I’m in the parking lot waiting for Peter to come out of the grocery store and Pearl needs a diaper change. I grab the kiddo, I grab the changing pad and I go around to the other side of the car to change her on the seat. Just at this moment a man is parking his Jeep next to us and he asks me if I have enough room. I tell him about the diapie emergency; he tells me his daughter is two and we both laugh cuz that means he has been in this exact position before. Then it happens, the question: “Is she your first?”

I could say, “yep!” And he would wish me luck, give me fatherly advice, then head on into the grocery store. It’s an innocent question and it would be totally ok for me to just say yes and we can all move on. But those three girls before Pearl… they are a part of me. They didn’t come from me and they weren’t with me very long; but they made me a momma. I don’t know how to forget or sugar coat it for strangers or be less awkward when I get asked all the questions. And everyone always has so many questions. I took a deep breathe and told him, “nope, she’s my fourth!”

Thankfully he didn’t follow up with the usual questions about where they are and how do I do it with four. Or like the one woman that very rudely overheard me talking to a Safeway cashier we have known for some time and yelled at me “Tell your husband to get off of you,” after she saw me buying formula with a WIC card. In a world where the questions never stop, I don’t know how to answer them. 

I know it isn’t a betrayal to just focus on the one child in front of me and protect her from people that don’t need to make assumptions about her life. And the girls no longer with me… I know that Birdie, Tink and Sweet Bee are safe with their family. Their Grandma probably gets her own comments about having full hands when she is pushing all three of them in a grocery cart. I can’t let them down because I didn’t let them down, I carried them through. 

Just like I am doing now for my Pearly girl. She has had her share of battles and I’m carrying her through those too. Recently, we woke up early for a routine test done at the hospital. My conversation with the nurse went like this… Nurse: Are you familiar with this test? ME: Yep. Nurse: Has she had this test done before? ME: No. Nurse: (skeptical) But you understand how this test is administered? ME: Yes

When you’re a parent of a little baby, people always wonder how you know things. In this instance, although she’s looking at me like I’m a new parent, standing here in the early hours with only one baby at my side, I’m a foster mom and have had other children in the past. One that did complete this exact test, so that’s why I don’t have questions. (It is important to note that doctors and nurses treating our kiddos can know their full medical history and that I’m their foster mother. That makes these conversations just a tad less uncomfortable.)

A few weeks ago, I had a bummer of an experience. It was a super warm day and I thought feeding the baby in the “mother’s room” of the vintage market we were attending, would be a nice break for us both. Well if you’ve never had a colicky baby, or a child that suffers from feeding issues, then I guess it would be kind of strange to watch me and Pearl experience that kind of tug of war. At the time we were asked to feed her on her side so gravity wouldn’t pull milk into her mouth that she wasn’t ready for. She was choking often and screaming into the bottle even during the more pleasant feedings. Out of the 15 or so moms in that room, at least half of them were staring at us. 

My insecurities bubbled up and I felt the need to address their stares with a subtle joke that didn’t land; cuz although I don’t remember exactly what I said, I remember that now more of them were staring. Did I judge the mom who’s child had spit up all over their face? Nope. Did I judge her when she used her hand to swipe it clean and then proceed to sit there with puke hand for like ten minutes? Nope. But I sure felt every judgy eye burning into us as Pearl screamed. Eventually Pearl calmed down, finished her bottle and started being adorable again. One mom shook herself out of her stare and started asking the questions. (First assuming Pearl was a boy. We bought her a headband before we even left the market that day!) Then the other mothers started asking their questions. I was managing them well (the questions that is!) and feeling like one of the moms until… “She has so much hair! Did you have a lot of heartburn while you were pregnant?”

GULP. This was a new one. I quickly answered, “oh she didn’t grow in my stomach, she grew in my heart.” I don’t know why I said it that way; like I was talking to a small child and not a room of moms. It didn’t matter though, I wasn’t part of the conversation after that. It was like the metaphorical record was scratched and it just stopped spinning. I got an “oh.” Short and sharp and that’s it. I don’t know about you but I think adoption is amazing, I think surrogacy is a modern miracle, I think foster care and kinship is valuable and important, all the ways you could become a mom is wonderful, and I think that if your child grew in your heart, then heck, it must be pretty big. So if someone had shared that information with me, I would have handled it way differently.

Its ok to not know what to say to someone that just shared personal information with you. But it’s not ok to close the gates to the mother hood and act like their story disqualifies them for entry. Is that exactly what they were doing? No. They probably just didn’t know how to respond. But that’s how it feels sometimes. When people ask me questions that I can’t answer, and when people don’t like my answers that I do give. 

I’m a mom; but I may not be a mom forever. But forever, I will have been their mom. Every one of my four, I was theirs and they were mine. You may not understand that, what it feels like to only be this version of a mom. Praying for the day I no longer have to hide faces and answer whatever questions I feel appropriate, instead of following a list of rules. And frankly, it’s ok to ask questions! (I will most likely be awkward if you ask them in person, so that’s on you!) But I’m here, sharing this journey for a reason, so ask away.

There is one thing I hope people grow to understand. Foster Moms are Moms. Period. Unlike other children in care, Pearl does not know any life but the one she has. Even if she did have memories of a life before me, I’m her primary, 24/7 caregiver. She knows her birth mom. We have a framed photo of them together in our home. She visits her and its wayyy hard and complicated and confusing at times. She is her bio mother, that will never change. Despite it’s complexity, their bond is one I will never completely understand, although I do recognize the magnitude of it. But the one that kisses boo boos on the regular and knows the way she likes to be comforted, and what every different cry means, that’s me. The one that makes her smile light up and can trigger belly laughs with one silly look, thats me too. And that IS motherhood. It doesn’t matter if it is temporary, it’s real. It helps when people acknowledge that. 

Right now as it stands, and as long as God will let us, Pearl is my one girl, the light of our lives. I will protect her and love her and claim her as my own because she is my child. My fourth child. Four girls. My heart, multiplied, and out in the world. Their hearts, carried in mine forever. This is motherhood for me.