Turning to my Mothers

I think past stories and life experiences are called to the front of your mind for a reason.

At our fost-adopt training last month we talked about how to welcome in a new family member. They call it "claiming" meaning what do you do to make that child feel like they belong in your home and you accept them as one of you. There were several ideas given like buying them a new comforter for their bed in their favorite color and decorating or painting the room to match, or maybe assigning them a spot at the table or the couch with the family, or putting them on the chore chart. My favorite though was adding their picture to the wall of family pictures and taking a new family picture with him or her in it.

As we talked about these ideas I recalled a memory I haven't thought about since the time it occurred. I had a good friend in Provo that I have since lost touch with. Lanae and Eric we newly weds like Mike and I were at the time. Eric and Mike served in the same mission and Lanae and I had similar tastes and enjoyed a lot of the same things. I made her a bumper pad and curtains for her nursery when her first baby was born.

One time we stopped by Lanae's parent's house (also in Provo) to pick something up. It seemed to me that Lanae was nervous about me coming in to her parents and would have preferred I wait in the car, but she knew that was weird, so invited me in. Her mom was much older than my mom. Her mom seemed distant at the time, but it seemed like she was for Lanae, not because she was that way herself. We passed the staircase in her parent's home on our way out and I saw the family picture wall. Except it didn't look like a typical family picture wall. There was 12+ kids on it, all different ages, all difference races. Some of the pictures were dated, one son was a young adult in the 70's, yet Lanae was a teenager in the 90's. I was puzzled.

When we got to the car, I asked Lanae about the pictures. She was uncomfortable about it, but still answered. Her parents were foster parents and she and many of her siblings were adopted. Some of the people on the wall were in their home for a time, but were never adopted. I could tell she was worried about what I thought and didn't like to talk about it. So I just said oh. And something like, your parents must be very nice, loving people. I think I said something about my adopted cousin and that adoption is a good thing. I tried to be positive and brief. Because she was uncomfortable, I didn't bring it up again.

I wish I was still in touch with her, but I haven't talked to her since, I think 1999. But I remember the wall now and I wonder what my wall will look like someday.

Another memory that came to mind this week was a story my dad has told me several times since I was a little girl. It's about his great grandma. She lived in Randolf, Utah in I'm guessing the mid to late 1800's. She and her husband were cattle ranchers. Randolf has harsh Winters with lots of snow and super hot dry Summers. I've visited the cemetery there a few times in the heat of Summer. It's a small, rural, very old Utah town, rich with my family history. I alwasys know if I meet someone with family from Randolf we are somehow connected.

My great, great grandma was known as a hard working, strong, good woman by both the people in town and her neighbors. The local Indians, which many people were afraid of, also knew her to be a good and kind person. She has developed a repor with them through smiles and kind gestures, like meals or snacks when they stopped by to visit.

One Winter an Indian woman came to her just as the seasons were changing. The Indians migrated South each Winter where it was warmer. (I'm sure tee-pees are not very warm when it's -10 with the wind chill.) It was common knowledge that they would leave and return each Spring. The Indian woman had a small baby with her. She gave my great, great grandma her baby and with gestures and facial expressions asked her to keep the baby for the Winter. Surely the Indian woman was concerned her baby would survive the migration or the Winter if she kept the baby with her. She decided the baby had a better chance with my great, great grandma. My grandma kept the baby through the Winter, caring for it and loving it, and then returned it to it's mother when she came back to the house in the Spring.

How did that work? I suppose it was a lot simpler then, no CPS, no social workers, just two good ladies trying to do what was best for the baby. No words, only love. If I remember right, my great, great grandma did this a few times and had that repor with the local Indians. What a great lady. How lucky am I to call her grandma.

So I suppose my mind must be searching for others like me . . . or perhaps its my heart. Whatever it is, I'm grateful I'm not alone. Grateful for those who have done it before whatever the circumstances, because it helps me believe I can do it too. It helps me know it will be ok and its a good and right thing to do. And as I think about it, that's why I'm a foster mom.