Category: Mom Life

The first time we meet him is at his foster home, an old farmhouse with a rambling yard. Jake and Keaton were moved to this foster home a few months earlier, after things deteriorated with a previous foster home. Their social worker Craig described the ugliness of quickly collecting their belongings in garbage bags and bringing the boys here – all on Jake’s sixth birthday.

There’s us, Craig, foster Mom and Dad, older foster sister and younger foster brother named Foster. And Jake and Keaton. And a large German Shepherd.

We’re invited in through the mud room. This is where we meet Jake. He’s with the dog, sharing a fat carrot. He’s holding it out, and the dog is gnawing at it, groove marks from his canine teeth visible. When I say fat carrot, I mean the kind you feed to a horse. There’s a hip-high bag of these carrots, with the circumference of a donut. We know he’s been sharing it, because Jake is orange from cheek to cheek, from the tip of his nose to his chin. And before we’ve even said a word or locked eyes, I love him even more.

In an instant, Jake is Jake. Completely unafraid of and in love with the large dog who is torn between barking at us and eating his treat. The boy with dog scratches on his arms and stitches over his left eye. And a boy who, when he’s into something, is all in. At that moment, it was carrots.

As Craig makes introductions and we settle in, we learn that the stitches happened over the holidays. The kids were learning in-line skating on the shag carpet. The foster Mom, Tracey figured it was safe because the shag kept it all low-speed. But Jake was eager to show the Christmas tree to a visitor and forgot the sofa had been moved and skated right into it and hit the wooden arm with his eyebrow which the boys proclaimed produced a magnificent pouring of blood.

The story made me realize that these boys were ours and not-ours. With a planned period of getting to know each other before making the move, it made me uneasy how I had to trust all these other folks to take care of our boys. The people who had been caring for them before we even knew they existed.

It was a strange mix of feelings – powerful responsibility and haplessness. I had the boys tucked on a shelf in my mind, to come to life only in my presence. It had been a month since knowing we were selected to be their parents. A month of breakfasts, classes, recesses, dinners, bath times, dreams and nightmares. And we had no say or part in any of it.

To be clear, the stitches incident wasn’t anybody’s fault. In fact after witnessing the shag carpet skating myself, I thought his foster mother was brilliant and could make a fortune with beginner in-line skate training in shag carpet studios. Seriously, zero speed hazards and a soft ground for spills.

The stitches brought their fragility into focus, and our dependence on the commitment and ability of these strangers to keep them safe. It was a keen awakening of my protective mother lioness. But my cubs lived in another savannah and I could only see them on a schedule.

We did lots of training and research before heading into adoption. We learned how key routine is. In our case, we knew the boys had had no routine and little supervision in their home life before foster care. We wanted to carry over as much familiarity as possible to ease the transition.

After dinner, I sit with Tracey on the infamous sofa to go over routines and preferences. Bed times, chores, favourite foods, toys, activities, what they love, what they hate. I’m a good student, taking notes. We hear sniffling and Jake skates up to the sofa with a booboo. Tracey understands what’s happening and settles back on the sofa. He places himself right between the two of us, looking down.

It was a textbook scenario: adoptive children need to find out if they can trust the new parents, and instinctively put them to the test. Within hours of meeting me, Jake literally placed himself between foster mom and new mom with a typical mommy issue to see who would take care of him.

Fervently thankful for this super foster mom, I lean forward to examine and question and comfort in a soothing tone. He looks at me with his orange-tinged face, decides it doesn’t need a band-aid and skates off. Tracey and I look at each other in wonder. I had passed my first Mom test.

My magical boy.

Before we ever meet him, we cry when we learn that the plans to sneak us into the auditorium to see him as a dancing candy cane have been dashed. The number was cancelled; such are the vagaries of the stage, but still.

We learn that we have been chosen to become the parents of three beautiful boys. A difficult wait: I already knew – I KNEW – that I was their mother. Days of anguish at the thought that a bureaucrat could separate me from the sons I’d never met. Nights of anger at this imagined injustice.

When the call comes, such tears and laughter and impatience and panic and love. We want them TODAY, we want our nine months to prepare the nest, we are bursting with everything. At one point my husband stops mid-stride: with a breaking voice he says, “My. Three. Sons.”

Four hours later a few dozen family and friends join us at Astoria’s back room to celebrate. That morning, I’d had a cyst on my back surgically removed. I have tears in my eyes with each hardy back slap, in wonder that I could have surgery on my back the same day the world wants to slap it or squeeze it in hugs. I laugh that nobody would guess I’m in physical pain, because tears are the norm this day. Laughter, love, joy, tears and pain.

We hand out Laura Secord “It’s a boy” cigars. We share their photos printed out and placed in a red folder. My sister presents a copy of Make Way for Ducklings and it’s perfect.

I carry everywhere my folded paper with their three portraits. I ride the subway and I open it like a triptych. I stare at each one, falling madly in love. I touch them, study them, memorize them. More than once I consider sharing the photos with strangers. I struggle to contain the joy, wonder how passersby are not blinded by the dazzle leaking out of me.

Though it never happened, I still picture Jake as that dancing candy cane. I can see him so clearly, dancing to music that I can’t hear. He’s shiny and delightful and magical.