There are aspects of this journey that take your breath away and cause you to grieve deeply. One of those aspects is helping your child process the hard parts of their story.
On an unseasonably warm night in February, we sit on our front porch with our children gathered around. Our objective is to assemble a new wagon we’ve just bought for our new farm (yes, we bought a farm!). There’s excitement in the air as this wagon will fit all of their toys, plus some of the pets, the neighborhood friends, and a few of their odd inventions.
We desire to hide our deepest wounds. And rightfully so. We’ve been taught that wounds equal failure. As parents we fear the words “I told you so,” if we revealed our struggles on this journey. But what if our wounds didn’t equal failure? What if they did something bigger than we could imagine?
I know what you want to do, dear parent.
I know because I’ve sustained the same cold blows from this journey.
You want to hide.
Foster parenting is one of a handful of jobs in the world that is un-appreciated and fairly unknown. But foster parents are unsung heroes who quietly change the world. Our worth is determined by the lives we change.
I’m trying to remember the last time I knew I fit in. I think it was pre-school. My teacher, Mrs. Green, called everyone to the story carpet. “Ok friends, time for a story,” she would sing. Friends. She always used that word, and I guess she was right. I liked everyone in that class and they liked me. I fit in there.
Living life as an adoptive or foster parent brings about several unique life realities. One of them is birth parents. Your children will always have 2 sets of parents. We have been fortunate to have good relationships with our children’s other parents. As much as it depends on us, we strive to keep them healthy and strong. We do this for our sake, but more importantly, our children’s. This post is by Kristin. I love her perspective on birth parents!
I pressed lightly on the brake as I listened to the “click click” of the turn signal. I gulped a breath of heavy air and relished in the uniqueness of this silence. It was that special kind of quiet, recently full of spoken words. As I turned onto the empty street the conversation tumbled about in my mind. I glanced back at the apartment complex to see my son’s birth mom give a final wave. As I watched the city fade in my rearview mirror I thanked God silently not just for my son but also for his Other Mother.