Since when did foster care become punishment for a child? As a foster parent, who loves and takes care of every child that passes through her doors, I take offense.

It would be easier to breastfeed this way.

The cynic in me read this and thought “wow, considering the abysmal state of maternity leave in this country, maybe I should get pregnant, commit a low level crime and then I’d have 18 months to actually spend with my child”. I live in Ohio so I’m part of the way there! On the serious side, I do agree that this is a good program.

my daughter just got sent to marysville she is app. 8 weeks preganat i have her 2 yr old little boy my daughter is almost 21 i worry so much about the baby and will she be eligiable for this program they offer in marysville if someone that has more information can please let me know something i would really appreciate it thank you for taking time to read this and god bless you

either way my tax dollars are going to support these children. i would much rather have it go to programs like this than to foster care. as a mother i can not imagine more incentive to straighten up than not only being held accountable (being incarsarated) but also being forced to take responsability for my child. also having the opportunity to bond with and nurse a child. i believe this should be instituted nationally

in reading about foster care, i have this to say. although there are many loving foster care homes out there, i have had a social worker tell me that within many fostercare homes, are problems, and concerns, and that she deals with it on a daily bases. and she told me that kids are moved around to foster care to fostercare. and never really feel like they are secure and that they are cared about. three of my kids friends whos mother was a drug adict was in the system since they were small. and were in over 20 fostercare homes by the age of 18 and then were told ur aged out good luck, bye.

A personal reflection of a child with an imprisoned mother. . .

It was a typical hot spring day in April in Jacksonville, Florida, in 1987. We had
had our daily 30-minute rain, and the streets were steaming and quickly drying so all the
Bottom children could reconvene to their normal activities: roly-poly, touch football, or
hide-n-go-seek. I was a chubby, gap-toothed, eight-year-old, and my other three siblings
at the time were slender and fit, twelve, ten, and four-year-olds. I was always different
from them. As I was the one “just like my mammy” as I was often reminded whenever
my behavior was not suitable for a little southern A.M.E. Zion church girl, or when I was
acting “like a Phillips.” Whatever this behavior encompassed, I displayed it on a daily
basis. On this particular day, I was to meet my match – someone who would not put up
with my intolerable behavior and ungrateful attitude. This “bad mamma jamma” would
“tear my a– up” because that is what she liked to do. My birth mother, Irene Yvonne
Phillips, or Mean Rene, as the neighborhood, and everyone else who seemed to hold on to their glorious high school days affectionately knew her, was guaranteed to straighten me out.
I remembered when she entered my grandma’s house. Her image was nothing like what I imagined or possibly remembered. She looked nothing like me. In fact, she looked like my older brother and sister, Bardenie and Cardennia. She was a dark almond, petite
figure, standing about 5’7 inches tall; with soft reddish-brown eyes and nappy corn rowed
hair that was 10 years overdue for a perm. Surprisingly, she was pretty, and even more
shocking; she was pregnant! I thought to myself, while making a screw face, “She is not
like me at all,” or more specifically – I am not like her at all.
For days we had been expecting her. Mama Hazel and Uncle Alvin had
encouraged us to clean up and look presentable. The most memorable part of their
behavior was their efforts to get us excited. They told us stories about her, and sometimes
threatened our behavior with the stories. Mama cooked up a big meal, and Alvin gave
Aunt Zelda money to take us shopping for new clothes. Zelda also made sure my hair
was stylishly braided, my sister’s Carefree curl was fresh, and my brothers’ peas were
neatly cut and picked for the early summer. On the day of her arrival, we were to keep
the phone lines free because she would call once she reached the downtown Greyhound
Bus Station, and Alvin would pick her up. I knew when she entered the house because of
my other maternal uncles, Hal and Charles’ warm and enthusiastic greetings. They
laughed and hugged and indirectly beckoned for us to do the same. I do not remember
much of what my siblings’ reactions were; I think for a minute I tuned out my environment. When I was brought back to reality with an inclined baritone pitched
“Traboo!” I went to her and waited for her to hug me. She did. It was tight and
accompanied with a wet kiss that reaped the scent of “Newports in the box” and
peppermint candy. I liked it. I liked it a lot.
This would be the one of many times my mother would come home from prison
or being incarcerated. In fact, this was her third prison release. Her first, and I guess, the
most significant to me, was her sentence to Federal Prison, in 1978, for “3, 6, 9″- three
years, six months, and nine days. The year – 1978- was my birth year, and I, unlike the
rest of my family who brags about being born and bred in Duval County, Florida, was
born in the foreign land of Fort Worth, Texas. I later learned that I was born in a
Methodist hospital that allowed inmates at the Federal Correction Institute of Fort Worth
to deliver on their premises as opposed to the prison grounds. However, I, and those like
me, were denoted from the “normal” infants with a Federal Correction Institute of Fort Worth, Texas, black, ink stamp on the top left hand corner of the back.
Invisibly, the number is still on the top left hand corner of my back. Humorously, my siblings and I often entertained each other with activities exploring our body parts. In a birthmark game, I concluded that everyone in the world must not have a birthmark because I was not born with one. As usual, I was told that I thought I knew it all, and was proven to not know it all because I had once had a birthmark on my back, although it had since faded.
Dazed and remembering my siblings’ firmness, I searched for this “mark” as a
twenty-four-year-old adult. After bringing up the topic to my first caregiver, Aunt Hazell she then informed me of its issuance and significance. I concluded my family must have conjured up a story to satisfy the curiosity of my siblings and inquiries of “nosey niggas” who don’t mind their business.
My mother’s habitual efforts to indulge in unlawful acts resulted in her being
away from her children during most of her early adult life. Ultimately, she was not a
mother, and we were motherless.