Fast Food and Flip Flops
I need start this post by saying thank you and that feels like the most cliché, “blogger type” thing to say, but I mean it genuinely. As we near our Gotcha Day and I reflect on National Adoption Month, I realize how impactful this blog has been in helping me to process a lot of what’s happened over the last year (remember, I don’t focus on feelings very well). So many of you have encouraged me, shared stories about what you’re doing differently after reading this, or asked raw, honest questions to educate yourself. That fills me up and gives me hope that more lives will change with this story.
Now I’ll give the people what they want; more details on what happened while she was here.
I didn’t really have a plan when Jade moved in on how I was going to navigate my job and schedule when she got here, however, D had a few weeks off before he started a new job, so I figured we’d make it work. My boss was gracious and let me work from home a little more than normal and I had already planned a week off before we moved them in. Rylee had just started kindergarten and I was looking forward to this staycation to finally put EVERYTHING in a place in the house, as the messiest parts of construction were over. The boxes are still in the basement, if you were wondering.
I figured between my flexible schedule and the time off we had, we could get Jade a job, teach her to drive and secure a place to live within 3-4 weeks, tops. I’m laughing at myself even as I type that.
The job coaching program in Ohio is great. It’s a service for individuals up to 24 years old to earn work and college credits and it makes them eligible for cash assistance. They get free transportation to all their interviews, job fairs, etc. and they get a voucher for childcare to complete the program. All Jade had to do was follow the program outlined by her coach, apply for jobs, take some online assessments and she’d have money in hand and hopefully a job to follow. She and I walked through what jobs she might be capable of or interested in, and decided to apply at McDonalds.
I’m a very patient person. I was never patient until I had Rylee, but my best friend tells me all the time it’s a good quality of mine now. Applying for McDonald’s should take about 15 minutes, in fact I think you can even send a text to apply now. We finished the application in an hour and fifteen minutes, but hey, it was done. The phone (mine because she didn’t have one) rang later asking if she could come in for an interview. She didn’t cover the phone when she asked me if that would be ok for me and I made a mental note to review phone etiquette. I was elated and she smiled a little! You hear so many success stories, “started at the bottom, now they’re here” and I was sure that was going to be Jade. Well, maybe at this point I wasn’t so sure, but I thought she’d at least get a paycheck.
D coached and coached her on the interview process. Asked her questions, helped her fill out an online questionnaire, all the things. She showered before the interview and when she came upstairs she was wearing the same faded band t shirt she had worn before the shower. Her hair was wet, pulled back into a bun and her flip flops were falling apart at the seams.
Here’s what I’m not good at: confrontation or awkward conversations. I used to be the queen of the arguments and calling people out back in the day, but another thing parenting has done to me, turned me into a bit of a doormat and a softie.
“I can’t let her go to an interview like that,” I thought to myself. I remembered what Michelle had said to me and the advice I’d gotten from Connie at Rustic Hope, “Help her gain some confidence and make her be responsible”.
“Hey Jade, since it’s in a restaurant, maybe you should wear some closed-toe shoes and it might be cold in there so maybe grab a sweater or a jacket,” I said. Total cop out, it was September and 90 degrees, but I’d try harder next time. She grabbed a plain blue men’s hoodie. She let me know flip flops were the only shoes she had. A friend of ours sent a pair of used tennis shoes the next day to get her through until we could go shopping; I hope she knows I’m grateful.
D took her to the interview and I stayed back with Michael. His expression the minute they walked in the door told me she wasn’t going to get the job.
“How did it go?” I asked, sounding overly peppy I’m sure.
“Fine. They asked me why I wanted to work there and I said, ‘ cuz I need a job’ and they asked why I left my last job and I told em, ‘ cuz the people I was living with kept telling me to come home to get my son’,” Jade replied. Face smack emoji in real life.
Back to square one. My first feeling of disappointment. D and me, with successful retail careers, having spent years interviewing for jobs and talking to candidates ourselves, couldn’t get the girl a job at McDonalds. Another realization of how hard this was going to be. She’s not a child and I wasn’t her mom. I couldn’t make her do anything and I certainly couldn’t go to job interviews for her. We’d run into situations like this countless times in the month she was with us.
I remember sitting across from a girl I went to high school with at the pediatrician’s office with Jade in the early weeks. I wondered how odd she had to think it was that I was there with a girl and her baby, whom she knew weren’t related to me, but I was starting to get used to telling people “we’re sheltering a mom and her baby”. People think that’s weird enough, they don’t ask follow-up questions, they just assume you’ve lost your mind and move on.
I did all the talking for Jade, I asked questions to the pediatrician and shared Michael’s symptoms. At the WIC office and with the job coach I signed paperwork to be allowed into the room with her. I took all the notes, wrote down all the dates. Whenever we left an appointment, I’d debrief with her at the kitchen counter. I’d have her find her planner that Michelle had given her, but she’d lose the planner the next day. We’d write down a to do list of simple tasks: schedule a ride, fill out a job application, give Michael his medicine, write in a journal. She’d interrupt me wanting to show me a drawing or tell me a story. She wasn’t understanding the desperation of her situation.
I’d tend to my own tasks throughout the day and she’d never ask to use the phone or even the computer to complete her list. I’d hear Twilight or High School Musical playing on the TV in the basement. I’d go downstairs and Michael would be parked in front of the TV while she laid on the side of the bed watching it with him. She’d come upstairs and eat dinner that I served her, the meals I was supposed to be teaching her to cook and making her responsible for cleaning up. She’d carry her laundry downstairs that I had washed and I’d wash all the baby bottles. I wasn’t holding up my end of the bargain. I was supposed to be equipping her and I was enabling her. Being compassionate isn’t about a hand out. Sometimes, the best way you can show someone love is to push them and push them hard.
The greatest regret I have is that I didn’t show her tougher love while she was here. My heart was breaking so much for her and Michael that I just wanted to make their life easier. Each visit our caseworker would hammer the message home to her. She had to start taking initiative or she was in danger of losing her son. She needed a job and a permanent roof over her head. She needed a mental health evaluation and she had to work at it with our support, but she had to take charge. I gradually started letting her fail. She wouldn’t check the boxes from her case plan. I knew I was coming to the end of the road caring for her, but I wasn’t going to put her on the street either.
For the last year I’ve wrestled with a lot of “what ifs”. What if I’d have made her apply for one more job? Made her walk to an appointment instead of driving her there so she’d have to show initiative, dropped her off at the store to use the WIC. What if I’d have forced her to go to the job center every day and not watched Michael while she did it? I hope now that I played my part, that I showed the love I could in the best way I knew how. Sometimes I blame myself for her losing custody of him. It’s easy to do. Had I not moved her in, I wouldn’t have her son. But then again, had I not moved her in, I wouldn’t have my son and he wouldn’t have his family. I’ll trust that the latter is God’s work in this, not mine.