A safe spot for troubled families to reconnect
Parents without custody can do supervised visits
In weather so perfect no one would give it a second thought, Amber Hooper centered her 3-year-old daughter on her lap. The two leaned forward at the top of the slide as Hooper counted down.
At “One!” mom and daughter were off, their screams indistinguishable from one another during the few-seconds plunge. The girl hopped to her feet and raced to the ladder, sending wood chips flying. “Mommy, again, again!”
Together they climbed the ladder, Hooper making sure her daughter made it safely to the top.
Two things made this moment stand apart from the millions of similar moments that happen each day.
The first was the woman in black shirt and jeans who observed quietly, her job to monitor events.
The second was the location, at a playground tucked incongruously at the end of a Phoenix alley. Twice a
week, Hooper arrives for a two-hour supervised visit with her two young daughters — time she treasures as a child who grew up without a mom.
Safe spaces for troubled families
The playground is part of Arizonans for Children, an agency that provides safe places for children to see parents who have lost custody because of abuse, neglect or inability to properly care for their kids.
Each day, dozens of parents and children meet in bright, cheery spaces to spend time together as if everything were normal, though nothing is normal at all.
The headquarters of Arizonans for Children, a nondescript two-story building a few miles from downtown Phoenix, is designed to be a light in dark situations. Pastel colors pop from walls and furnishings. Pillows and stuffed animals are scattered about, begging to be hugged.
In one room, toys are scattered as if a toddler typhoon recently went through. Upstairs, pool tables, air hockey and table tennis provide welcome distractions for tweens and teens there to reconnect with parents.
And outside, in the playground, Amber Hooper focused on her daughters, because she could. For almost an hour, they raced and played and went down the slide, Hooper there to catch them should they fall.
The only thing that would fly faster than her daughters was the time.
There was a time when supervised visits occurred in places chosen for convenience, given there were no spaces specifically dedicated to bringing together parent and child.
These fleeting attempts at reconnection often occurred in an office or conference room, the few toys and games a concession rather than a comfort.
In other cases, parents and children would spend an hour or so at a fast-foot restaurant or bowling alley, where attention could ricochet rather than focus on the purpose at hand.
In 2002, Phoenix attorney Kaye McCarthy was working with children who had been removed from their homes. Looking for ways to improve a distressing situation, she eventually put her efforts toward establishing a safe place where children and non-custodial parents could visit, a comfortable spot with a home-sweet-home vibe.
The result was Arizonans for Children, which opened in 2003 with dedicated space inside a downtown Phoenix church. That first room was outfitted with $2 afghans from Goodwill and plenty of understanding.
‘Zero judgment here’
When that space was eventually lost, the agency moved into its own building and later rented space at a Mesa church. While the locations have changed, the philosophy has not.
“There is zero judgment here,” said Laura Pahules, executive director of Arizonans for Children. “Everyone who comes here deserves respect and dignity.”
Pahules knows there are those who believe parents accused of abuse and neglect should not be able to see their children. (Courts believe otherwise.) She understands how people struggle to have sympathy for parents who have lost custody for whatever reason.
But Pahules sees the other side of this equation: the children who are either too young to understand or who are old enough to struggle with the situation.
All involved deserve a place where some good can happen, where happy memories might be made, even if happy endings are not.
As such, staff members and volunteers never ask parents what happened or why. Pahules doesn’t want their attitudes colored by the past.
“There are a lot of people telling parents what they’ve done wrong,” she said. “We’re not going to be those people.”
Twice a week, Amber Hooper hops off the light rail and walks two blocks to that nondescript office building. She checks in at the lobby and waits patiently for her daughters to arrive, ready to spend the next two hours as Mom.
It doesn’t matter that someone looks over her shoulder the entire time. What’s important is that her children know their mom loves them.
Hooper said she doesn’t want her children feeling the way she felt growing up in foster and group homes, bouncing from place to place.
Her mom remained a stranger for most of her life, Hooper said: “I saw her three months ago, the first time since, I don’t know, maybe 1998? It didn’t mean much.”
Those memories, or lack of them, drive her to be the best mom she can be in her own difficult circumstances. The visitation areas at Arizonans for Children go a long way in making her comfortable.
‘Home away from home’
Hooper said she initially met her daughters at the Arizona Department of Child Safety, calling it a dull, unwelcoming place where visits were endured rather than enjoyed.
But at Arizonans for Children, she and her kids are free to explore, whether it’s drawing on one of the many chalkboards or pinballing around the playground.
“It’s like being at home again,” Hooper said. “Home away from home.”
As the kids bounced from one activity to another, Hooper’s monitor followed.
The woman kept Hooper and the girls in sight, though she would fade from Hooper’s consciousness as the mom focused on this precious time with children she sees for four hours a week.
Which is exactly the purpose of the space, though bright rooms alone can’t always deliver on the promise of healing.
Pahules has witnessed many scenes that have broken her heart. They blend into a disheartening mix of unfulfilled
hopes, adding a dose of reality to a space built with healing in mind. One scene quickly springs to mind. “I remember this one boy, maybe he was 6 or so,” Pahules said. “He told his dad, ‘They say you can come home if you stop drinking.’ I can’t forget that.”
The most difficult to accept are the children waiting for parents who will never arrive.
“Happens all too often,” Pahules said. “You just have to accept it or it will drag you down.”
But there are so many other stories, each punctuated with smiles and laughter. Games are played, stories are read, hugs are shared.
They are a typical family, even if just for a few hours.
Anywhere from 700 to 1,000 parents and children visit Arizonans for Children each week, Pahules said.
Some children in foster and group homes are there for the programs the agency offers, from cooking classes to arts and crafts, but most arrive with nothing planned but family time together.For Pahules, the goal is always the same: family reunification. While aides, caseworkers and the legal system will determine the ultimate outcome, she always hopes Arizonans for Children provides a path to a happy ending.
But hope isn’t a substitute for reality. Pahules knows many relationships have far too many wrongs for a situation to be righted.
Even under the most heartbreaking circumstances, Pahules has seen the visitation rooms play a positive role in children’s lives.
“Everyone deserves a place where they’re happy, even if just for a while,” Pahules said. “I’ve spoken to a lot of kids who’ve told me some of their best memories are of visits here. That’s the impact we’re having.”
‘Where did the time go?’
As Hooper took a quick breather, she glanced at her phone, surprised by what she saw.
“Ten forty-five already?” she asked no one. “Where did the time go?”
Her girls were back at the playground after a brief visit inside. The 2-year-old had found a like-aged friend with whom to race tirelessly.
Her 3-year-old, meanwhile, took delight in proving her mastery of the ladder
and slide.
“Mommy, look, look!” she shouted from the top of the slide, her sneakers squealing as she slid toward Earth. She jumped off and raced back to the ladder, Hooper’s eye on her the entire time.
“Way to go, baby girl,” she said when her daughter was again atop the slide. “Looks like you don’t need me anymore.”
As the clock inched toward the mandatory parting, Hooper made sure the girls’ backpack was in order. She added the leftover snacks and zipped it up, checking her phone one last time, because there is one rule as simple as it is important.
She had to be off the premises no later than 11 a.m., the end of her official visit.
“OK, girls, time to go,” Hooper said, hoisting the bag onto her shoulder.
“Wait, Mommy,” her 3-year-old said from the top of the slide. “Catch me!”
Hooper said nothing as she put down the bag and strode confidently to the bottom of the slide, a look in her eyes any parent could recognize.
Always.