After becoming a dad of two, I thought that the jump to three would not be that big of a deal. People told me that it wouldn't, and I believed them because under normal circumstances it probably wouldn't have been a big deal. However, what I forgot is that the children that I welcome are ones that come with trauma and baggage of their own. I welcomed my third, K's brother, T, to our home and loved him fiercely. Then, the honeymoon period was over, and I was surprised to find that not all children in foster care welcome that love with open arms.
I remember vividly the first night he told me he hated me. I remember him throwing himself on the floor and screaming at me that he didn't want to stay here. His words pierced me deeper than I thought possible. I told him I was sorry he felt that way, closed his door, and cried in my room. I wasn't sure what to think, but I remembered the classes I took to become a foster parent and being told that not all children show their feelings in the same way. L and K were not explosive personalities, but it was glaringly obvious that T was. He had lived far more in his nine short years than many other children his age, and he was more aware of his situation than both L and K had been when they came to me. That awareness led to such a wave of anger inside of him that had nowhere else to go until it bubbled up and boiled over.
The months following his arrival were some of the most tumultuous of my life. I walked on eggshells around him and hoped every day that the other two would do the same. The longer we lived that life, the more I realized we couldn't, so we battened down the hatches and I braced myself for the oncoming storm. And it came, daily, and I cried just as much.
But just as with any storm, it doesn't last forever. For the first time this past week, he called L his sister, something that was such a huge step that I could scarcely believe it happened. Therapy has helped, and my patience with him has as well. But my patience is not always there.
It's become clear to me recently that I, too, need therapy, and I have searched for a counselor myself. It's something I refused for a long time because I knew that I could do this, but I also hated who I was becoming as a parent. My temper was short and my patience was thin, and still is. For the past several months I had imprisoned myself in my own home in fear of going out with three kids who had become unpredictable. I stopped hanging out with people, not because I didn't have the time, but because I didn't have the energy. All of me was being poured, unevenly, into my kids. I was falling apart, and I knew it. Knowing, and accepting, was a major step towards asking for help, and even though I have yet to find a therapist, things are in the works that lead me to be hopeful.
T still melts down, but my patience during these meltdowns is strengthening and I can be there for him in a way that I couldn't before. I no longer take things personally when he tells me he hates me or blames me for things. Instead, I just tell him I love him and talk to him when he's ready.
At one point last month he got in the shower while screaming at me and throwing bottles in the bathroom. I had reached the end of my rope and pretended to be asleep on the couch when he got out because I had nothing left. He covered me in a blanket, got me a glass of water, turned off the lamp, and softly kissed my forehead while he whispered, "I love you dad," and then put himself to bed.
Life is not, and never will be perfect. However, it's moments like these that get me through.