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Double the number of kids minding you nearly overnight? What could go wrong? Joe Zavala Saturday Jan 28, 2017 at 2:00 AM Joe Zavala Ashland Daily Tidings @Joe_Zavala99 I had just got off the phone with Ashland police Chief Tighe O’Meara and was waiting for Jackson County’s deputy district attorney to return my call when my phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number and let it go to voicemail, after which I listened to a secretary explain that Brian, the boy who had been dropped off at our house by a Department of Human Services employee roughly four weeks prior, the boy who placed his trust in us, who relied on us, who had no choice but to believe in us,  was now sitting alone in the main office of the elementary school he attends because nobody had shown up to pick him up. It was an early release day, she explained. And they’d like to release him. “Oh shoot, we’ll be right over,” I said. But when I walked into our living room to break the news to my wife, Heather, she was attempting, unsuccessfully, to guide two kicking legs into a pair of jeans while explaining to the screaming child with all the icy composure of an FBI hostage negotiator that yes, sorry, he would definitely be going to a visit today, pants or no, pants preferred. The legs belonged to another boy recently placed into our care, a slight, carrot-topped, headstrong preschooler (Jordan) who looks like he could be the younger brother of the aforementioned red-haired, freckled second-grader, though they’re merely foster brothers for the foreseeable future. In addition to bucking like a frightened mule, Jordan’s waving his arms and swinging his head like a hammer toward the nail of Heather’s jaw. Adding another layer of mayhem to this scene were the cries of Neveah (infant, bald, quick to smile, younger half-sister of Jordan). Neveah was being held by Lily, 7, one of our three biological kids still at home. Looking on, bewildered and fascinated, were Elijah, 9, and Atticus, 5 — our other two — and I. (Full disclosure: names of the foster children in this article have been changed and their ages omitted to protect their privacy). “Do I need to take somebody with me?” I said. “What are you talking about?” she said, grasping at a leg. “Brian. Didn’t you get a call?” “No, what?!?” (an arm whips back). “It’s 1:30.” “So what?” (one leg’s in … no, it’s out). “We were supposed to pick him up at 1. It’s early release day.” Most who read this account will probably doubt this conversation between my wife and I could take place entirely from beginning to end without either of us confronting or even acknowledging the sheer ferocity of Jordan’s display, but it did, because when you care for a child with Jordan’s, uh, temperament, you learn very quickly that if you can’t row the boat and clean the fish at the same time, that particular boat ain’t leaving the dock. That is to say Jordan’s outbursts, while explosive and unpredictable, can only be allowed to disrupt our life, not control it. And that’s for his sake as well as the rest of the family’s. In the end, he was delivered to the DHS visit center on time, Brian was fetched, tears dried, the moon did its thing, and so on. Why would a boy who had begged to see his mom almost every night for two weeks suddenly, after having been told a reunion was imminent, fight tooth and nail to AVOID a visit? Well, our three-day training session, while informative, was not quite equal to a degree in child psychology. In the end, like other foster parents, we’re just making this up as we go along. I’m reminded of how former Oakland Raiders coach John Madden wrapped up his pregame pep talks: “Don’t worry about the horse being blind, just load the wagon.” So yes, the Zavala wagon has left the highway since I wrote about our decision to pursue foster parenting about eight weeks ago. Apparently, when Oregon’s juvenile court judges say there’s a dire need for foster parents, Oregon’s juvenile court judges aren’t messing around. We received our first call from DHS within two weeks of completing our training. Shortly thereafter, Brian walked through our front door wearing a backpack and a foggy stare I still can’t quite read. Next was Jordan, who’s much easier to interpret given his forceful nature and mastery of the word “NO-NO-NO!” He and his sister were pulled from their home not long after I strung lights across the front of our house. How was your Christmas? Before meeting Neveah we were told by a DHS caseworker that Jordan had a baby sister who was staying with another foster family but that the long-term plan was to reunite them. They needed somebody to take both. My one stipulation going in was no more diapers, but I’m no dummy. As soon as my wife got her hands on Neveah during a “test run” weekend I knew the port-a-crib wasn’t going back to the garage any time soon. I was right, of course, despite the fact that Neveah’s arrival meant we could no longer fit into our 2005 Kia Sedona together. Family outings henceforth require two cars. Apparently, you can be a foster parent or an environmentalist, not both. Now, we really have drawn a line. No more. That may sound callous, but consider our home’s vitals: eight people, six of them children ages six months to 9 years, and three of those homeschooled; three bedrooms; one bathroom; 1,100 square feet. Did I mention we have jobs? Did I mention I work from home? Did I mention I have a debilitating disease for which doctors recommend a stress-free living environment and plenty of sleep? I can’t even say those words without laughing, and I can’t even laugh without waking up the baby. During our training, instructors stressed that foster parents must be careful to avoid taking on too much at the expense of their own well being. It’s not hard to imagine a weak marriage imploding like a sinking submarine under the weight of such pressure. But you can’t add a 25th hour to the day, or carry on an adult conversation over a cacophony of yelps. The other day I walked into our bedroom as Heather walked out and could tell by the look on her face that something was up. I sat down at the computer and clicked on the box at the foot of the screen, maximizing the web page she had been looking at only moments before. It was worse than I had feared. I knew she’d been suppressing bizarre urges most would find repulsive but had convinced myself that there was nothing to worry about, that it was, particularly for a woman with her unique interests, perfectly natural. Clearly, I was naïve because splashed across our monitor was the longest, greenest, most obscenely boxy 12-passenger van I had ever laid eyes on, which could be ours for the low, low price of $12,000. As Jordan would say: “NO-NO-NO!” Joe Zavala is a reporter for the Ashland Daily Tidings. Reach him at 541-821-0829 or [email protected]. Follow him on Twitter at @Joe_Zavala99.