6:15 a.m. July 10, 2012

     I am starting this blog 5 months after acquiring a license through the State of Arizona to foster children. As chronological suggests it will mostly be in the order of actual events, but I will need to reflect back at some point to show how I arrived here. In the short time I have been fostering many things have come up that differ from a normal life with your own kids. Problems in the system, uncooperative Bio parents, broken promises, and much more.

     I awake my foster son who I call my son, but I need to keep things in perspective here, so do not let the word foster fool you. I treat them all with the same loving care that my biological children have received their entire life. He at age 6 and his sister at age 2 share a room and on most days wake up together. Normally I would take them both to Day Care as there are many activities for them to indulge with other children; however, my little girl is sick, staying home and is still young enough to not quite understand the need to stay in a restful position throughout the day.

     She begins to cry. I bring her the antibiotic prescribed by the emergency room (prior event that I will get to later), a sippy cup of water, and her vitamin. The candy-like vitamin is the highlight of most mornings and calms her. Her brother (my son) is now dressed and ready to have his hair combed. I turn the light off telling my daughter that I love her and to get some rest so she can get better. Yes I say get better as opposed to so you can help your body fight the infection and return to the fun of Day Care. She is two and does not need all that garbled information presently.

     I follow my son to the living room where I help him to put on his shoes, even though he prefers to fight with them, twisting this way and that with his foot half inside his shoe until  it finally slips over it. As he is performing this twist and shout ritual of most mornings I explain to him how easy it is to simply untie the laces and slide the shoe on. Looking at me with a smirk that says, "yeah but this is fun" he continues the dance. Both shoes are on and his socks, which are stretched out now bunch above the Nike's as their failed escape from the torturous twisting leaves them overflowing for the time being.

     The spray bottle that is used to comb his hair, much to my son's dismay, sprinkles the water  across its shortly cut follicles as I guard with my hand any chance of it hitting his eyes. Just water, but you would think I was spraying molten lava on him. He jerks his head forward and to the side with each spray. I ask him how he would like his hair to look today. The answer as on most days is his version of a Mohawk I introduced one morning and he loves it. There are really only three choices: the Mohawk, Spiked, or combed straight forward. I could add a fourth to the list but it is not acceptable by me and my wife. The fourth, his actual favorite, is the bed perm. Yes, he would love it if I let him go to school without touching his hair each and everyday. This will not happen and he makes due with the three choices laid before him. The Mohawk is simply all of the top hair combed into a central peak running from his forehead to the top of his head stopping before it slopes downward. He still has side and back hair all the way around. I did not want anyone to think we actually had his hair cut in traditional Mohawk form as we would have to request this from the mother and the answer would be no. Not that this is a preference of ours, but the integrated form we have derived is very cute on him.

     Now it is 6:45 a.m. and time to leave the house for work and school. I take my 17 year old daughter to work with me when my 20 year old son has other things to do and this is one of those days. The three of us pile into my work truck and are off.