I type the code into the iPad, an eight-digit date that rings eerily close to the anniversary of meeting my ‘bonus’ son’s father: 08262017. An image flashes across the screen—a sweet girl swaddled in her sleepsack, thumb in mouth, already drifting off to bed.
I have been babysitting for over two decades. The same routine of evening meals, bath time, diaper changes, snuggles, books, and rocking to sleep, warm milk in hand. I’ve held hundreds of babies, smiled down at their cherub faces, and nuzzled them into their beds. I’ve wiped tears and did my fair share of gentle ‘ssshhhing’ until they felt secure enough to close their eyes.
Each night, each baby, I imagined as my own. For a fleeting moment, I pictured my arms heavy from carrying them to kitchen, to sofa, to dinner table, to crib. I thought about what it would be like to have my own brown eyes reflected back at me.
I wondered if I’d be ready when it was my time.
Over the years, I found comfort in caring for children who weren’t my own. I think that’s why, when given the opportunity to love one deeply, to raise him, to be there for the highs and lows, to claim him for more than just a fleeting night while parents ran off to the movies or a dinner date—I leaned in.
At the time, I didn’t realize the gravity of the choice. I think, in part, because loving another person’s child never felt scary or strange. Even as young as ten years old at the park, young children who scraped their knees or got pushed from the monkey bars by their four-year-old frenemies would run to me, arms outstretched.
In college, when I took up a job at the local daycare, whether I was placed in the infant room, toddler room, or with elementary-aged kids, they would gravitate to me, displaying their multi-colored bandaids, telling me about how their mom and dad got in a fight, or lean into my chest as I rocked them for their afternoon nap.
Even now, in my thirties, I can’t go anywhere without a young child gaping at me from her stroller or the seat in her mother’s shopping cart. If I happen to cross paths with a child on his scooter, he’ll stare at me as if he knows me, so much so that there’s a chance he’ll lose balance. And instinctively, I’ll reach for him, right him back on his feet again.
I’m the one at parties standing next to the pool, always on alert for a little one walking too close. On the camping trips, you can find me supervising the children rather than swapping stories around the fire. My best friends laugh because no matter where we go, the kids (and the dogs) find me. There’s something about that motherly instinct that runs deep in my soul.
My therapist says it’s biology (and astrology, too, if I want to lean into that). My sister claims it’s because I grew up protecting her. My best guy friend from high school thinks it’s the way I’ve always been. I still remember the words he told me, slightly intoxicated, the night before I left for college, “You’ll be the best mother someday. Hands down.”
Being a mother always felt like it was in my blood.
Until one day, I realized it might not be.
Not because of health, not because of infertility, not even because of age, or finances, or fear. (At least that’s what I tell myself.) The day I decided I didn’t want to be a mom was the day my ‘bonus’ son’s biological mother told me she was pregnant.
I remember exactly where I was—in my car in a parking lot, leaving a relaxing yoga and sound bath session. And I remember how I felt—gutted—like I couldn’t breathe. She and I had just gotten into an argument about time, about dates, about where our son would spend Mother’s Day, and about how she wanted to surprise him with her ‘great news.’ I had conceded, as I always did, defaulting to the role I thought I was supposed to play—empathetic, understanding—taking a back seat to the ‘real’ mother on her special weekend.
But my stomach had twisted into knots. There was something about the way she said those words, something about her uninhibited excitement. Something about the way she didn’t consider, not even for a second, how her other son would feel. I was, if I’m being completely honest, oddly jealous of this.
And when I hung up that phone call, something inside me broke.
And I know it sounds silly, because one person’s journey into parenthood (whether it’s their first, second, or fifth time) doesn’t negate another’s. I know that her path, while connected to mine by strings of biology and broken love, is—and would always be—independent of my own. And I know that just because she has the luxury of bringing another child into the world while I carried (and still carry) the weight of the one she left behind, shouldn’t change my own story. . . I couldn’t help but feel that a chapter was closing.
Sitting in that car in the Southern California sun, I realized that I didn’t want to bring a child into the world. All I wanted was to give the little man I already called my own the life he deserved.
And now, as I glance at the baby monitor with the baby girl whose parents are eating dinner and watching a beautiful Saturday sunset, I feel a strange sense of peace. I have spent two decades—close to twenty years of my life—caretaking, snuggling, comforting, and loving children who are not my own.
I have spent a decade with one in my home, reading stories, giving bedtime kisses, driving to and from school, teasing, facilitating playdates and hangouts, listening to stories—loving as purely and selflessly as I could.
I always thought that I wanted to be a mother, that I wanted to bring my own baby into the world and watch him or her laugh like me, or reach out their hand for me, or look into my eyes with lips tethered to my chest as we both drifted off to sleep.
I used to watch other people’s babies and think that one day I would have the privilege, the honor, the immensely beautiful responsibility of creating life and protecting it with the same ferocity I had for all these other little lives across the years.
But I don’t anymore.
Because I am already a mother—for a night, for a string of Saturdays, for hundreds of little faces over years and years of walking into strangers’ homes and loving without hesitation.
I am already a mother—for an eight-year-old boy who once said, ‘I love you,’ in the darkness of his room when I tucked him in to sleep. For a ten-year-old boy who called me when he didn’t feel good at school, knowing I’d pick up on the first ring. For a twelve-year-old boy who sat side-by-side with me at the kitchen table, doing our homeschool lesson. For a fourteen-year-old boy who squeezed my hand before stepping out of the car for Freshman Orientation. For a sixteen-year-old boy who said, ‘Thank you for all you do for me,’ unprompted, on his birthday.
For a young man who has lived in my home—and my heart—for nearly a decade, filling every crevice and space with joy, and laughter, and healing.
So, no. I don’t feel emptiness, or sadness, or longing when I think about becoming a mother. I don’t wish for a child of my own.
The young man who stands next to me, side-by-side as we brush our teeth in the bathroom mirror, may not bear any resemblance to me. We may not share biology, eye color, or even a last name.
But our hearts are sewn together, always.
And when I look at him, I know that he is the motherhood story I never anticipated—the story that is different, yes—but so much more than I could have asked for. So much more than enough.
Featured Image Credit: Nataliya Melnychuk