Fictive

"Little puppet made of pine, awake. The gift of life is thine."
-The Blue Fairy, Pinocchio

For the longest time, there hasn't really been a proper, legal name for what Adam and I are in relation to the kids. We're still caught in limbo. A little more than foster parents, a little less than "real" ones, "Adoptive Resource" was the name given to us the first time we popped up on the DFS paperwork radar. As in, "You're not exactly fosters, but they're not going anywhere else, so we'll call you a resource. Not parents yet, but a resource, anyway. Keep pining, little wooden heads."

Being a licensed foster parent in Nevada gets you a nifty benefit that would have made Geppetto stand up and take notice. $680 per month, per child. $775 a month if the kids are teens.

However, Adam and I are not licensed foster parents, so we get jack...a/k/a alla da work and nunna da check.

In order to get licensed foster parent status and that vitally important subsidy (which believe me, would have been nice all these months shlepping the kids from one end of the occupational therapy universe to the other), prospective foster parents have to complete 10 weeks of training classes taught by our well-meaning but pokey-slow friends at the Department of Family Services.

But when Adam and I entered the fray in April of last year, we were told by our adoption recruiter (after we had already fallen fully in love with J1 and J2), we should not take the ten weeks of classes that would give us full foster parent status and entitle us to financial assistance. In fact, he told us, it was imperitive that J1 and J2 be moved into a forever family now, so if we delayed the process while we took ten weeks of classes, we would likely lose them forever.

So, as they say...tough beans.

It was an easy choice, really. As useful as a monthly stipend would have been - Adam and I are a one-income family, and not a large one at that - when it came down to having kids with financial aid, or just having kids, it was no contest. We were advised to take no classes and get no subsidy, and in return we got two wonderful children. Dollars or not, I wouldn't change a thing. The urgency of the kids' situation and the setup of what I've gruntingly come to regard as "The System" were, as always, ill-suited to help us, but I still wouldn't trade it for a monthly assistance check. J1 and J2 are worth every hard-earned penny we scramble for. Other people may do this for the money, but for us, broke or not, these kids are their own reward.

Fast forward seven, eight months. Even though our adoption is still far from finalized (who knows what paperwork lurks in the hearts of men), we've at least had the kids in our home long enough to be classified as something new and up a notch (I think). Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to announce, we are now classified as "fictive kin."

Fictive. Sweet.

Give us a hand, U.S. Legal-dot-com.

"Fictive Kin is a term used to refer to individuals that are unrelated by either birth or marriage, but have an emotionally significant relationship with another individual that would take on the characteristics of a family relationship."

Wow. "The characteristics of a family relationship?"

How generous.

After 250 days of dual special needs, 98 therapy sessions, 29 doctor visits and a partridge in a pear tree, nice of them to cut us such flattering slack. I'll remember that the next time I'm comforting J1 through a 104 fever or washing J2's poopy underdrawers between his week's three therapy appointments. I'm not quite real yet, but woo hoo, at least I'm fictive. Nothing says "ego boost" like the legal terminology of the adoption process. Stamp the words "faux de dad" on my head, load me up with iron pyrite, and everything's coming up roses.

The good news, however, is that "fictive kin" finally allows us to become licensed foster parents, and (hopefully, please God, make it so), be entitled to at least part of that mysterious, long-withheld financial subsidy. That would go a long way in improving everyone's care and comfort and taking some of the stress off those "ends-meet" items that regularly rock the household budget. You should see this boy go through school pants.

Because we've lived with J1 and J2 long enough now to be considered kin, fictive though we stiill may be, we're now allowed to take the County's "kinship classes," which are the same classes family members would take to get licensed if they were beginning to raise the child of a relative. Example...your sister goes off on a nine-week tooter and leaves baby Bobby peeing in his crib, you toss your name in the ring as next of kin, take the classes, get your license, and you're provided with assistance to raise him.

So, Adam and I are now officially fictive kin, and when our classes are over at the end of February -- meaty, three-hour sessions that engulf our Monday nights -- we'll finally be licensed foster parents. Well, licensed for J1 and J2, anyway. We still wouldn't be licensed for any other kids, any more than you'd be licensed for anyone other than your sister's baby Bobby, may he pee in peace. For that, you'd need the other 10 weeks of classes. You know. The ones they told us not to take in the first place.

Yeah. I know. It makes my head spin too.

Anyway, kinship classes are where we've been having our date nights these past few Mondays, and I have to tell you as someone who's cynical as they come when DFS says "hey, this'll be good for you," we are actually enjoying these classes immensely. The two teachers remind us a little of the Sweeney Sisters from Saturday Night Live (read, "Clang, Clang, Clang Went the Trolley" and all the bantering bells and whistles that go with it), but it turns out they're enormously kind and very effective at delivering a mountain of curriculum packed into monster Monday nights, and they still manage to keep everyone awake, alert, fresh, and heard.

Mostly, it's just good to sit in a room with other kin, fictive and birth-related, who are going through some of the same issues we've gone through. Some of them just starting out. Some of them are as worn and jaded with the system as we've become. And many, quite frankly, make our experiences look like a walk in the park. But we're all together, crammed in a classroom that's way too small but full of hope, because we love our kids, because someone, somewhere went horribly wrong, and we all stepped in to pick up the pieces. That's a network you can't find elsewhere for all the money in the world, and kudos to DFS for offering it.

It's good to learn about the way children grieve. To know our kids aren't alone. It's good to learn about defiance, and adjustment, and the myriad of problems and character traits foster kids share. The issues I thought, through my own exhaustion, must be exclusive to J1 and J2, turn out to ring universal throughout that classroom. And that's enormously relieving.

It's good, mostly, to feel like we're not the only ones going through this. That we all have ups and downs. Great parenting moments and monumental jack-assery. There's no real way to call it training, because God knows that baptism-by fire is already well-underway for I-mean-everybody in that room, but it's good to be in a class with same-place peers and sympethetic ears, if only once a week, three hours a night. Strength in numbers. You are not alone. Sing it with me, brothers. Sing it with me, sisters.

So, there's your update for January. Dad and Daddy, fictive kin, reporting for duty.

Pinocchio: I can move!
(Covers his mouth in astonishment)
Pinocchio: I can talk!
(Gets up)
Pinocchio: I can walk!
(Stumbles and falls)
The Blue Fairy: Yes, Pinocchio, I`ve given you life.
Pinocchio: Why?
The Blue Fairy: Because tonight, Gepetto wished for a real boy.
Pinocchio: Am I a real boy?
The Blue Fairy: No, Pinocchio. To make Gepetto's wish come true will be entirely up to you.
Pinocchio: Up to me?
The Blue Fairy: Prove yourself brave, truthful and unselfish, and someday you will be a real boy.
Pinocchio: A real boy!
Jiminy Cricket: That won't be easy.

Jiminy Cricket, you've got that right.