By Katie Blackburn
@katiemblackburn

She checks in fairly regularly, so seeing her name in my inbox wasn’t a surprise. I am somewhat used to the rhythm of communication our family has with my daughter’s birth mother, Sarah, which looks like a lot of the same questions every few days, followed by a few weeks of silence. 

How is she? Sarah will ask on a Monday. And again on a Wednesday. And again on a Thursday. And again on a Saturday. 

I’ll respond to her each time, trying to dignify her question by coming up with a new way to say the same things in the same week when not a lot has changed, knowing these sentences are her only connection to the thing she is the most proud of in her life. 

She’s doing great! on Monday. 

She’s happy and healthy! on Wednesday. 

She’s a fun and busy little girl! on Thursday. 

She’s growing and thriving! on Saturday.

I know Sarah’s life and transience will pull her away from communication for a short while soon. At least it has in the past. That’s ok. Personal agency is a privilege we overlook daily; that is until we really get to know someone who lacks so much of it through no fault of her own. For Sarah, so many of her thoughts and feelings were stolen and broken when she was just her daughter’s age, and I don’t know if her mind will ever fully let her have them back.  

This most recent email exchange, though, is a little bit different. There’s more to it. Our Open Adoption plan has us scheduled to meet around her daughter’s—my daughter’s—2nd birthday. She sends a note and asks if she can buy her a birthday gift, and I respond Absolutely! She loves animals, books, and baby dolls. 

Six hours later, her name comes up in the inbox again: Would it be ok with you if I signed the card “Mom”?

Most of the time, raising a child through adoption feels very … normal. She’s simply one of ours: a two-year-old who gets into everything, is finding her words and soaking in our applause with each new one. She throws her food off the tray when she doesn’t like it, adamantly says “no” at bedtime, but then with her ever so endearing head tilt, finds your shoulder and snuggles right in. In general, this two-year-old walks through her days with a mix of sass and charm.

“She reminds me of Harper at this age,” I’ll say to my husband often, the words stemming from my thoughts and out of my mouth easily, with not one reservation that she doesn’t share any of the genetic makeup of her older sister.   

“For sure. Sweet and salty, just like Harper was,” he responds.

And then, every so often, we get the reminder that there is one big difference between this little girl and our others. 

Someone else wants to sign her birthday card Mom.

***

When we brought our baby girl to our home at four days old, I was not thinking further than getting through that first night. I stole sleep in 40 minute increments, then woke up to check on the five-pound miracle in the bassinet next to me. She slept without worry. It was quiet, and she was warm and dry and safe—an extreme juxtaposition from the first three nights of her life. 

I didn’t think about the emotional roller coaster that would be the next 16 months of foster care. I didn’t think about sitting in courthouse waiting rooms and meeting other biological parents who were fighting to get their children back, and how their own painful stories would impact me. I didn’t think about having five different social workers’ phone numbers saved in my phone and the trepidation I would feel every time I saw their name come up, wondering what the next call would be about.

I also didn’t think about the sheer joy of holding up my right hand and swearing to raise this baby as if she was my own. I didn’t think about the tears that would well up in my eyes when a new birth certificate with a new last name showed up in our mailbox. 

And I didn’t think about birthday cards.

Maybe that’s the hidden gift in foster care—you truly have no idea what the next day will bring, so you don’t give much time to thinking about it; the possibility of heartbreak or celebration are both too heavy to carry when the evidence for either keeps changing, so it’s best not to try. The system forces you into a one-day-at-a-time posture, and ultimately, that’s a good thing. 

But those reckoning days do come. They are different for every foster and adoptive mom, as vast and varied as the circumstances our children come out of. 

One of my days was facing the insecurity of giving another woman the title of “mom,” around a little girl who is old enough to understand what that word means. To my daughter, “mom” means safe place, hold me when I’m crying, get me my snack please, teach me what’s right, tuck me in with my pink blanket just how I like it and say bedtime prayers with me.

What if one day my daughter thinks “mom” means something different? What if she thinks that word is for someone else?

Can it really be for both of us?

In moments like these, the one-day-at-a-time posture comes in handy.

I can let my mind run off to possibilities or I can stay right here, where there is a second birthday, a gift that was surely a sacrifice to buy, a young woman with the courtesy to ask a vulnerable question; and my decision whether or not I’ll live with a tight grip on the illusion of control, or a trusting surrender to the One who writes every story, including the one that brought a five-pound-miracle to our home. 

***

“Sarah asked if she could sign the birthday card ‘Mom,’” I told my husband. We talked about it a little bit, admitting our hesitations and discussing what that question made each of us face, how it made us feel. The conversation is easy from our point of view, but it always ends up taking us to hers.

Everything changes from there.

Sometimes, there is not a clear path to the clearly right answer. It’s a twisted road with tempting exit signs - fears and anxieties and unknowns that make you want to stay away from any of the vulnerability of an open adoption. “Give her an inch and she’ll take a mile,” the fear tells you. “There’s too much unknown and unstable in her life. Don’t confuse your child,” it echoes.

But you walk that road because you have to, and at the end there she is: this young woman, Sarah, who carried and kept her baby when everyone told her not to, fighting her own battles every day, and whose bravery gave me a daughter. Can I not give her the word that is, truly, already hers?

There is no blueprint or formula for adoption, no right answer applying to every circumstance, no “this is how it is right now so this is how it can be forever” decision. But there is today, and when I loosen my grip and surrender, when I pray about how to uphold the commitment we made to our daughter and the whole story she brought with her to our home, when I remember the Image of God in the face of my daughter and the biological mom whom she looks just like, I know what to say.

Hi Sarah, 

Yes, please do sign the card ‘Mom,’ because she has two moms that love her. 

We will see you soon.

Katie

Photo by Lottie Caiella.