Four days into the new school year a CPS investigator showed up at my door and asked to “chat” for a bit… on the record. Four days earlier, I had picked my youngest up from his afterschool program with a jammed index finger, turning a less than adorable shade of purple and an “Ouchie report.”
That evening we were at the ER for a few hours: x-rays done, diagnosis of a broken finger, a splint and a follow up scheduled. It turns out that the doctor, having looked at my son’s past medical records (from before he was in my care) and the way I had comforted him after he explained what happened, decided to file a report.
I explained to the investigator that this happened at school, miles from where I was at the time. I showed the Ouchie report from the afterschool program explaining what had happened. I showed the email and incident report I had filed with my agency while waiting at the ER. I learned the investigator had already spoken to my son and his older brother who was at the school when this happened. And finally… I explained that I wasn’t telekinetic and couldn’t possibly have done this to my son while he was at school. I realized that this was just the inevitable life of a foster parent.
When I became a foster parent I wanted to help kids who were in their darkest moments. None of us really expect the 9pm emails asking for the after visit summary from a doctor appointment three months earlier. Also the quarterly possessions report. Oh and also the caseworker wants to stop by after school tomorrow for a quick check in. So Sunday nights were more about updating my calendar and tagging emails; less about catching up on Bake Off. And yes, some of this was irrational (no one was going to prevent my foster son from getting back on the plane with us on the way home from a winter trip), but when it came to foster care, I knew the irrational was always lurking.
So I started building myself a system. A place for organizing visit logs and behavioral notes. A place to store medical records, agency emails, and the Ouchie reports. Because the next time the agency had questions, or an investigator wanted to “chat,” I wanted to be able to send them on their way in 20 minutes with everything they needed. And still have time to get dinner on the stove. I called it Homeward.
(Oh, and by the way, about 90 days later, I received a letter making clear that I was no longer a “suspect” in my son’s case and that the case was closed. When I mentioned it to my son he looked at me dumbfounded. Because he forgot all about it. The specialist had taken one look at the x-rays, taken the splint off, and declared the finger was never broken. Maybe a bit jammed. He had been misdiagnosed all along.)
