In Other Words, A Mother

by Katie Powner

I was in my twenties when I became a mother. My biological sons were born with no complications, and I took for granted that I would know what to do. Not that I had motherhood all figured out, but I believed many things would come naturally. And they did. I didn’t have to learn how to love my boys. I didn’t have to figure out how to be concerned when they were sick. No one had to tell me that I must do whatever it took to make sure they had enough to eat. I knew what to do because there had been someone in my life who gave all her love and care to me. Someone who sacrificed and encouraged and lifted up. In other words, a mother.

I also took for granted when my sons were born that they would love me and feel safe and trust their needs would be met. And they did. When they cried, I was there. When they were hungry, I was there. When they woke up and were afraid of the darkness, I was there. It wasn’t always easy—nothing worthwhile is ever easy—but I felt confident as a mother. My role felt well-defined. From my sons, I learned that it is a blessed thing to be a mom.

Then we adopted our daughter from Ghana. She was seventeen months old, and I quickly learned I could no longer take anything for granted. I loved her by choice, but I did not know her. She was a stranger. And she did not love me. She did not feel safe. She had everything she physically needed, but I could not provide the language she was used to hearing at the orphanage. The food she was used to eating. The faces she was used to seeing. My confidence disappeared. My role was no longer clear.

My daughter had so much need. She was desperate to be touching me at all times. She needed constant reassurance. Constant supervision. Constant intervention. Even though I had two kids already, I felt like I was parenting for the first time. I had no idea if I was on the right track. No idea if it was ever going to get better. All I could do was be a gentle, nurturing, loving presence that never gave up. In other words, a mother.

From my daughter, I learned that being a mom doesn’t depend on how you feel. Doesn’t depend on whether you and your child match. Certainly doesn’t depend on whether your relationship with your child looks the same as other people’s. All that mattered was that I had made a commitment to this child and nothing was going to stop me from giving her everything I had, even if she never loved me back. And eventually, eventually, eventually…she did. By God’s grace, she did.

Then we became foster parents. We’d signed up knowingly and willingly, of course, yet it felt out-of-the-blue when the first call came. “Can you pick him up from the hospital?” the social worker asked. He was barely five pounds, she said. Three weeks premature. He couldn’t go home with his parents due to drug exposure. He had jaundice, a club foot, and meth withdrawal symptoms. He had severe reflux and could only eat an ounce and a half of milk at a time. “Please, can you come?”

I didn’t hesitate. A child needed me. But when I arrived at the hospital, I realized right away this was something different. This child already had a mother. A mother who loved him fiercely. Who was desperate to get him back. I heard the nurses talking about her. What did that mean for me? I didn’t want this little one to call me Mom. I didn’t want to take anyone’s place. But he needed something from me. Stability. Consistency. Calm. Not to mention hugs and kisses and bottle feedings every two hours around the clock. It was my job to give him those things, but this wasn’t just a job, was it?

I threw myself into providing the best possible care for him that I could. I tracked his bottles, spit-ups, and dirty diapers in order to share that information with his mother, with the doctor, with the state. I stretched and massaged his club foot every day like the orthopedic doctor ordered. I fed him, bathed him, dressed him, over and over and over. I did my job.

Several weeks passed. I got up one night for the third or fourth time to feed this little boy, and as I held him on the couch, exhausted, I felt a stirring in my heart. Felt the Lord telling me to love this baby as if he were my own. “But he’s not,” I replied.

God spoke to my heart. Told me that baby didn’t need a caretaker. Didn’t need someone doing a job. He needed someone who would fight for him. Sacrifice her time, her sleep, her health for him. Advocate for his best interest. Someone who wouldn’t rest until she’d done all she could for him. In other words, a mother.

I’ve been a foster mom for ten years now, and from my foster kids I’ve learned that motherhood is never a job. It is a sacred calling. It doesn’t matter if your children are young or grown up. It doesn’t matter if they were born from your body or grown in your heart. Doesn’t matter if they are a child in your Sunday school class or a neighbor or a patient in your care. If they were placed in your life and you have the opportunity to care for them, to love them, you are what they need. You are the force in their life that could make all the difference. You are a mother. 

Katie Powner is a multi-award-winning author of contemporary fiction, including The Sowing Season, A Flicker of Light, The Wind Blows in Sleeping Grass, Where the Blue Sky Begins, and When the Road Comes Around. She and her husband have adopted internationally and have been fostering children in Montana for ten years. She blogs about family, adoption, and fostering at katiepowner.com.