30 Days as Mom to 3.

We're enjoying the thrills and insanities of parenthood. We are fully aware that our pride and joy is being raised as an only child. He has birth siblings, too, but in our home he's on his own. (Don't panic, Mom, we do have plans for more, and we promised to share when that day arrives.)

In the meantime, we thought we'd get our feet wet by signing up as homestay parents for the month of August. We had a few options... "proposals", if you will, of single children, paired kids, and a sibling group in grade nine and ten.

We opted for the sib group. A boy and a girl one year apart? What could be more fun??

And then it hit me.

On Monday afternoon, I will have three children.
THREE! Two of whom are arriving, jet lagged and missing home, from Korea. One of whom can't stay still for five seconds, and can't stop hopping in excitement about "the BIG KIDS!" moving in.

All three. Together. In my house.

Dear God, I need a minivan. 

Thanks for Breaking Your Heart

Almost four years ago, my husband and I fell in love with my infant foster brother, and a miracle happened. We got to take him home. There were tears in my parents' eyes when we drove off with him... mostly because it was THEIR baby behind the wheel, driving off with their first grandchild. They would never have to say goodbye.

In the years that followed, I felt the familiar twinges in my heart many times. Often it was while holding a new foster sibling, or curling up on the couch with a toddler who lived in my parents' temporary care. When those babies and toddlers moved back home or to their adoptive homes, I'd feel a slight sadness, but never any true mourning. My parents, on the other hand, endured grief at every departure.

I never quite understood that sadness. That is, until now. I let myself fall in love again, with another little person. I'll call that little person Sam. Was it the spark in Sam's eye or the curl of Sam's smile? The wispy hair or the way Sam's whole face lit up with joy when a favourite person joined the room? Was it watching Sam play with Noah, and delighting in the shared giggles, the doubled grins, and the terrific team they really were?

I tried to figure out... what exactly put me so head over heels in love in the first place? I suppose it was more than my reckless disregard for protocols and adoption planning. It was just Sam. Sam had nuzzled into my heart. And letting go of a little one whose hand is on your heart? That's the hardest thing in the world. 

There's good news for Sam. A family is waiting to welcome Sam home. Which means the giggles I heard won't be doubled, at least not yet. And not by Sam. 

My head hurts. I stopped and I closed my eyes and imagined duplicating this feeling. I imagined feeling it again and again. It seemed impossible. Then I imagined feeling it from the child's perspective. Or a birth parent's perspective. I couldn't do it.

Sam came to visit recently. Sitting joyfully in the stroller, looking up at me with a devilish grin and a sparkle in both eyes. "Hi Mom!" Sam greeted me. I felt my heart shatter in that instant. I'd always been "Aunty Sarah". No one had prompted Sam to call me Mom. It just happened. And it broke my heart completely.

As much as that hurt, I can only imagine the impact Sam's departure will have on my parents. They cared for Sam with love and affection for years until the perfect family was ready, and Sam was ready, to move forward. Not to mention how it will impact Sam, moving from the only home in memory to a new, unfamiliar place. How long will it be until Sam's ready to flash that magnetic grin and say "Hi Mom!" again?

To all our foster parents out there, thank you for breaking your hearts. Over and over again in the name of our kids. Thank you for showing your kids this love, and preparing them for the awesome transition of loving their new parents. After all, you showed them how.

Happy Father's Day to.... ?

Truth be told, I don't spend a lot of time thinking about Noah's birth father. Perhaps because I'm his mom, I feel a much stronger pull towards his birth mother - even though we have comparably little information on her. 

She carried my son, birthed him, loved him, and made an adoption plan for him. I carry an ongoing concern, endless gratitude, a fair share of curiosity, and a genuine worry for her well being.

But birth father? He's on the very outside of my radar. He's there, somewhere... but he's murky. He remains that way for most of the year. Until Father's Day arrives.

Every June, this mysterious person creeps into my thoughts.

Somewhere out there, my son has a birth father. He's not on our paperwork. There's a blank spot on the forms where his information should be. But that empty space doesn't erase the fact that he's out there.

