seasoned social worker named Mary, who viewed me, at first, with a bit of skepticism, I think; We couldn’t have been more different. She was getting ready for retirement, and always wore high heels and dressy skirts. She spoke in a voice in the dulcet tones of a radio broadcaster.
I was revved up early in my career, always clad in sweatshirts and old deck shoes -- and I can be heard three rooms away. During this month, I think of Mary so much. Even after all these years, I miss her.
I wish she was still here. I always wanted to tell her how great things turned out. And that, years ago, when our daughter was tested for the gifted program in a highly competitive elementary school, she made it in – and when I accidentally received more documentation about why she did than seemed to be legally permitted, I read something that I think was just like Mary would have written. It characterized our home life as “chaotic but stable.” I was pronounced “a strong personality” with this overarching belief in the golden rule that bordered on unrealistic.
Mary told me, during one of our last visits, she considered me an initially hard-to-fathom combination of tough and soft. I like to think that is just what it took to raise a child like ours. Now I look at our daughter, and I wish Mary were alive to see that even though this little girl and I aren’t genetically related, she got that same mix – only a whole lot better alchemy. She’s tough only when the time is right, and soft for everyone.
Perhaps it is no surprise that after our daughter grew up, went off to college, and established her own life, I would want to repay the same system that helped me.
This time, it was different. I was in Oregon. It only took one foster child for me to quit – there were late or missing appointments with state providers, who probably were over-worked but sometimes never told me so. There was, at times, such bafflingly incomplete assistance that I hired my own child therapist and paid out-of-pocket to get the help I felt we needed. The bright spots were from CASA and caring people who would slip me special atta-gals, one of whom told me “the system is broken.” I mean, it was said just like that.
When I lost that foster child, who was packed off to a higher level of care, I seethed for days about bureaucratic treatment. I still feel a deep, angry, sad knot in my chest when my thoughts go that far back. I believe the pain would still be there had it not been for a great twist of fate.
Shortly thereafter, I was recruited to work for Oregon’s foster care ombudsman as a volunteer. And if you want to find a buried treasure with a trove of gold, I’d suggest you start there, where everyone’s heart is made of that shiny 24-carat metal.
So, as April comes to an end, I think of them. Some of the best people I have known in the world, working day-after-day to advocate, to uphold, to mediate. They were platinum people who navigated a field full of brush fires daily, extinguishing them with methodical expertise.
So, on this last day of April 2023, I am buying Mother’s Day Cards for some of those who remain so committed. I will cross out the part with maternal messages and write in “hero” instead. Because there is no greater benefit to people across the State of Oregon than those who make such differences, and I cannot help but feel grateful to them. Thank you, too, Mary, for being there more than three decades ago. Thank you, CASA, and thank you, most of all, to my daughter. There is no finer woman. Anne Scheck, April 30, 2023
This is the story of two foster children --- one adopted by us, one we knew for only a short time. I thought about them both every day this month. Sparkling blue pinwheels were everywhere, a reminder. Now, on the last day of April, I want to say thank you to the people who help children.
When we brought home a tiny little girl with night terrors and the seeming inability to cry – communication was either by screaming or stone-cold shutdowns tighter than a clam shell – I grew to recognize the underlying grit on display. We were determined to become her parents.
It seemed like forever for the adoption to go through, but when it did, in a wood-paneled courtroom, all I felt was relief. The judge and lawyers, meanwhile, looked more jubilant than the family they’d just congratulated. Photos that day show both a surprisingly somber child, with one parent wearing the expression of a tired traveler from a long, hard-fought journey. Which was me, of course.
My daughter had a difficult childhood, but every hard step was followed by a leap. In the place where we lived then, I had great help – from the state. Most of it came from a seasoned social worker named Mary, who viewed me, at first, with a bit of skepticism, I think; We couldn’t have been more different. She was getting ready for retirement, and always wore high heels and dressy skirts. She spoke in a voice in the dulcet tones of a radio broadcaster.
I was revved up early in my career, always clad in sweatshirts and old deck shoes -- and I can be heard three rooms away. During this month, I think of Mary so much. Even after all these years, I miss her.
I wish she was still here. I always wanted to tell her how great things turned out. And that, years ago, when our daughter was tested for the gifted program in a highly competitive elementary school, she made it in – and when I accidentally received more documentation about why she did than seemed to be legally permitted, I read something that I think was just like Mary would have written. It characterized our home life as “chaotic but stable.” I was pronounced “a strong personality” with this overarching belief in the golden rule that bordered on unrealistic.
Mary told me, during one of our last visits, she considered me an initially hard-to-fathom combination of tough and soft. I like to think that is just what it took to raise a child like ours. Now I look at our daughter, and I wish Mary were alive to see that even though this little girl and I aren’t genetically related, she got that same mix – only a whole lot better alchemy. She’s tough only when the time is right, and soft for everyone.
Perhaps it is no surprise that after our daughter grew up, went off to college, and established her own life, I would want to repay the same system that helped me.
This time, it was different. I was in Oregon. It only took one foster child for me to quit – there were late or missing appointments with state providers, who probably were over-worked but sometimes never told me so. There was, at times, such bafflingly incomplete assistance that I hired my own child therapist and paid out-of-pocket to get the help I felt we needed. The bright spots were from CASA and caring people who would slip me special atta-gals, one of whom told me “the system is broken.” I mean, it was said just like that.
When I lost that foster child, who was packed off to a higher level of care, I seethed for days about bureaucratic treatment. I still feel a deep, angry, sad knot in my chest when my thoughts go that far back. I believe the pain would still be there had it not been for a great twist of fate.
Shortly thereafter, I was recruited to work for Oregon’s foster care ombudsman as a volunteer. And if you want to find a buried treasure with a trove of gold, I’d suggest you start there, where everyone’s heart is made of that shiny 24-carat metal.
So, as April comes to an end, I think of them. Some of the best people I have known in the world, working day-after-day to advocate, to uphold, to mediate. They were platinum people who navigated a field full of brush fires daily, extinguishing them with methodical expertise.
So, on this last day of April 2023, I am buying Mother’s Day Cards for some of those who remain so committed. I will cross out the part with maternal messages and write in “hero” instead. Because there is no greater benefit to people across the State of Oregon than those who make such differences, and I cannot help but feel grateful to them. Thank you, too, Mary, for being there more than three decades ago. Thank you, CASA, and thank you, most of all, to my daughter. There is no finer woman. Anne Scheck, April 30, 2023
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