I thought that as soon as we signed the paperwork, I would feel like my adopted son was mine.
My husband and I had been fostering him for almost a year. But that whole time we had been in limbo, told repeatedly that the goal was reunification with his parents. So I operated like adoption wasn’t an option. I spent most of that year of his life reminding myself not to get too attached because he wasn’t my son.
But we couldn’t resist wondering if he would eventually become a permanent fixture in our home as well as our hearts. And by the time the state began terminating the parents’ rights, I couldn’t imagine life without him.
It was harder than I expected to unwind that year of uncertainty and turbulence. I kept waiting to feel the change, that shift from “not our baby” to “could be our baby,” then to “yes, our baby.”
I thought that if the courts and government legally recognized him as mine, surely my heart would too.
It didn’t happen. On the day we officially adopted him, I of course felt joy and love. We celebrated with family. But when I tucked him into bed that night, I still felt the itch of “not mine.”
At the time, I was in an adoption social media group and couldn’t find a post that discussed what I was feeling. Most families talked about being grateful and lucky. I was those things too, but I still couldn’t reconcile that feeling that my connection to him was different from my connection to my daughter. I hadn’t spend hours rocking him to sleep or breastfeeding. And that whole first year, I felt I was fighting that mom feeling.
I was relieved the first time my husband uttered my feelings out loud and I had someone I could talk to openly. We agreed that we loved him and we had no regrets about adopting him; but, we also couldn’t dismiss the differences we felt between our two children.
Our adoption story is a strange, but not uncommon, one. My son is my biological nephew and we agreed to foster him because his biological parents were not allowed to take him home from the hospital–we were the only family in the county, so it was either us or strangers. When reunification was taken off the table, we were given the option of adopting him and welcoming him into our family permanently.
Knowing I loved him and knowing he was my son did not magically forge a bond though. With my daughter, it had felt instant. We were bonded by pregnancy and birth, of course: I spent nine months preparing for her, setting up her nursery, picking out adorable outfits, and talking to my belly. With my son, we had less than a week’s notice between being asked if we could foster him and picking him up from the hospital. From the moment my daughter was born, it was just the two of us for over a year, and there was no question about whether or not she would be a permanent member of our family. We went to mommy-and-me yoga. We went on hikes, walks, and meet-ups with a local group of moms and their children.
Although I didn’t recognize it at the time, we were constantly deepening our bond, whether intentionally or not.
On the other hand, I mothered my son for two years without feeling quite like his mother: I cared for him, kissed his owies, celebrated his milestones, and scooped him up when he was crying. I did all the outwardly mom things; if someone saw my two children and me at the park, they wouldn’t be able to tell that I inwardly struggled with my feelings. I was constantly keeping a mental score of whether I treated my two children fairly. If I pushed one on the swings, I would push the other. If I chased one, I would chase the other. If I gave one kisses, I would make a mental note of it until I had the opportunity to give the other kisses, too.
But I knew he deserved better than a mom who had to keep a mental tally of fairness to alleviate guilt, and I got tired of waiting for the bond to strengthen on its own somehow. Instead, I began to create intentional, purposeful moments to forge that bond. Eventually, it shifted from moments I had to orchestrate to moments that–slowly, finally–came naturally.
I started small. I created a bedtime routine that was just the two of us. It was challenging because my daughter and son are close in age, but by pushing her bedtime back just a little bit, I was able to devote 15 minutes of myself completely to my son. We brushed our teeth together, picked out books to read together, and sang “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” each night. I made sure all 12 of his favorite stuffed animals were placed in bed with him, and tucked him in. We ended each day with a positive, peaceful interaction.
Then, I signed us up for mom-and-me-style classes in yoga and gymnastics. By setting aside the time and space to build memories with my son, too, I was able to close that emotional gap between us. I was able to watch him grow and take risks in a place where my only job was to be his mom.
Soon, I started to invite him into the places that already had positive associations in my brain. I took him with me to do the things I loved: hiking, running, strolling Target, and coffee and cookie dates. It wasn’t simply about creating new adventures but embedding him into my daily activities, especially the ones I enjoyed the most. I had, of course, included him in these activities earlier, but my daughter had always been there too. I realized I still did these things one-on-one with my daughter but couldn’t name many instances where it was just my son and me.
These small conscious changes became the catalyst for building the connection I wanted to have with my son. As time went on, it wasn’t something I had to intentionally incorporate–it was just what our relationship looked like. My son has always been sensitive and loving, but the opportunities for bonding seemed to have reciprocal effects. He began interacting with me more, asking me to play more games with him, and sitting in my lap when we read. He became easier to calm down when things did not go his way, and overall tantrums seemed to lessen. It took nearly six months for me to feel the difference, but it was a big difference.
There are many adoption stories out there, but I struggled to find voices echoing what I was feeling. I felt guilty for feeling a difference in the bonds I felt with each of my children. Acknowledging this truth gave me the capacity to change it. Now, a year after I began consciously creating a deep bond with my son, I do not question the differences between my relationship with him and with my daughter. Our relationships will always be different because they are different, but not because I love them differently. A year later, I don’t keep score of kisses and gifts. A year later, my son is unequivocally mine.
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