Happy Mother's Day

Over the past 39 years, my family and I have opened our hearts and home to countless children through foster care. Some of those stories are filled with laughter, milestones, and unforgettable joy. Others are marked by heartache, hardship, and difficult choices.

Why Share These Stories?
Because foster care is real. It's not always picture-perfect, and it rarely follows a script. But it's worth it. Through the good and the bad, we've seen children grow, heal, and find hope, and we've grown with them.

What You Can Expect in This Section:

• Honest stories from our foster care journey
• The beauty and heartbreak of reunification 
• Challenges raising teens with trauma 
• Moments of connection with children who needed to know they were loved 
• Lessons we've learned—some the hard way 
• And encouragement for those thinking, “Could I do this too?”
   

Foster care isn’t easy. But it changes lives—including yours.

My 100 lb. Toddler Who Slept Sitting Up

Category: Real Life Stories  Tags: foster care trauma, toddler neglect, healing journey, real foster stories, foster parenting challenges

In our years of fostering, there are some children who leave an imprint so deep, you carry their story with you forever. One of those children came to us as a three-year-old boy, but not in the way most would imagine a toddler. He weighed over 100 pounds. At just three years old, he wore a size 10 in clothing. He had never received proper nutrition, and his young body was already struggling under the weight of extreme neglect. We worked with doctors, nutritionists, and therapists. Slowly, with small changes to his meals and routines, his weight began to shift toward a healthier range. We celebrated every pound lost like it was a mile gained toward healing.  But what broke our heart even more wasn’t just the physical signs, it was how he slept. He didn’t know how to lay down. This little boy had never slept in a bed before. The first night he was with us, I tucked him in gently, but he sat straight up, wide-eyed, silent, and confused. He didn’t cry. He didn’t ask questions. He just sat there, as if waiting for something else to happen. That first week, we learned that he would only fall asleep sitting up.

He had spent his life sleeping upright, usually in places no child should find rest—in corners, car seats, or wherever he was left. It took months of patience, love, and routine. At night, we read books. We hummed lullabies. We reassured him, night after night, that he was safe. One night, a few months into into our journey, he laid down all by himself. It was quiet and gentle, no fanfare. But it was one of the most powerful moments of my life. He snuggled his stuffed animal and finally allowed himself to sleep lying down like the child he truly was.

This is the reality of foster care. Behind every intake call is a story we won’t fully understand until the child arrives. There are physical wounds. Emotional scars. Behavioral challenges. But there’s also hope. That little boy didn’t just lose weight he gained trust. He gained safety. He gained the knowledge that someone would show up for him, night after night, until the world didn’t feel so scary anymore.  Not every story is easy. Not every child is ready to trust. But every single one deserves the chance to learn what safety feels like. This little boy did. And we were honored to help him take that first step. 

In the end, about a year later, we found an adoptive home for him where we would go to visit with him. His parents were overjoyed with their new son and he more than thrived in his new environment and excelled in school.  He is now a 30 year old successful executive in the music industry! SUCCESS!

The Never-Ending Return of Babysitters ~OR~ Eight Kids, Three Ducks, One Dog, and Zero Babysitters Remaining

Some families had scrapbooks.
We had police reports.
And the babysitters?
They never stood a chance.

Babysitters came and went faster than pizza delivery.
One by one, they showed up with optimism and left with thousand-yard stares, survivors of a battle they never signed up for.

One of our foster sons, bless his heart, took it upon himself to guarantee no babysitter would ever survive more than a single shift.
His strategies were the stuff of legend:

• Swallowing live frogs in the backyard, visible through the kitchen window, while the younger kids screamed bloody murder inside. 
• Crafting homemade fire torches with aerosol cans, parading through the house like a pint-sized pyromaniac. 
• Shoplifting a BB gun from Walmart and orchestrating a window-shooting spree down the block with his equally fearless friends.
  (Walmart, in an impressive display of corporate wisdom, refused to accept the BB gun’s return.) 

We even tried recruiting babysitters from our church, sweet young souls, armed with faith and innocence.
One girl lasted exactly three hours before calling it quits with a trembling apology:
"Please... don't ever call me again."
We didn’t. (Last we heard, she moved three towns over.)

Another brave sitter put the kids to bed, breathing a sigh of relief, only to find four of them missing twenty minutes later, having launched a full-scale escape through the first and second-story windows.
Cue the frantic call to us during dinner, neighbors switching on porch lights, and the police, who, at this point, practically had their own coffee mugs at our house.

The Fire Department Chronicles

The fire department got to know us pretty well, too.
One afternoon, fire rockets were launched into the trees, an impromptu backyard fireworks show that ended in flashing lights and fire hoses.
Another morning, a well-intentioned daughter tried to make breakfast, set off every fire alarm in the house, and invited another visit from our town’s finest.
Not to be outdone, a second daughter attempted to take a relaxing bath — complete with a scented candle,  and absentmindedly threw a towel on top of the lit candle.
While we enjoyed a barbecue outside, the firemen stormed the front door and raced upstairs to put out the mini inferno just in time.

