I Didn't Know If I Was Ready For Kids. Then I Became A Single Foster Dad At 27.

I always knew I wanted kids ― but I never imagined that at 28, I would end up adopting my foster son one week before Father’s Day.

The path to this decision started three years earlier when, at age 25, my marriage fell apart. (I met my husband at 20 and we got married at 23; I’ve always been the all-in type.) But in the aftermath of our divorce, the clarity I’d felt about my life and my future, including how or when I’d become a parent, was lost.

My mom and aunt both went through the foster system, and from their stories, I knew how impactful foster parents can be, for better and worse, no matter how short or long the placement. I majored in early childhood development, and I spent two years at a nonprofit dedicated to stopping child abuse and neglect by providing temporary care for children and families in crisis. I stepped away from that very stressful role halfway through the pandemic, but then quickly missed having kids in my life. The truth was, I wanted to keep making a difference.

Foster parenting seemed like the perfect choice. With my education and work experience, plus my love of kids, I had the background, skills and mindset to be useful, even if I wasn’t quite ready for permanent parenthood.

I took the plunge and filled out the foster care application on my phone late one night, in the middle of a bitter Minnesota winter. Over the next few months, I worked my way through all the paperwork and trainings.

Being young, single and gay, my choice to actively pursue parenthood (even if only temporary parenthood) made me an outlier in my friend group. Many of my friends are, if not actively eschewing parenthood, at least neutral or ambivalent about children. Some were pretty skeptical of my plan to foster, wondering about things like my one-bedroom open-concept condo or my inability to properly cook for myself, let alone a child. Others were excited and supportive of my decision.

Neither of these reactions surprised me. Nor did the way that being young, single and gay also made me an outlier in the foster parent community. Most of my foster parent trainings were filled with older married straight couples who were already parents. It didn’t necessarily feel like my community, but I was undeterred.

I felt certain that becoming a foster parent was what I was supposed to do. As my licensure home inspection approached, I even bought a portable crib I could fold and store in a closet.

During the home inspection for foster care, the licensing worker went over the basics of safety checks, my background, the age range and number of kids I would be open to fostering, and whether I was interested in adoption. I was not. I explained that for me, fostering was really about providing temporary support, helping where I could. 

My case worker suggested I put “maybe” on the form instead of “no,” since I might be ruled out of certain placements otherwise. Besides, he said, I could always make that decision down the line. My license cleared quickly, and all that was left to do was wait.

Two months later, I got the call about my first foster placement. When I saw a call from an unknown number, I ignored it. The social worker left a message explaining they were looking for immediate placement for a 21-month-old boy, Z, and that I should give her a call back if I was available. The baby needed a home for a few weeks, she said. Maybe up to three months. My whole body went numb.

Now that it was real, I had no idea if I was ready. The idea had seemed appealing in theory, but could I actually take on this level of responsibility? I called the social worker back and said yes, despite my anxiety. Then I spent the next 48 hours frantically ordering what I thought I might need from Amazon and Target: diapers, board books, blackout curtains for my giant east-facing bedroom windows. 

Two days after I turned 27, I drove across the city and met my new foster son Z for the first time. After buckling him into the car seat, I drove straight to the only place I could imagine going: my mom’s house. She and my stepdad were waiting for us on the porch. Later we went to the park, and I fed Z mac and cheese and read him ”Pajama Time” and put him to sleep for the first time in that portable folding crib I’d picked up months earlier.

I had no idea I would be repeating these basic activities every night for the next two years.

The first weeks were a blur. Every night was punctuated by Z’s screams and night terrors. Every day was filled with an endless list of tasks ― calling to find openings at day care, arranging screenings and intakes, navigating visitation schedules. I was tired in a way I’d never known before. 

Still, at day care pickup when he’d dash across the room to leap into my arms ― delighted and still a bit surprised by the fact that I’d come back ― I knew I was doing something bigger than myself.

I quickly discovered that unlike my years of nannying or working in child care, parenthood shifted my whole life on its axis. Maybe this shouldn’t have been so shocking, but I was genuinely surprised by how all-encompassing parenting really was. I immediately started measuring time differently, chunking my days into two-hour increments: breakfast to snack, snack to lunch, lunch to nap, and so on.

Every choice had to revolve around Z and his needs ― physical and emotional. After all, he was going through a huge adjustment, and it showed. I learned to anticipate how each tiny shift in our routine might affect the delicate balance of his emotional regulation, and, therefore, mine. If I got a babysitter, how might that throw off the next day? Or even the next week?

