Anything is Possible

Is a mother something one becomes only when something is born of their womb?

Is it possible that a mother is something one becomes when metaphoric strings attach a child to their heart? Is it possible that a mother is something one becomes even though a child might not know she is out there, waiting patiently? Is it possible that a mother is something one becomes when they care for something so deeply-- because it relies on them infinitely? Is it possible that a mother is something one becomes who is make-believe and seen in the likeness of someone who took her place while she was absent? Is it possible that a mother is something one becomes when they vow into marriage? Is it possible that a mother is something one becomes by accident or by miracle? Is it possible that a mother is something one becomes because they imagine it is possible?

I never imagined the things I could not be...only the things I would become.

Thank you to my mother, who had me (and my womb-mate) many years ago, so that I may begin to know the joy of what becoming a mother is.

Gotta Go Back...Back...Back to School Again

I feel like I am four years old again, mixing together my favorite Garanimals top with my favorite, non-matchy, Garanimals bottoms-- to prepare for my first day at Kindergarten. Butterflies swirling as I mentally imagine how my day will unfold. Looking my teacher in the eyes, doing my best not to lisp when I speak, paying attention and not drifting off into oblivion at the first thought of recess; these are the things I wonder, if in a strange environment, I might be able to do.  Other than following a group of children home to their house, instead of walking to my house, the way I had been shown, my first year at school was relatively tolerable. 

Fast forward 36 years later and I am once again entering into an unfamiliar educational environment: pre-adoption parenting classes. This is a requirement of the foster-care/adoption system, and the butterflies are coming out of hiding as I mentally prepare for this adventure. Though my lisp is long gone, insecurities stack up like a house of cards.

The questions  begin to collect like fireflies in a jar: 

Will I be a suitable parent?

Will the other parents judge me for being a single parent?

As the classes progress and we discuss personal things on a group-level, will they disconnect when they learn I am gay?

Do they think my creative appearance will hinder my ability to provide structure?

Will they want me on their team of support systems?

I begin to feel like I am back in the sandlot of my childhood, and I am torn between digging a hole to hide in- because I don't want to be put in a categorical box-- or building a castle to queen, so I can prove that I am brave and competent.

So I put on my most comfortable jeans and my oldest t-shirt,  tie up my braids, and head out to class. I set the butterflies free.

I decide that just for tonight, it is okay to take a deep breath and remember that I have worked in the education field for the last 20 years, and though this particular experience is new to me, I have been a metaphorical parent for years-- nurturing, protecting, loving, and teaching-- and translating opportunities into experience.