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Reprinted from my journal, Wednesday, September 13, 2006:

I have a son.

My 19-month-old foster son's parents showed up to court two hours late yesterday. It was a hearing on terminating parental rights. Their public defenders advised them that they had a weak case and would probably lose. If that happened, the judge would surely order a closed adoption. If they signed over their son voluntarily, though, there was a chance to continue contact, because I had previously said I was OK with that, under certain conditions. So, reluctantly, they signed.

I've been through this once before, with my 4-year-old daughter. My elation at impending motherhood is always tempered on such occasions. Unlike the biological mother who can jump for joy upon seeing that plus sign on the pregnancy test, the foster-to-adopt mother knows that at the end of the day, her gain is someone else's horribly tragic loss. My foster son is only mine because two drug addicts tried their hardest to get their lives together, but couldn't manage to stay clean, employed and in stable housing.

When my adoption is finalized some time later this year, I will have two children whose parents are lost to addiction. There are countless more "drug orphans" in the world who will never find permanent, reliable families.

So I am both happy and sad today. Happy that I can share my home and my heart with two delightful children who mean the world to me. Sad, as a black woman, to see still more impoverished African-Americans join the nameless, faceless ranks of the doomed. Unlike many adoptive parents who worry about their children searching for birth families as adults, I can rest easy. My children's respective parents will probably be dead before my kids are old enough to look.

I've been fostering now for five years, and I'm sometimes struck by how "normal" the birth parents look in cases where the kids were removed because of drugs. It would be so comforting if they were all toothless, dirty and ignorant, which they are, occasionally. In those instances, I can delude myself briefly that we educated, middle class folks are immune. But for every one of those, there are some who defy stereotypes. Bright people with so much potential, if only they could break free. All races, ages and incomes. They're our friends. Our neighbors. Our relatives.

So there will be no jumping up and down, pumping my fist in the air or other overt celebration in the first few days of my little family's expansion. Just somber reflection.

Last night when my 4-year-old and I said our prayers at bed time, I told her to ask G-d to bless her "tummy mommy," and her brother's parents, as well.

She obediently asked G-d to bless them all, and I truly hope S/He will.

_______

Reprinted from my journal, Saturday, June 09, 2007

Mine, mine all mine!!!

My 2-year-old foster son's adoption will finalize on Thursday. I can't wait.

I know my adoption isn't in jeopardy anymore, but it will be a huge relief to have the burden of knowing a caseworker could snatch him at any moment off my shoulders. I really don't trust the system at all anymore. I just want him to be mine forever. Period.

Sometimes when I'm watching J. play, my heart swells with so much love that it feels like it will burst, and I just have to pick him up and squeeze him. I like to lean in close and whisper, "Mama loves you," in his ear. Every time I do it, he giggles because it tickles, then offers me the other ear. It's a precious little moment. One day he'll be an aloof teenager, far less affectionate, but as a toddler he hugs  and kisses with so much unabashed adoration, and each hug is priceless.

I've been taking a lot of objective looks at J. this week, as if seeing him for the first time. He's truly a toddler now. Not the infant who came to me a year and a half ago. His nose isn't as flat. His face is thinning out. He's, if not tall, at least taller. And his speech, at last, has come. It's still not where it needs to be, but we can have actual conversations now. He says two- and three-word phrases, and I almost never have to guess why he's crying. He can tell me.

I got J. a haircut today. My daughter had a birthday party to go to, so we had two whole hours to ourselves. I'm supposed to be cutting back on expenses as I prepare for my foster parent subsidy to go away. A haircut was a real indulgence, not really justifiable in the single mom budget. I own clippers and could have cut it, myself. But on the day J. goes to court to become my son legally, I wanted him to have a professional haircut. It looks so much better when a pro does it.  I always cut it uneven, and I can't do that straight buzz to shape the hairline like they do.

I told the hair stylist why we were there, and she asked me J.'s name so she could keep him in her prayers. Then she offered that she loves children, but would never be able to adopt. She said she "got in trouble, once," which I assume meant she's got an arrest record. They check for that as part of the home study.  A felon  wouldn't be approved.

Being a foster parent has really opened my eyes. I truly have led a sheltered life. I grew up poor and knew a few kids who got in minor scrapes with the law here and there, but my parents were careful to keep my sister and I away from serious, hard core thugs. And yet, as a middle-aged, white collar professional, I seem to encounter ex-cons all the time. Each time it happens, I'm a little startled.

I don't know what that hair stylist's story was, but I guess she's landed on her feet. She's got a job, after all. A job that requires a degree from a beauty school. And I suppose I can deduce she's got G-d in her life, since she offered to pray for my son.  There are still happy endings.

It was thoughtful of that lady to say she'd keep my son in her prayers. I'll keep her in mine, too.

"My son."  I sure like the way that sounds.