When I Tell You I’m Adopting a 14-Year-Old Foster Child, Here’s What You Should and Shouldn’t Say, For Future Reference

When I Tell You I’m Adopting a 14-Year-Old Foster Child, Here’s What You Should and Shouldn’t Say, For Future Reference:

1. Don’t tell me what a “beautiful” or “kind” or “amazing” thing I’m doing, and don’t call me a saint. To say these things—whether hesitantly or suspiciously or with complete honesty--is to show a deep and profound disrespect for my future daughter, who, after all, is a human being. Like all of us, she will likely bring both grief and joy to everyone she loves.

2. Don’t say, “I hope you know what you’re getting into,” or some derivation thereof (“Do you know what you’re getting into?” “Have you thought this through?” “Are you sure you’re ready for this?” “Are you sure your heart’s not bigger than your head?”) The answer is, no, I have no idea what I’m getting myself into—but neither do you. Tomorrow you could be diagnosed with cancer or shot or hit by a bus or called upon to act in heroic ways you can’t even now imagine. None of us knows what we’re “getting into.” Having said that, I have thought this through—I have, in fact, been on a profound spiritual journey that has shifted, quite unexpectedly, into a journey into a particular kind of parenthood. I have done the research; I have set up a support system; I have ensured in every possible way that I am as ready as I can be. But I also have the humility to realize that nothing I do could ever really prepare me for parenthood, or for parenting this particular child. So, whatever you do, don’t imply that I’m somehow naïve or have not thought this through.

3. Don’t ask me why she ended up in foster care. If there’s a reason you need to know—for instance, if you are going to be a part of her core support system and will be working with her on an ongoing basis—I will tell you. Otherwise, there’s no more reason for you to know about her past than there is for me to know about yours. As a general rule, if we haven’t had a heart-to-heart about the hardest things you’ve faced in your life, then you probably aren’t really close enough to me to ask this question—just as I would never ask you to reveal your own or a loved one’s deepest struggles to me if I didn’t have a reason to need to know them.

4. If I do choose to tell you a little about her past, don’t say, “poor thing” or some similar phrase. She is not a “poor thing.” She is a human being—and an incredibly resilient one at that—probably more resilient than you or I could ever hope to be. You should be honored to know her and willing to learn from her. She has a lot to teach you.

5. Don’t tell me that I “deserve” a younger child or ask whether I had trouble getting pregnant or getting an infant or whether my decision had anything to do with money. Again, to imply that a younger (read: less damaged) child is more desirable is to suggest that my daughter is a problem to be solved rather than a person to be loved.

6. Don’t ask whether I’ll have a chance to change my mind after she moves in—unless you are willing to tell me whether or not you ever considered aborting your children or leaving your spouse or otherwise abandoning someone to whom you were committed.

7. Don’t ask, suspiciously, if she has any “learning problems,” “problems in school,” or some other version of this question. Whatever you mean, it is none of your business, unless you are in some way a part of the team working with her and me to ensure her educational success. If you mean, has my child had the opportunity to learn in the same way a child growing up in a loving, permanent home has—the answer should be obvious to any thinking person. If you mean, is my child “slow” or does she have learning disabilities—this is none of your business. I don’t know these things about your loved ones unless, for some reason, you have chosen to tell me because I am part of your core support system, so what makes you think you have the right to know these things about mine? Also, to express concern about my child’s “problems in school” is to misunderstand the point of education, which is to help each child, each person, to understand their challenges and to advocate for themselves so that their weaknesses never keep them from acting on their strengths. If you are concerned about my child’s education, volunteer at the school, ask whether you can help her with her homework, or take the time to educate yourself about the problems in our education system and seek to change those problems using whatever gifts you have.

8. Don’t ask if my daughter is on any medications, has any “mental problems,” or any diagnoses, or any “behavior problems.” You’d have behavior problems, too, if people you’ve never met thought they had the right to ask adults in your life about whether you have any behavior problems. If you are concerned about my child’s mental health, use your gifts, whatever they may be, to change the system in which she grew up—a system that allows traumatized children to remain with their abusive biological parents for years before removing them, a system that portrays these children as somehow too damaged to be loved and prevents otherwise sensible and thoughtful people like you from even considering adopting them.

9. Don’t tell me I have your support—unless you really mean it. And if you do really mean it, then offer something concrete that you can realistically deliver and that somehow reflects your own strengths and your relationship with me. For instance, if you are my coworker, offer to help with my classes during the transition. If you are my boss, offer to make the process of taking a leave easy. If you like to bowl, offer to take my daughter bowling to give me a break. If you are an artist, offer to give her art lessons; if you’re good at math, offer to help her with her math homework; if you know own a horse, offer to introduce her to your horse. (Of course, you would only be able to offer these things if you’d taken the time to learn she wants to try bowling, loves art, hates math, and loves horses—which would require an entirely different kind of questioning altogether). Or, if you really mean it when you say I have your support but don’t know what to offer, ask me what I need. Or, better yet, wait until my daughter has moved in, and ask her what she needs. Then, be honest about whether you can do what we ask for.

10. Don’t give me parenting advice—unless you have also adopted a traumatized child—and even then, provide parenting advice with caution. The way I will parent my daughter has nothing whatsoever to do with the way you are parenting yours. She is a specific child with specific needs and strengths and challenges, and I have spent the last year learning all I can about how to parent children with these strengths, needs, and challenges through readings, workshops, and discussions with experts. Ultimately, however, parenting is a soul-guided calling, one that requires intuition and unconditional love as much as, if not more than, traditional kinds of preparation. Trust that I know what I’m doing, and intervene only if you feel she or I are truly in harm’s way—and even then, intervene cautiously and lovingly, because you may not be able to understand the whole picture.

11. Don’t ask me whether I’m ready to give up my free time or my writing or my friendships or the possibility of finding a life partner. First of all, I am not giving any of these things up—I am simply shifting my priorities. Parents, in my opinion, should always put their children first. This does not mean they do not care for themselves or pursue other interests or relationships—it simply means they commit to guiding another human being into adulthood and loving that human being unconditionally. Yes, this takes time and sacrifice, and I am smart enough to know this. If you don’t think I am, then you don’t know me very well and probably shouldn’t be asking me such personal questions in the first place.

12. Don't say, when I express these thoughts with you, that maybe I'm overreacting or a little too defensive. Don't suggest that maybe I wouldn't be so defensive if I didn't know that you were partly right. I am not defensive because I know you're right--I'm defensive because I spent a full year praying and meditating on this decision, facing each doubt and fear and concern head on. I don't need to relive it all now just because you don't understand my decision.

If you’re thinking, “Oh, no, I really messed up when she told me about the adoption,” don’t worry, it’s not too late. Here are some “dos” to balance out the don’ts:

1. Ask me why I decided to adopt a teenager—but do so non-judgmentally, and then, take the time to really listen to my answer. You might learn something about me or my future daughter by asking an open-ended, well-meaning question like this one. But don’t ask it if you don’t really want to hear about the profound and unusual spiritual journey that led me to this decision.
2. Ask me about my daughter’s strengths—what she loves, what she’s good at. You’ll learn she’s talented with art, animals and children, loves to swim, loves to be outside in all kinds of weather, wants to learn to sew, and is as deeply committed to social justice, if not more committed, than her mother.
3. If you really want to help, ask me what you can do to help my daughter grow into a person who advocates for herself despite all the challenges she’s faced and will face in life and who is able to create change in the world using her specific gifts. Then, when I answer, be honest about whether my request is actually a possibility for you, and if it’s not, tell me so. Better yet, ask her (instead of me) what you can do for her—then be honest about what you can provide.
4. If you don’t really want to help but want me (or her) to think that you do, keep your mouth shut. My daughter has had plenty of people who have pretended to be committed when they really weren’t, who have committed only part way, or who have done and said all the wrong things in order to make themselves feel better about living relatively ignorantly in a profoundly disturbed and disturbing world in which a child like her could face, before the age of 14, 10 times the trauma most people face in their lifetimes. She has a very strong bullshit detector, and if are lying about what you can do for her, consciously or unconsciously, she’ll realize it quickly. She needs permanent commitments from people—which is not to say that your level of commitment to her can’t change based on what is happening in your life, but only that you have to be honest and open along the way, with yourself, with me, and with her, about what you can really deliver, what kind of commitment you can really make.
5. Regardless of what kind of commitment you can make, love my daughter unconditionally. Like all human beings, she may irritate or anger or frustrate you, but she will also, if you let her, teach you a great deal about kindness and love and hope and resiliency. So give her a chance.