Elmo at 3am

One of the problems with foster care is that too many people lack a clear understanding of what it's like day-to-day. So, from time-to-time, we try to share an unvarnished account of our experiences as foster parents, social workers, and volunteers at Skookum House. The truth is somehow both more important and more mundane than most people expect, but we hope it alleviates your fears, and woos you to join us. Because, we need you. These kids need you.

***

"Babe, that's your phone."

”Yeah, leave it."

"But what if it's Skookum?"

Oh right. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, at least mostly, and crossed the room to get my phone. This time of year I get insomnia, so I move my phone away from where I sleep. I'm not sure if it helps, but it doesn't hurt.

I see the time: 3:08am, and the missed call from Madi Jones, who I know is the staff member on-call at the Skookum House. I don't even bother with the voicemail and just call her back.

"Good morning. There's a four year-old on her way to the house. Should be there in half an hour."

"Okay."

"See you there."

She's mastered the art of being not too friendly for these 3am calls.

I dress, scrape the frost from my windshield and drive across town to the Skookum House, which is decorated for Christmas. The social worker and child are arrived ahead of me, maybe just so. In the office I sign-in, record my temperature, and mask up. In the living room, the social worker is changing a diaper and the child, a girl, is whimpering like my own do at the cold wipes.

"Full service drop off." I joke.

Madi points at me and asks, "Kid or intake?"

"Whichever."

"I'll take the kid," she says, and gently lifts the sleepy toddler from the changing table and walks up the stairs. That means I'm on paperwork duty.

There's a lot of usually-meaningless-but-occasionally-critical paperwork in foster care. Never more so than when the child arrives for the first time. The most important is called a "chipper" (CHiPR)—I can't remember what it stands for—but it holds all the things you probably wonder first about a kid like name, age, allergies, school, and social worker's name and email. It's like a cheat sheet of sorts. This time, though, the social worker is filling out the CHiPR by hand. That means this child was removed from her home with no warning. Nobody was prepared. Well . . . except Skookum.

These are exactly the kinds of situations Skookum House was designed for—a child needs a place in the middle of the night with little notice and less information. Children come to us from fatal car accidents, crime scenes, drug busts, and brothels. They arrive sometimes dirty, angry, sad, and sassy. Almost always though, they arrive sleepy. This little one sure did. I didn't hear a single peep from upstairs as Madi—a complete stranger to her—rocked her and settled her into a comfortable bed.

Social worker finishes the CHiPR and hands it to me. I sign it and notice that the section for, "circumstances of removal" is left blank. I ask about that and she volunteers that the child's father was passed out from alcohol and the child was alone. But that's all I can get from her. When the CHPR is hand-filled like this, the more complete official version usually arrives a few days later. And this social worker is probably just a driver, honestly. The police removed the child, and she'll be assigned to someone on the daytime shift, so the lady before me now only knows what she was told, so I don't push.

"Can you believe her auntie wouldn't take her?"

I look down at the forms again, "There's an auntie?"

"Yeah, and a grandma. We called both and neither would take her in, can you believe that."

Well . . . wish I couldn't, but I've done this enough that yes . . . yes I can.

"Wow." I muster.

She yawns. "Do you need anything else?"

"Two more signatures." I say and slide over another form. "Can I make you some coffee for the road?"

"No, I'm alright." she says. "That is a long drive though."

"Which office are you out of?"

"Kent."

We finish up and she departs.

I note what the social worker told me in the file, and fill out the belongings inventory, making note of the three things this child brought with her to Skookum House—a blanket, a jacket, and a tickle-me-Elmo. The jacket looks new, maybe donated. The blanket has a repeating pattern of tiny dog bones. Of the three, the Elmo appears to be the best loved. It's touchy. Just setting my hand near it on the table sets it off, laughing. Tomorrow, I know, we'll check her size and get her in some new clothes.

Madi, having successfully gotten the little girl into bed, comes back down the stairs.

"You good?" she asks.

"Yep. All done here."

"Okay. I'm going to sleep. Placement has been calling me since 1a.”

"Yikes. Yeah, go for it." I check the clock—4:15a. That's a long night.

The placement desk, as it's called, is a team of social workers who coordinate the putting of kids into homes. After hours, like this, they can be a little twitchy and over communicate, not knowing if there will be a place for a child who arrives unexpectedly like this one did. We're one of a very small number of places in the whole state where children can go in a wee-hours emergency like this.

Makes me wonder what would have happened to this little girl if we weren't here. Would she have slept in a car? A hotel? Curled up on a couch in an office somewhere? Hard to know.

I put on some coffee and settle in to read until my relief gets here. Bryce, a pediatric physical therapist, is usually my replacement on Saturday mornings. He always brings a game to play, and is jungle-gym tall. The kids always love him. I hope this little girl will wake up, and get to meet him before his shift ends.

***

Visit skookumkids.org/volunteer to learn how you can join Bryce, Madi, and I at Skookum House on the regular and be part of the team caring for little children like this one.