I am a foster parent. Most of you know that. I am just now starting to write about it on this blog because I really didn’t want people to think I was trying to come off as self-righteous. I am just sharing my thoughts and experiences as I venture into this uncharted territory. After all, isn’t that what most blogs are about?
I was talking with an acquaintance the other day. I said something about my daughters, that person interrupted me and said, “You mean your daughter and your foster daughter.”
Ummm. Okay. I didn’t realize I had to break it down like that.
I picked up Little Lady straight from the hospital when she was 2 days old. We knew before she was born that we were more than likely going to have her in our home. We got “the call” the day after she was born. I had been praying for her safety and protection about a month before she was born. I made sure I was careful not to pray for her to go to me, but for her to go to safe place. We had her brother and I saw what that environment did to him.
The first month of her life I went to many appointments with her. I watched her struggle. I watched helplessly as she agonized through things my body has never experienced. The only things I could do were to pray for her and love on her.
The second month of her life I calculated and charted feedings. I analyzed bowel movements and urine smells. I switched formulas, I bought gas relief drops, I went to more appointments.
Finally, I think we have her digestive system working properly and her body is clean. She is starting to really chunk up. :-) On her 2 month birthday she finally graduated out of newborn clothes and into 0-3 months. We have broken the 8 pound mark!
In the middle of the night when she cries for a feeding, diaper change, or consoling, I promptly hop out of bed and give her what she needs. She is soothed by the sound of my whispers in her ear. No matter how fussy she may get, laying on me with her cheek on my chest calms her down.
I did the same things with my (biological) son, Cole. I did them again with my (biological) daughter, Charley.
Yes, there is a piece of paper sitting in some file at the courthouse that has someone else’s name down as “mother”. Yes, I know that she is not legally ours and that at any time she could be taken from us (that haunts my dreams and is a topic for another day). Yes, I pray that one day my name will be on that piece of paper and she will be legally ours.
They all have one common denominator – daughter. So when I talk about my daughters or my kids, I mean all 3 of them.
Just exactly how important is DNA, anyway?
P.S. Sorry about the creepy way the baby looks with no face, but I cannot put her face on the blog, rules are rules.
I am linking this post up at Things I Can’t Say for Pour Your Heart Out.