I learned to consider each outing and activity carefully ― physical environment, number of transitions, level of sensory stimulation, time of day ― and, for a long time, I mostly erred on the side of keeping everything we did as simple as possible. I categorised the world into “safe known environments” (my condo, Z’s day care, the park, my mom’s house), and “everywhere else.”

Providing such a small, simple life for Z made my early days of foster parenting incredibly isolating. And I became much more dependent on my parents and my immediate support network than I’d been in years.

Even though the county said initially that Z’s placement would last only a couple of months, it soon became clear that things weren’t so simple. And as time stretched on, Z began to trust me, and I began to trust myself with him ― and in this way, we built a life together. We shared moments of everyday joy, like belting out “Let it Go” in the car on the way to school or throwing bedtime dance parties. Gradually we expanded our life beyond just our four most familiar places, joining neighbourhood gymnastics and music classes, going on bike adventures to my bouldering gym, and occasionally attempting eating out at restaurants. With each month that passed, more and more things started to feel possible.

But the thing about child protection is that once a case is in motion, everything is ruled by court calendars and progress plans, leaving foster parents with little information about anything between the 90-day case hearings. That means a lot of waiting, asking questions when you can, and riding the waves of uncertainty. All of this is to say that after that first yes, I spent a full year and a half having no idea how long Z would be with me.

The goal of all foster placements is to reunify children with their families whenever possible. Options like transfer of custody or adoption are only considered if it is determined that safe reunification is unlikely. In Z’s case, when it became clear no reunification would come to pass, a new plan emerged that involved Z moving out of state to live with relatives. This process requires cross-state screening and can last for several months, but I was told things could “move very quickly once everything clears.” So, I waited to receive a call saying it was time to help Z pack up all his things and start over.

That call never came, but those months of uncertainty were one of the most challenging periods of my life. I felt like I had no way to plan for anything ― in my own life or his ― and there was nothing I could do about it.

Sometimes while we were putting together an elaborate train track, or reading ”Where the Wild Things Are” for the fifth time in a row, tears would come to me unexpectedly. Z would look up and ask, “What happened, B?” I’d say, “Everybody feels a little sad sometimes, Z. Do you feel sad sometimes?” And he’d nod.

The truth is, I couldn’t explain what I was feeling to Z or anyone. Kin relatives are always prioritised as permanency options, as they should be. I knew that if the out-of-state placement with relatives was cleared, it was probably the best thing for Z. But at the same time, imagining this child who had already built a whole new life from scratch having to do that all over again before his fourth birthday ― there are no words.

I should note here that as a foster parent, you can choose to end a placement at any point. If circumstances change and you are unable to provide care; if the placement isn’t working out; if you have to move; etc. You can also choose not to be considered for “permanency,” which means you can rule yourself out as a prospective adoptive parent. Foster parents can and do make these choices for valid reasons.

But in my case ― even though I didn’t feel totally ready to say goodbye to the freedom of my old life, and even though, at the outset, I’d had no plans of becoming an adoptive parent ― ruling myself out of being Z’s family didn’t feel like an option.

The attachment and trust we had built, and everything I’d learned about life and family through loving him and being his parent, had changed me forever. Permanent parenthood wasn’t my plan, but the only next right thing to do was to say yes to the life that was unfolding in front of me in spite of the life I’d planned.

My road to parenthood wasn’t easy. I sat with more uncertainty than I thought I was capable of bearing. I had to practice radical acceptance and keep choosing compassion ― for myself, for Z, for everyone else, and for this broken world ― even when I didn’t always want to. And that’s made me a better person.

My life now looks nothing like I thought it would three or five years ago. Z’s adoption was finalised a few weeks ago, so I have more certainty than I’ve had in a long time. But I still have no idea what the future will hold. And that’s OK. Because being a dad to Z has taught me that the more you choose to say yes to life on life’s terms, the more you grow.

My nightly routine now is still mostly the same as that first time I put Z to bed. I pick him up from day care. We rush through dinner and a trip to the park, where he rides laps on his bike (he can ride a two-wheeler all by himself now!). Then we go home for a bath and PJs and stories.

Some nights, when he’s finally asleep next to me, I’ll reach for my phone. I’ll scroll Instagram and see friends on vacation, or out at clubs, or announcing their moves abroad. I’ll remember the life I had before, the life of spontaneous solo trips with only a backpack, staying out till 3 a.m., having casual flings. Even just the life of doing nothing all day for no good reason. And sometimes I’ll miss that life.

But then Z will reach for me ― throw his arm around my neck, or curl against my chest ― and I’ll remember what an honour it is to get to love him, to have earned his trust, to be his dad. I’ll remember there is no one else I’d rather be, and I already have everything I always wanted.

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