By Megan Hogg
@megandhogg

My oldest son grew in another woman’s womb for 26 weeks. He came into the world on a cold February afternoon, unbeknownst to me. He was ushered into the land of the living with needles, monitors, a feeding tube, and a ventilator.

A week after his birth I got a phone call from the social worker—would we want to foster this child? My heart said yes before my brain had a chance to catch up. A baby! In the NICU and clinging to life, yes, but a precious human soul just the same. I tried to rein in my excitement, keeping my voice calm and using all the self-discipline I could muster not to immediately order a ten-pack of preemie onesies. “Let me talk to my husband,” I told our social worker.

My husband and I had a small, blueberry-sized secret: we were pregnant. Two years of trying followed by two pink lines on a pregnancy test—a blessed surprise. I already found myself making choices with a single question as my guide: Is this what’s best for our baby? My husband and I prayed over the decision to care for this other little life, not knowing if it would be a short-term placement or if he would one day share our last name. Did we have the capacity to give this child the care he deserved? Would we end up having two infants at once and if so, could we handle it? Logic told us to say no to this foster care placement. It was too inconvenient, too messy. But love rose slowly, steadily, like a shiny helium balloon in our hearts. "Yes," we told the social worker, "we will be his parents for as long as he needs us."

We met our foster son when he was seven days old, residing safely within the humidified air of an isolette. Weighing just under two pounds, he wore nothing but a diaper the size of a postage stamp and a small foam band to cover his still-fused eyelids. His small body squirmed under the glaring fluorescent lights and his fingers stretched out wide, like a tiny starfish. "We don’t know his prognosis," the doctors told us over and over again, meaning: he could have a brain bleed, or fetal alcohol syndrome, or not even survive at all. But the love of a mother—yes, a foster mother—is a force to be reckoned with. 

Coincidentally, he was in the very same hospital where I worked, and on my lunch breaks I would scarf down some food (pregnancy often dictated a bag of white cheddar popcorn from the vending machine) before rushing to the third floor to gaze at this tiny human who had been entrusted to us. I would read him a book and stick my pinky into the warm isolette, watching his impossibly small fingers curl around mine. I listened to the chorus of beeps and buzzes, ever mindful that these were the sounds of his life hanging in the balance. My husband and I visited in the evenings to do skin-to-skin with our foster child and cheer him on towards every victorious ounce gained and every liter of oxygen weaned. Over those 109 days in the NICU, the three of us stood on the brink of death together, peered into its dark abyss, and said, not today.

Spring blossomed into summer, and the nurses started preparing us for life at home with a medically fragile infant. The familiar notes of Pomp and Circumstance piped through the third floor loudspeakers as we wheeled our foster son out of the hospital and drove him home, oxygen tank and all. The steady whir of the hulking oxygen concentrator was the new soundtrack to my days, which passed by in three-hour increments based on the baby’s feeding schedule. My calendar quickly filled up with specialist appointments for him and routine OB/GYN appointments for me. I daily held one child on the outside and one on the inside, the two of them cradling my heart from their respective positions.

***

My youngest son grew inside my womb for 38 weeks. He came into the world on a sunny September evening after eight hours of mind-bogglingly painful labor. I cried tears of happiness and relief and we immediately began the age-old dance of breastfeeding, naps, night wakings, and falling in love. The nurse rattled off discharge instructions before we left the hospital, my feelings of overwhelm growing with each one. She concluded the list of impossibilities (how am I supposed to have time for a daily sitz bath?) by adding cheerfully, “Make sure you don't lift anything heavier than the baby!” I thought of our foster child at home, now a solid 13 pounds, and cried.

Each morning I woke to the needs of not one baby, but two. I felt constantly torn between which one to care for first. I grew resentful over my lack of sleep and questioned my ability to love and care for two babies. Twin moms do it all the time, I reasoned with myself. But I wasn’t a twin mom. I was … what? Crazy? There was no category for the situation I was in. I loved both my children deeply, but lamented the fact that I rarely ever had one-on-one time with either of them. Many days I found myself breastfeeding one while bottle-feeding the other, an act of contortionism available only to the truly desperate and sleep-deprived. I can't believe people actually enjoy this, rang the ungrateful refrain in my head.

I felt disappointed in myself for so quickly taking the gift of children for granted. This was exactly what I had prayed for, yet the reality of it felt uncomfortable, like a scratchy new sweater that didn’t quite fit. In the haze of exhaustion that was now my life, I often defaulted to grumbling about washing yet another bottle instead of showing gratitude for the two babies I got to feed. I missed the days spent swaying around the house to James Taylor while holding my foster son tight against my chest, not another care in the world. I grieved the fact that I would never have those single-minded, uninterrupted moments with my biological child. I daily fought to cultivate contentment within the very life circumstances I had previously assumed would bring me uncomplicated and unmitigated joy.

A few months into being a mom of "two under one,” I started to come up for air. I now had the mental capacity to read books, listen to podcasts, schedule playdates, and contemplate things other than nap schedules. I started to realize that my bond with my foster son, though strong, was no match for biology. I often stared googly-eyed at my biological son and automatically thought, I have never loved a human being this much, followed by immediate feelings of guilt as I remembered my other beloved child. I feared that I loved my biological son too much, that I would start showing favoritism, that my foster son would grow up feeling neglected. I got stuck in the mental gymnastics of analyzing my love for my children instead of just living it. Each day seemed to carry this tension, and I began to wonder: Can the love we choose be just as powerful as the love that chooses us?

The months accumulated into a year, as they have that stubborn habit of doing, and I began to find my steps within the cadence of motherhood. I slowly grew more comfortable with the juggling act of two infants, the steady rhythm of feedings and diapers and naps, the oft-repeated query from strangers, “Are they twins?” I initially tended to answer this question almost apologetically, feeling obligated to give a lengthy explanation as to why I was pushing a double stroller with two boys of nearly identical height, weight, and coloring who mysteriously did not share a single strand of DNA. At some point I started answering with a simple but polite, “No, they’re not,” and allowing whatever questions remained to remain.

***

A few days after the ink dried on our adoption paperwork, I'm at the park with my toddlers, marveling at their limitless energy and curiosity. I love watching them giggle and chase each other around, falling down every so often but always getting right back up again. They both have a rosy flush on their faces from the cold and exertion. Another mom wanders over to me and asks, “How old are your boys?” I state their respective ages, revealing the biologically-improbable age gap. I can see the wheels turning, the calculations being made. “Are they both yours?” She questions further, sitting down next to me on the bench with her young daughter. I smile and tell her yes, they are most certainly both mine. She pronounces her final benediction upon me, exclaiming, “Wow, you must be very fertile!” 

My sons have abandoned their game of chase and now toddle towards me, arms outstretched. Fertile: (adjective) capable of growing and developing. I suppose she's right.

Guest essay written by Megan Hogg. Megan lives in North Carolina with her husband and two sons, working full-time as a mom and occasionally as a speech therapist. She often writes completed tasks on her to-do list just so she can check them off. She believes some of God’s greatest gifts are family, sunshine, and dark chocolate. You can find her online at her blog, A Continual Feast or on Instagram.