This article first appeared in November 1999.

Finally, after four weeks of training, three background checks and two interviews, the message on my machine said, "A child is waiting."

Not my child. I didn't have a child of my own, and I wasn't adopting. I had volunteered to become a Court Appointed Special Advocate (CASA) for a child in the foster care system.

A CASA volunteer is not a social worker, not a counselor, not a lawyer—in general, we are liaisons and information-gatherers. We monitor a child's living situation, making sure that she is healthy and safe while keeping in contact with the child's attorney, social worker and family counselors. Ultimately, we serve as the child's voice in court, making a recommendation as to where the child should be placed.

My CASA child, whose privacy I have promised to protect, is in a stage commonly referred to as "'tweens." She is not old enough to drive, but old enough to want to do things that come with being a full-fledged teenager, like hanging out at the mall after school, and staying over her friends' houses on weekend nights.

That's why I recently I decided to give my CASA child some space. As she asserts her independence, sometimes it's just plain un-cool to hang out with me. Instead of seeing her once a week, I would visit her twice a month. Besides, it's sometimes unclear for both of us exactly what role I play in her life.

As my CASA trainer explained to us, "This is not a Big Sister program, and this is not a mentoring program. We don't recommend, for example, taking them to McDonald's every time you visit."

But I knew that a moment would come—and it did—when I would look into this child's face, and after a few moments of unnerving silence, ask, "How about Mickey D's?"

So, we've indulged in some fast food and other activities that help to build a bond between us. I may not be a mentor or a Big Sister, but I want the best for my CASA child. I want to help her do well in school, make sure she has positive role models, and help to provide safe and structured activities. In short, I do what I see fit to "speak up for a child," in accordance with the CASA motto.

Of course, that doesn't necessarily mean that my CASA child looks forward to seeing me every week.

Heather, a friend and fellow CASA volunteer, says that you have to put aside your own expectations and needs and remember your long-term goals—particularly when the child's face doesn't light up with joy as you walk through the door.

"Remember the real purpose of the program and what you're trying to accomplish for that child," Heather says, "rather than those uncomfortable silences, the attitude that you may occasionally encounter, and the feeling that you're not making a difference."

Over half a million children live in out-of-home care (foster care, with relatives, in group homes or residential treatment centers). All of them come to the attention of child welfare services for being abused or neglected in some way. As a CASA, you provide a constant in the life of a child who may have moved from home to home or school to school—a child who may not have many other constants in her life.

I try to hold onto this thought when I visit my CASA child, sometimes to discuss a particular matter, or sometimes just to say, I'm here if you need me. I try to keep the purpose of the program in mind: to help her find a safe and stable home.

And just when I think that she is relieved to have more space—that she doesn't appreciate my consistency, she greets me at the door and says, "Why didn't you come see me last week?"

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