If you don’t know already, on the Fourth of July, our 22-month-old foster boy, Lil Bit, fell off the sofa and after an afternoon at the hospital, we discovered he had fractured his elbow.
As a licensed foster home, we reported this injury of our foster child, both verbally and by completing an injury report. We went through the arduous process of getting him medical care from an orthopedic specialist through Medicaid.
The weekend after this unplanned, busy week was one for our family to relax! Sunday after church, we were all lounging around VERY comfortably.
3:00 p.m. – DING! DONG!
Stinkpot runs to door to answer. ‘Wait!” I exclaimed. FosterDad, comfortable in his boxers, tries to hand the baby to me to make his quick exit out of the living room. I’m handing the baby back. He’s handing the baby back to me again. Then I had to grunt, “I don’t have a bra on!“ All while Stinkpot is answering the door.
The man at the door was wearing a badge: Texas Department of Children Protective Services from Austin.
“Oh, you’re hear to check on our foster baby.”
“Yes, ma’am. Is there a room where I can set up my laptop for the interview? I will be interviewing each of you separately.”
“Yes, right this way. Here is the spare bedroom.”
The investigator interviewed FosterDad first. A one-hour interrogation interview.
Then it was my turn for the inquisition interview. “I will need to record this interview. Do you have an issue with that?”
For a State agency, the laptop was very high-tech with a recording program, rotating monitor, and a program and stylus to record signatures onto documents.
I won’t go into too many of the questions, but it was very intense with every little detail being questioned. “Where were you sitting? What were the others doing? Which way were they facing? What were you reading?”
I felt as if early-onset Alzheimer’s had gotten me at the tender-young age of 46!
After my one-hour ordeal. The investigator asked if Stinkpot would talk to him. “You can see.” He questioned Stinkpot alone for a few minutes before he closed up shop to leave.
5:50 p.m. Not the relaxing weekend we had planned.
The experience was nerve-racking, not because there was anything wrong, but just because of FEAR.
- FEAR in knowing that children have been removed from families for less than a broken bone.
- FEAR that there was a very small possibility that our baby could be removed just a few months before adoption.
Now we are simply waiting for the final report. Our caseworker has indicated that there is no issue, but until then we have to put our faith into this verse: