Living in foster homes and group homes as a child I longed for two things, home and family. Every Christmas my mental letter to Santa was to be surrounded by people I loved, with a beautiful tree, a cozy home and everyone happy to be together. Each falling star my wish would be the same….to have so many children and they would all adore me, each other and the father they were blessed to have. Every prayer was for safety, love and a big family. We would never go hungry and I was determined to keep everyone safe, happy and together. My dreams of having 6 children (at least), giving them a perfect life and surrounding them with people who cherished them were often times the daydreams I would have during days of loneliness. My favorite past time was hiding in secret places just to be alone with my dreams and hopes of my future perfect life. I was going to be a perfect mother. My nights would be filled with singing restless babies to sleep, my days busy with picnics and play dates with cousins. Oh….the boo boos I will kiss, fears I will chase away, the love I will share, the hearts that would love me forever.

Then at fifteen I started this wonderful perfect family. Soon after I found out that wanting to be a loving, doting mother who bakes cookies from scratch wasn’t the part I was assigned. Nope, being a teenage mother without family support meant instead of embracing my maternal sensitivities I engulfed huge gulps of grit. Old fashioned iron and determination to provide for and protect my child was the daily diet. Difficult pregnancies caused my doctor to advise me to stop after second baby was born and instead of grieving the babies I would never hold. I grabbed another rod of iron and put it where my fragile spine used to be. As I realized my spouse would never be a partner in parenting I shook off those hopes, and put a smile on my face. Surprise, baby number three was on the way but doctor is advising abortion due to health. As I sit across from my doctor I wanted to break down and cry, I wanted to become hysterical and beg him to fix this and give me more options but instead he told me that I may leave my first two children behind to bring my third into this world. The joy of another child was immediately covered with a shadow of fear. I forced a deep breath while feeling my steel rod spine stiffen to make me taller and colder. At 19, little of the nurturing idealistic girl remained and the logical controlling girl was stepping in to be the person and mother necessary. I learned that I had to be whatever was needed whenever it was needed and my job is to cross the t’s and dot the i’s in life. Focus on being strong and capable. This was my motto. Surrounded by my fears of leaving my children to a family that was weak at best my maternal skills were honed and precise and functional leaving little room for me to be emotional or connected. The decision was made to teach my children to be independent. As a mother I’ve felt very accomplished. Twenty seven years of grit and fight, and marrying a man with two wonderful daughters I am the mother of five strong and independent adults who enjoy our company.

Then I started reading a book that reminded me of the little girl who longed to read bed time stories and play with hair until they fell asleep. As a foster parent I’m doing it all wrong. For years I’ve let my children reach a developmental milestone, crossed it off my list and moved on to the next. Veteran mom here understands that things go from A-Z, left to right, and top to bottom. That’s just the way it is. I made many mistakes but over all it’s a precision and mathematical recipe. Then came our soon to be adopted son. He is technically in his fifth year, he has went through several chapters of his book but he’s not retaining everything. We finish a chapter but we can’t mark it off our list because he may have to revisit it. I don’t know what to do with this, I don’t know how to skim read, or double back for things. It’s goes against everything I know. As a mother I feel like a failure and worry that I won’t be enough for him.

My prayer today is broken. Broken for the little boy who can’t comprehend the chapters of his own life due to trauma and for the little girl who wanted so badly to be the connection for children and family but lost her ability to reach where he needs to be reached. I pray for a receptive spirit to learn from those who’ve walked this place before me. To allow my armor of steel to soften enough to find him where he is but not so much that he can’t count on me. Maybe through helping him heal, a little more of the girl inside will be healed as well.