Blog

"I know you're not my real mom, I know I grew in Haley's tummy." This is just one of many causal statements my son, who was born into foster care, has tossed my way over the years. It's never heated or charged. It's never predictable. It's usually at the most inconvenient times that he torpedoes his little heart out for me to catch. 

My dear, darling boy who is eight years old and I have had the privilege of parenting for six of those years is both very right and very wrong. I am not his biological mother, if that's how we are defining "real." He did grow in someone else's tummy. He does have siblings that don't live in our home. My husband and I have fought hard over the years to create an environment that allows him to lob his little heart missiles at us whenever he needs. We have been in the trenches of our own bias and pride, weeding them out to be as non-reactive as possible. Foster care is a journey that leaves a forever fingerprint on those it impacts. It is hard work, but it is worthy work.

He is mine and I am his, and he is also hers- and the best way that I can love him is to acknowledge that. To help him hold that truth until he is ready to carry it on his own. To dig deep past my own insecurity and pride in order to help him love his whole self- every bit of his identity. The parts that come from Haley. The parts that come from me. He is a kaleidoscope of nature and nurture and influence. What a precious gift to be able to parent my colorful, mosaic of a child: honoring all the parts of who he is and was and will be.

I am not his biological mother, but I held his hand on the first day of kindergarten. I have advocated relentlessly in IEP meetings. I am the lap he crawls into when he is scared. I have read countless stories to him, snug in bed, safe and sound in our little home. I am his mother in so many important, life-altering ways and it is the greatest privilege to love him.

**names changed for privacy