They gave us her picture.
Right there amidst the triple copies of court documents and health histories.
Right there, in the beigeochromatic box of a family services conference room.
Without anticipation or expectation, she was suddenly staring back at us. The black and white printout clearly taken from a state database, grainy and overexposed with shadow.
Even so, she looked out with her round cheekbones and the exact eyebrows of her/my son.
Lately I’ve been wondering what it looks like to honor our adopted sons and how we can allow them to grow with the most unfractured spirits possible.
The more I allow all possibilities to that question, the more my heart chases the whisper that the answer lies in honoring their birth parents.
Can we create invitations for their spirits to be as unfractured as possible as they carry the knowledge or heartache or shame they couldn’t offer enough safety/sobriety/nurture to their children?
The wind keeps whirling this idea back to me.
Honor our children by honoring their birth parents. Give them all a chance to be whole.
I hate this because it requires emotional elasticity from me.
Do I have the energy to choose the harder way? Do I believe love expands infinitely and is expressed in infinite ways? Do I believe parenting is the long game based on small actions now? Can I find the tension between rock-solid boundaries and liquid scoopfuls of grace?
I hate this because it runs counter-intuitive to a mother’s blind rage to protect at all costs.
Didn’t they have their chance?! And yet…the longer I am in this foster care world, the more I believe it is a child’s right to know about and know their birth family (in the increments it remains safe and emotionally healthy for the child.)
I hate this because I have to crush my ego and my desire to reduce complexities into binaries I can label “good” or “bad”.
I do not get the luxury of seeing time in a vacuum without the deep realities of our American history and how race, cyclical poverty, blocked access to education, and current politics play heavily into why I sit at a table telling the state I legally promise to be Nurture Mommy while Birth Mom remains as voiceless as her pixelated picture.
I allow myself the freedom to not have answers right now. There is no map.
For now, there is time.
For now, we focus on all children in our home feeling attached and safe. For them to believe they belong, are chosen, and known.
For now, I slide that paper with her picture onto the top of the pile knowing what a treasure it will be in the discussions to come with her/my boys.