The Animal Circus

Did I mention we also had eight kids, three ducks, and a dog?
Because chaos alone wasn’t quite enough — we needed a farm.

One unforgettable day, my son decided to toss a baby chick to his little brother — forgetting we also had a dog with an excellent sense of opportunity.
The dog caught the poor chick mid-air.
Moments later, my youngest came barreling down the stairs, cradling the tiny, limp chick with tears in his eyes:
"Mommy, can you fix him?"
(It broke my heart more than I can say. We did everything we could, but miracles have their limits.)

The Neighborhood Watch

Meanwhile, the neighbors watched it all unfold like live theater.
At all hours, I’d get calls:
"Uh, I think you’re missing a couple of kids again. We saw them climbing out the windows."
At some point, it just became part of the neighborhood charm.

Lessons Learned

Yes, these were serious events.
Yes, there were moments of panic, heartbreak, frustration, and exhaustion.
But with time, they became the stories we tell over coffee, over dinner, and over late-night calls with old friends.
Proof that we survived what felt unsurvivable.
Proof that love can thrive even in the messiest, most chaotic places.

We may have lost every babysitter who crossed our threshold, but we never lost our humor, our hope, or each other.

And honestly, that's the kind of victory no babysitter could ever understand anyway.

Have any wild babysitter survival stories of your own? I'd love to hear them in the comments!
(Or: Stay tuned for more Real Talk from the front lines of foster parenting!)

“Are They All Yours?” – The Question That Never Ends

By Kathie Anderson

Over the years, I’ve truly lost count of how many times a stranger has stopped me, whether in a grocery store, restaurant, or parking lot—to ask me, often loudly and right in front of the children, “Are they all yours?”

In the beginning, I would just smile politely and nod. I understood their curiosity. I get it seeing a large group of children with one adult, especially when the children don’t all look alike, makes people wonder. But as time went on, the questions started to become more personal and more intrusive. Some people asked how many were “real” or “mine biologically.” Others pried into their histories, or mine, with no filter and no thought to the little ears listening.

So I learned to find a new kind of answer. A response that was kind—but firm. One that would make people think before asking again.

Now, when someone leans in with that all-too-familiar question, I smile and say,

“They may not all look alike, but they all belong here. They’re all mine—by love and love doesn’t require matching faces—just an open heart.”

Or sometimes, I offer this:

“Let’s just say I’m the CEO of Chaos and Cuddles.” 

“Not all mine, but all meant to be here.”

“They may not have my eyes, but they definitely have my heart.”

I want people to understand that love builds a family—not matching last names or shared DNA. And I also want to protect my children’s dignity. They don’t need to hear their family being dissected in public like a curiosity on display.

So yes—every single one of them is mine. In all the ways that matter.

Some responses other foster parents that have shared with me...

• “Nope, I just collect them like coffee mugs—can’t stop at one!” 
• “Only on days that end in Y.” 
• “Well, they eat my food, wear my socks, and call me Mom… so I guess that’s a yes!” 
• “They sure are when someone’s crying or needs money!” 
• “Biologically? No. Emotionally? Fully invested.” 
• “Some I gave birth to, some I was blessed with. Either way, my house is full and my snack cabinet is empty.” 
• “No, but apparently my heart didn’t read the fine print on ‘limit 2.’” 

What are your ways to respond to these questions by random people?

 "The Boy Who Refused to Unpack"

He came through our front door with nothing but a black trash bag and the weight of the world on his shoulders.

He was 14, tall for his age, and guarded in a way that told me more than any case file ever could. No suitcase. No duffel. Just that torn-up trash bag—symbolic of how the system had treated him: temporary, disposable, packed up and moved from one place to the next without warning or explanation.

When I showed him to his room, I tried to make it warm, welcoming. A soft bed, clean clothes in the drawer, even a little sign with his name written on it. He just stood there silently and dropped the bag in the corner like he didn’t plan to stay long enough to hang up a single shirt. He sat on the bed, back straight, eyes low.

I said, “Take your time. This is your space now.”
He mumbled, “I’m not staying.”

He meant it. And I understood.

This boy had already been through six placements in just under two years. In a few homes, he was too quiet. In others, he was too angry. One home said he was disrespectful. Another said he was too much of a loner. Truth was, no one really tried to understand him. They saw the behaviors—but not the pain behind them.

He’d been shuffled, labeled, and removed—often for acting out in the only way he knew how: shutting down, isolating, lashing out when he felt too vulnerable. He didn’t trust foster parents, and why should he? Every time he started to get close, they gave up on him. Every time he unpacked, someone told him it was time to go.

So this time, he didn’t bother.

