Eleven Years Later

Recently, an old “note” that I’d written on social media about choosing single motherhood resurfaced, and I decided it was time for a remix.  You can read the original here, but without further ado, here is

What I want you to know… eleven years later.

I want you to know that almost exactly one year after I wrote this, the tiniest baby entered our family bringing with him layers of nuanced birth family relationships that would expand my heart in ways I could never have imagined.  Fostering him broke me open, challenged everything I thought I knew about what was best for kids, and brought me to the end of myself again and again.

I want you to know that after the two-and-a-half year journey to his adoption, I knew in my bones that we were finished.  I closed the door to being a foster parent without any doubt or regret.  I know that this is not true for everyone, and I think that if you’re not sure, you’re not done.  But I knew it.  And the relief that flooded my body after closing that door made me physically sick (on our “adoption-moon.”  In a hotel. With a toddler and his big sister.  It was grand.).

I want you to know that when things got hard, God’s people stepped up.  So many times, I’ve read about cases where church friends are supportive of an adoptive family at the beginning and then disappear when trauma, attachment issues and mental illness start showing up.  And I want to shout from the rooftops that this is not always true.  When the poo hit the fan in our family… and it did, friends… it hit hard… our faith community rallied and supported us in every possible way.  I went to (literal and metaphorical) places as a mom that were the stuff of nightmares.  And God’s people showed up in every single one of those terrifying places.  They walked us through shadows that I honestly wasn’t sure our family could survive.  And I will always, always be grateful that we never walked alone.

I want you to know that my kids are real siblings.  They can fuss and fight and pick on each other all day long, but when the chips are down, they have each other’s backs.  As they’ve gotten older, they’ve started talking about the future and their conversations about “always being your sister/brother” melt me.  I’ve made a rule that I never interrupt them when they are having fun together.  Do they take advantage of this to stay up too late and indulge in too much junk food and screen time?  Absolutely.  Do I care? Not even a little.

I want you to know that no one is allowed to tell us how we are supposed to feel about adoption.  Not me and most definitely not my kids.  Don’t tell me that we’re lucky to have each other. Don’t tell my kids that they should be grateful.  Don’t expect them to act like they’re happy on days that remind them of loss (which, to be honest, could be any day).  Don’t tell us that nature doesn’t matter… that sharing genes and history don’t matter.  They do.  We feel how we feel about adoption.  My kids are always allowed to tell the truth about it.  Even and especially the parts that aren’t rainbows and unicorns.  Always.

I want you to know that the pressure to “be the face” of all the things loosens its chokehold over time.  Therapy helps.  And finding safe spaces to tell the truth.  And knowing other families that look like yours (or, more precisely, that look every which way) where no one questions why you are black and your mom is white or why you don’t have a dad.  I think just plain getting older helps too… life’s too short to worry about appearances.  No one is going to choose not to adopt because we happen to be having a rough day.

And, most of all, friends… I want you to know that we’re ok, our little family.  In some ways, we are better than ever.  We’ve survived toddlerhood, middle school, a global pandemic and losses that took our breath away.  And we’re still here.  Messy, imperfect and not even a little bit like what I could have imagined eleven years ago.  But these kids of mine, they are incredible.  They are fully themselves.  And we are doing just fine.

Choosing Single Motherhood

I am a single mother by choice.  I adopted my daughter from foster care and I’m hoping to bring another child into our family in the next few years.  What do I want you to know?

I want you to know that I don’t need your adulation.  I didn’t adopt to solve the orphan crisis, put feet to my pro-life convictions or make any kind of political or religious statement.  I didn’t adopt because I don’t think enough married couples are doing it.  I am not a hero and my daughter is not “lucky to have me.”

I want you to know that I don’t need your pity.  I didn’t adopt because I’ve given up on marriage or because I needed someone to love and need me.  I’ve never been under the illusion that this would be an easy path.  I am not a victim, and neither is my daughter.  She is one of the most resilient, tenacious people that I know.  Maybe if you are not also a single mom, you “don’t know how I do it.”  But if you knew your child was in foster care, I think you would do everything you could to bring her home, no matter who happened to live (or not live) in that home.

I want you to know that though I am not married, I am not raising my daughter “on my own.”  Unlike many single moms, I had the luxury of making certain before I chose motherhood that my daughter would have strong male and female role models committed to loving and teaching her.  I also have the luxury of tapping into a social support system that continues to provide great advice, encouragement and practical help.

I want you to know that I was scared beyond belief when I first decided to adopt as a single mom.  Not just about raising a child, but also about sharing my decision with many great folks in my life who happen to have very specific views about how a family is supposed to look.  I anticipated resistance, cautions and even hostility.  What I got instead was unconditional love, emotional support and three adoption showers.  After meeting my daughter, no one expressed concern or disapproval about how our family was formed.  In fact, I have felt more loved and supported since I embarked on this journey than ever before in my life.  I want you to know that if you are part of that support network for me or another single mom, you rock.  We need you.

I want you to know that despite this support, I feel tremendous pressure to represent my “single mom by choice” status in new situations.  If my daughter’s hair is a mess or she’s having a meltdown I worry that you’re thinking I never should have chosen to do this alone.  If I’m not smiling and telling you about my wonderful life, I worry that you’re judging my family to be second-best.  I know I shouldn’t care, but I do.

I want you to know that I spend my days playing Candyland, reading stories, folding laundry, trying to model self-control and compassion, loving unconditionally and wondering if it will be enough.  Just like you.

I want you to know that I love my daughter ferociously and I am one hundred percent convinced that we are supposed to be a family.  Though there are plenty of life choices that I regret, choosing single motherhood is not one of them.