Amazing Grace (How Sweet the Sound)

I didn't want little boys.

When we were filling out all the paperwork to become foster parents I knew I didn't want little boys.

I wanted siblings, sure. I envisioned a boy and a girl, probably because I grew up with a little brother. It's not the gender that I was opposed to, specifically. It was the "little." I wanted older, hard-to-place kids. Kids that weren't "cute" anymore, who maybe were misunderstood or hard to reach. (What I really wanted was a baby, but I knew we were not equipped for that yet and I was determined to try for one on my own). I knew myself. I wanted babies or older kids. No in-betweeners.

When we got that call that Monday morning from our foster agency and the voice on the other end of the phone said, "We have four siblings; two little girls and two little boys. Can you take either pair?" all I could feel was adrenaline, and sadness for these kids, but mostly adrenaline. It was happening. They had called us. These kids needed a home. But how should we decide between the boys or the girls?

Age.

We chose the older kids. The boys.

They were older by a small margin that made becoming instant parents to two kids seem more manageable.

They were still little and we were ill-prepared to care for them.

But we moved, and breathed, and slept little those first few days and weeks. We found a jagged rhythm that mostly worked. There was one step forward and two steps back. Some days there were leaps back. Days where Rocky and I would look at each other with sheer exhaustion, and sometimes even regret.

They were so little. So traumatized. They needed so much. And we were spent.

And sometimes they hated us, and sometimes, we didn't like them very much either.

And it's taken me almost two years to admit that.

To admit that to myself, and to others. Maybe even to God.

You know what has finally allowed me to say that?

Having Owen.

Having Owen has made me realize that it's completely normal to sometimes not like your children (and it's not because I've felt that way with Owen...yet). I wasn't sure, initially, if I had so much trouble with feeling the way I did because it was accompanied by guilt (They were foster kids, after all. How could I judge them for acting out and saying hurtful things?) or because it just didn't seem likely that a mother could love her children in one moment and then not be able to stand the sight of them in the next.

Some days with the boys felt like I was trapped in a prison that I had built for myself. How could I ask to be freed of the thing I had pursued unabashedly?

Having Owen opened my eyes, and heart, to the complexity and depth of a mother's love for her child(ren). It made it okay for me to trudge through the muddiness of my feelings for the boys. It made me realize, now 4 months postpartum, how much I really do love them.

It has been such a relief for that love to be confirmed.

It sounds silly, I know. Clearly I love them. I've always loved them on some level (it ebbs and flows and favors one over the other on any given day or moment, as most parents can attest to). But this time, now, I knew it was real. Like the Velveteen Rabbit. My love for them has been proven to be real.

The love I have for Owen shined a light on the depth of my love for the boys.

Yes, it's a different kind of love.

At first, I was convinced it was different in a lesser way, a horrible way. I was ashamed and disturbed by how much I loved Owen compared to the boys. Frustrated that all the things people had warned me about ("Just wait until you have your own. You'll see that you can't/won't/don't love them the same.") was true.

I was horrified.

But then, something happened. Somewhere over the last month, as I struggled, and talked to Rocky and friends, and prayed, and watched from the sidelines, I have fallen in love with my boys all over again.

It's like what was once lost has been found.

Was it the pregnancy hormones finally leaving my system?

Was it the newness of Owen, and the overwhelming, intoxicating love I felt for him wearing off?

Was it the self-reflection and prayers offered up, confessions and pleadings to God for the feelings to go away?

Was it the unending support offered by my husband and friends, who assured me that I wasn't wrong, or evil, or crazy, or abnormal?

Was it the amazing grace given by a Holy and Blameless Creator, who brought me into the light after walking for a time through a dark valley?

My soul tells me it's all of those things.

It's truth, and forgiveness, and understanding and grace; for my kids, for myself, for our unique family dynamic.

Some days it's still really hard to parent little kids. Some days it's excruciation to be a foster parent, a stand-in who is unappreciated and resented. Some days the lack of progress after nearly two years seems overwhelming and I want to throw my hands up in the air and give up. Some days, I don't like my kids.

But when I lay my head down at night, and I think about God and I think about our day and regret the kind of parent I was (or wasn't), I pray for more.

More time.

More patience.

More grace.

More kids.

They're still so little, but they're growing up so fast. They may not be on par with their peers (just yet), and they may need to be reminded and scolded and guided and molded, but they're my kids. And I love them. And I miss them when they're gone, and I walk by their bedroom door at night and see them sleeping softly in their beds and I can't believe how big they are. So big, and yet so little.

These boys of mine....

I never did want little boys.

But God knows what we need, doesn't He?

And I am so, so thankful that He does.