Scratching for something tangible, I've tried to formulate a picture of him in my mind. Comparing Noah's features to his brother's, I try and identify his unique features.

Noah's eyes are distinct, so he must get his big brown peepers from his birth dad. His hair is a mess of curls while his brother's is poker straight. Maybe the curls come from Dad's side?

What's his heritage? When I look into his golden brown eyes and sweep the brown curls off my sons' forehead, I wonder about his ancestry, and his birth family's story.

I wonder what else has he taken from his genetic father. Do they have the same laugh? Do they both love soccer and hate vegetables? Are his many allergies something his birth dad also endured? What lucky or unlucky genes has he passed forward when our son was conceived over four years ago?

I have no answers. The canvas is blank. The story's not told. Somewhere out there my son has a birth father. Does he know he's a dad? Does he have any idea what an incredible son he helped create?

Wherever you are, birth father, whatever kept you from your son's life, I hope you are making something incredible out of your life. Your son is doing just that. Happy Father's Day.  

Lessons in Blessings

I'm curled up next to the window on the 8th floor of Sick Kids Hospital in Toronto. Down the hallway, machines beep and hum. Shoes clack along the linoleum floors. In our room, all is quiet as the warm summer sun streams in the window. Two feet away, my teenage sister Becky is recovering from surgery. She's sleeping off the morphine in the bed next to me.


We are so blessed.

Coming here, I thought this trip would bring a better appreciation for sisterhood, a new opportunity to "mother" and tend to the young woman who had grown from the baby I fell in love with seventeen years ago. I thought it would be about healing and reconnecting.


While those things are happening, the most profound outcome of this trip is realizing just how fortunate we've been in this lifetime. How blessed we are to have one another. How fragile our children are, and how lucky we are compared to some of the families who also call Sick Kids "home" today.


That realization crept in while I sat in the parents room during Becky's surgery. I claimed a seat in a corner, curled up with a venti coffee, and pretended to read from the collection of dog-eared magazines.


A middle-aged couple breezed in, sat down, and instantly started complaining. Their twelve year old son was having emergency surgery for a burst appendix. The father was busy rescheduling business appointments, intermittently apologizing and complaining that his son's surgery might impact the contract he was working on. In between phone calls, the couple said little.


I got up and moved. I chose the busy centre of the room. A young mother and father balanced two pre-school aged daughters. At one point the mother glanced at the clock and commented "Well, it's been 8 hours, we're at the mid-way point." She sighed, returning her focus to her young daughters.


While I wondered what kind of surgery could possibly take 16 hours, I glanced over to the corner where Appendix Dad was still on his cell phone. Appendix Mom was gnawing her fingernails in silence. The hours passed and Appendix Parents made their way to recovery. Families came and went. Another young couple sat down next to us.


Young Couple's son had cancer. He was only 3 years old and was having treatment administered via his spinal cord. 16 Hour Family shared their son's experience with cancer. His surgery today was to replace his liver (for the second time). Their precious seven year old son had conquered cancer, and was back for his second organ transplant. All this before the second grade.


As the families chatted, it became clear what a blessing they were to one another. Somehow, both families had extra love to extend to each other while their tiny sons endured precarious surgeries.  


It occurred to me that the families who had endured the most, whose children were literal warriors in their fight to stay on this earth, seemed somehow more grounded, more compassionate, and so completely undeserving of their plight.


These families had seen mortality on their children's faces and defied it. I don't know if they came to parenting as fighters, but they wore that badge, and wore it bravely.


I'm not worried about the 16 Hour boy, or the 3 year old battling cancer. Their families knows what they need to do to help them win their fight. My concern is for the twelve year old with the burst appendix.... does his family know how lucky they are that this surgery may be his first and last? Would they have noticed the other families, and counted their blessings if they had shut their phones off and opened their hearts a little to the other parents in the room?


I'm not too different from the Appendix parents. My phone was off, and my heart was open, but my mouth was closed. I didn't share any words of encouragement, didn't help to halve the pain either family brought into that waiting room.


Maybe I sat there to learn - to quietly be reminded that my son, and most of our children, are blessed beyond comprehension.