A Good Kid

(So, I'm sharing this longer piece because I didn't do the work last night! Hope it's not too long.  Rosie's duct tape story brought it to mind)

Stephen Nottingham was our first foster child.  He came to us newlyweds because he needed a place and my mother’s foster home was full. He was nine years old and his teacher had recommended he be placed beyond his own home in a more therapeutic situation. I had teaching experience, loved kids and was assured it would be a placement for a short time, perhaps no longer than my new husband’s Navy training and deployment. Two years. The $300 a month would be a nice addition to my salary and Jon’s meager stipend.

We first met his teacher at the Los Gatos school where she was tutoring him. “He’s a hyperactive child, very smart, and he needs lots of activity.” No problem, I was thinking. We lived out of town on a lake and there were many places to hike and run and be a kid. We had horses and a dog and we rented a small two bedroom cabin in a gated community. Lots to do.

“His folks have had a lot of trouble with him, but I think he just needs a different parenting style,” she said with confidence and the wisdom of her many years of teaching. She was also my mother’s best friend, and I was pleased she considered Jon and me appropriate for the task.  We were both in a Master’s Program at Santa Clara University and children with problems were the kinds of kids we were studying. It was a perfect placement.

We met Steve in his home in Los Gatos. He was exactly as advertised! Small and wiry, it was hard to see how this little nine-year-old could be a problem child. Sure he talked fast and seemed overly curious, almost jumpy, with a high nervous laugh and an impish quality.  He was blond, good-looking and with the slightly pinched features of a child of an alcoholic. His mother confided to us he was adopted, and his real mother was a movie star, and he looked just like her! Didn’t we agree? Well, there were many short, blond, and cute female stars with recognizable names, but we never figured out who she was.

His home was upscale, located in a toney foothill location in an affluent community. It had lovely views and furnishings. In fact, it was hard to imagine how these people of means could not handle a little boy. Surely, they would have access to whatever that child needed.  Well, it turned out what that child needed was us!

As we were shown around their home each door we came to had a hook lock at the top beyond Stevie’s reach. His mother explained it was their solution to his insatiable trouble-making. At each room the hook was unlocked, the door opened, and we were ushered in. Little Stevie greeted each new opening with manic delight, rushing past us and throwing himself with a wild abandon. Jumping, running, opening drawers, searching closets, he was a frenetic imp.  His parents ran after, and finally, his dad took him away while his mother and I continued to talk. She was beside herself with nervous anxiety, she confided.

“He’s a monster! I have no peace. He’s after me every second, demanding attention. I have to watch him or he will destroy everything. I have no time-off! Please take him so I can get some rest.  I’m afraid I’m going crazy!” And, she sounded as if she were.  What had we gotten into?

Steve came to our cabin, was dropped off with his suitcase and a box of toys which seemed to hold no interest for him.  His interest instead was focused on our house.  There were no locks on our doors.  Our cabinets needed no keys.  Everything we had was accessible.  And, access it, he did! That first day he went through everything. All of our newly combined childhood mementos, high school memorabilia, wedding presents, clothing and equipment, was touched, inspected, examined, taken out and put back in its place. His focus was intense, his energy boundless.

On the second day he put his room together. Whatever he wanted to do to establish his own domain we allowed. We helped when he wanted it and he kept checking to see if he could do… whatever. We said ‘yes’ every time he asked.  That was our strategy.  We had discussed how we would manage this little guy who had been denied for so long and that is what we had decided to do.

By the third day we noticed an odd trend. He was taking blame for things. Everything! Oh, sorry! I left the milk on the counter.  Oh!  I spilled water. And, the bottom line was always, what punishment do I get?  Guess I’ll be sent home now, he said, many times.

Jon and I tried to understand what we could do or say to help him. We discussed more interventions and strategies to change his old manipulative habits. By the second week, he was more relaxed, sleeping regular hours, and relatively content. But, he still was overly concerned about being bad! He seemed determined to point out to us how bad a kid he was!  It was as if he needed to show us because we were so naïve we didn’t recognize how ‘bad’ he was.

Jon and I decided that he had always been told he was bad and responsible for the many acts he had been punished for. His perception of himself was as a bad boy. And, he was trying hard to act like one. However, he had probably never been punished for something he didn’t do. So, we decided to give him an unjustified ‘accusation’ to see if he would stand up for himself. Could we get him to a point where he perceived himself as a good boy?

The test came when Jon turned over the garbage can outside and came in and accused Steve of doing it. He admitted it! Interesting… Steve was sent out to pick up the garbage and put it back in the can.  He did it. No protest.

When he came in we talked about what had happened.  We knew he was not responsible for the can being turned over. Jon did it! How did he feel when punished unjustly? Why didn’t he tell us he didn’t do it? He was a good boy. Etc. From that point on we wanted honesty. Could he do that? If not, we couldn’t help him. Yes, he said. We never had any trouble with Stevie from that day on.

About a month later Steve and Jon decided to fly a wooden airplane Jon had had from childhood. As he and Stevie put it together, Jon remembered a part was missing that made it inoperable. It was a little nose cone which held the propeller on the body.  He knew it had been missing since he tried to fly it as a boy. Steve’s eyes lit up.  “I know where it is”, he shouted gleefully, and ran off to a closet. Sure enough, inside a package of odds and ends, inside a little box, beneath a pile of knicknacks he found a little nose cone that fit the propeller. And, the plane flew!

Steve was with us uneventfully for two years after which his parents divorced and he eventually went to Phoenix to live with his dad. He was a good kid. is mother’s mental breakdown precluded her from raising him.