For two weeks, that black trash bag stayed zipped in the corner of the room like a symbol of his trauma. His belongings remained inside it—his few worn clothes, a comic book, a broken watch from his mom, and a pair of earbuds with only one side that worked. It was like he needed it there to remind himself not to get too comfortable. Not to hope.

He went through the motions: school, dinner, sleep. He barely spoke. Ate quickly. Never asked for seconds. Didn’t argue, didn’t smile. He was polite, but distant. Just passing through.

Every so often, I’d say gently, “Let me know if you want help putting anything away.”
He always replied, “I’m not staying.”
But I kept saying, “That’s okay. We’re just glad you’re here.”

I didn’t push him to talk about his feelings. I didn’t pepper him with questions. I just showed up—in small ways. A pair of socks folded neatly on his bed. His favorite snack tucked in the pantry. A good-night nod. A “hope today was okay” note on the kitchen counter.

And then—on a Friday night, after just two weeks—I came home and something had changed.

The room was no longer just a room. It was his.

The trash bag was gone.

Clothes were in drawers. A basketball jersey was hanging over the chair. He’d pinned posters to the wall—LeBron James, Marvel heroes, a photo of his middle school team from two years back. His comic book sat open on the nightstand. The broken watch was resting gently beside it.

He didn’t say anything about it. I didn’t make a big deal. I just poked my head in and said, “Looks good in here.”

He shrugged. But I saw it—the look. That flicker of peace. That tiny, guarded, maybe-this-time-will-be-different kind of look.

I didn’t ask what changed his mind. I didn’t need to.

He had started to believe that maybe—just maybe—this was a place where he could unpack without fear. A place where people didn’t just tolerate him until he messed up. A place where someone saw the pain behind the silence.

It wasn’t about the clothes in the drawer.

It was about being seen. Being safe. Being wanted.

And for the first time in a long time… he let himself believe it.

 Anger Isn’t the Enemy -
“Why did they pick drugs over us?”

When they arrived—two boys and two girls—they came in like a tidal wave of emotion.

They were angry. At everything. At everyone.

They screamed.
They cursed.
They slammed doors hard enough to rattle the windows.

It was like they had built walls made of fire around themselves, daring anyone to get too close.

The oldest, a girl just barely 12, stood out immediately—not just for her anger, but for her weariness. It was in her eyes, in the way she moved like she was already 40. She barked orders at her siblings like a drill sergeant. “Don’t forget your stuff. Don’t talk back. Don’t make a mess.”

At first, I thought she was just bossy. But I soon realized she wasn’t trying to control them—she was trying to protect them.

She had been the step-in mom for years. While both parents were lost to addiction, it was this girl—this child—who made sure her siblings were clothed, fed, and alive. She scavenged food from anywhere she could: school lunches, corner store leftovers, and even meals from a local church. I later learned she’d been going into Sunday evening dinners at the church basement just so they wouldn’t go to bed hungry.

Her childhood had been traded for survival.

And now, in my house, where there was food in the fridge and clean blankets on the beds, she didn’t know how to stop surviving. She didn’t know how to let go.

One night, after a particularly explosive argument over something small—someone ate the last cookie—she sat alone on the stairs, arms wrapped tightly around her knees, and finally broke down.

Through choked sobs, she whispered,
“Why did they pick drugs over us?”

That one question cut through all the noise, all the behaviors, and all the pain.
It wasn’t rebellion.
It wasn’t disrespect.
It was grief.
It was heartbreak.

And suddenly, I understood.

This girl wasn’t just mad—she was mourning. Mourning the parents who were physically alive but emotionally unreachable. Mourning the childhood she never got to have. Mourning a future she wasn't sure she could believe in.

Both of her parents were addicts. As hard as they tried to beat it, they couldn’t. I worked with them as much as I could—meeting them at shopping centers, parks, and hosting a few small family events at our house. The door was always open if they were clean. And for a while, they truly tried.

But addiction is a cruel disease.

Just before Christmas one year, their mother passed away. The pain in the children’s eyes that day was indescribable—even though they hadn’t lived with her in a long time, she was still mom. Her death left a scar that may never fully fade.

Their dad tried to get clean after that. He came close. I think, in some ways, losing her woke something up in him. But ultimately, the battle was too big. He passed away a few years later—after he gave us his blessing to adopt his kids.

“I know you’ll do right by them,” he told me. “You already are.”

Each of the children has walked a different path since then. Some have stumbled. Some have soared. They’ve all carried pieces of their story in different ways, but one thing remains true:

We are so proud of them all.

Because they didn’t choose this pain.
But they kept going.
Even angry. Even afraid.
Even after loss.

And I’ll never forget what that young girl taught me, crying on my stairs:

Anger isn’t the enemy.
It’s the grief talking.
And when you stop reacting to the noise—and start responding to the wound—healing becomes possible.

Because sometimes, the greatest thing you can do is look past the yelling, the slammed doors, and the silence—and see the child who just needs someone to stay.

Even in the storm… especially in the storm.