How My Adopted Son Is Learning the True Meaning of ‘Mother’

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At just four years old, my adopted son recently celebrated his first Mother’s Day. Like many mothers, I’ve grappled with feelings of inadequacy, often believing I’m not enough, that I fall short, and that I struggle to balance work and home life. I’ve carried the guilt of not measuring up, convinced that I’m failing in the motherhood role.

Let’s be honest: my cooking skills wouldn’t make it into a cookbook. My kids might even say that their favorite dish from me is something I call “Ramen Surprise.” This culinary masterpiece is likely only appreciated by those under 18 or adults who have lost their sense of taste. I’ve been known to skip pages in bedtime stories, especially when faced with “Green Eggs and Ham” for the umpteenth time. Repeating those lines too often can lead to a bit of mania, and sometimes I find myself accidentally reciting them to my patients at work in a singsong voice:

I do not like this one so well,  
All he does is yell, yell, yell.  
I will not have this one about,  
When he comes in, I put him out.  
This one is quiet as a mouse,  
I like to have him in the house.

Some days, I realize I haven’t checked my children’s backpacks in days, leaving me to rely on them to remind me of upcoming field trips or themed hair days. Typically, this doesn’t end well, unless it’s crazy hair day and they head to school with uncombed hair. And I’ve also felt a sense of gratitude for school during those endless rainy days. Yes, I’ve carried these feelings of inadequacy and often worried that I fall short as a mother. Scrolling through social media, especially Facebook or Pinterest, only amplifies this feeling. With six children to manage, it’s hard to keep pace with what seems like a flawless motherhood standard.

This year marked Israel’s first Mother’s Day, an event that held deep meaning for both of us. Surprisingly, I’ve started to feel less inadequate. Israel is showing me the essence of motherhood. Labeled as malformed at birth with legs that don’t function, he was designed by God with a heart that beats for me. I am his safe haven; the instant he wakes up or sees me walk through the door, his eyes brighten and his arms reach out for me. Through him, I’m beginning to understand what it truly means to be a mother.

Being a mom isn’t about perfection or achieving some set ideal. Israel is slowly revealing to me what a mother truly embodies. It’s a beautiful journey because he has no preconceived notion of what a mother should look like. What does a mother mean to a child who has never known one? What does she feel like, or smell like?

For four years, Israel sat alone, shivering in his crib without someone to cover him when he was cold, kiss his scrapes, or wipe away his tears. He learned to endure the chill of neglect, to be emotionless and silent. He didn’t experience the comforting aroma of cookies baking or the sweet scent of mommy’s perfume. Instead, he was surrounded by the sterile smells of an orphanage and the fear that accompanied it. He was confined, never allowed outside, and his breath carried the scent of decay from untreated teeth. Meals were served in tin cups, devoid of love and warmth, with no birthday cakes or special treats to savor.

There was no joyous, playful mother to chase him around, tickle him, or play peek-a-boo. He learned that the world could be a cold and unforgiving place, where love had to be earned. Yet, through him, I see that being a mother is refreshingly simple. For Israel, my kisses on his boo-boos, gentle hugs, and warm embraces define the love of a mother. I’m his protector, the one who watches over him and keeps him safe from harm. My encouragement and support provide him the strength to face life’s challenges. My scent, a blend of fresh laundry and outdoor air, is now his comfort.

Every night, as I tuck Israel into bed, a familiar routine unfolds. He pats his pillow, asking, “Mommy, night, night?” I lay beside him, our faces close, and he asks, “Israel’s mommy?” His tiny fingers trace my cheeks, and his searching eyes seem to seek reassurance. This moment is a profound question of belonging—a boy defining what a mother is. He wraps his little arms around my neck, and I breathe in the sweet scent of his baby soap mingled with his warm breath.

“Israel’s mommy?” he asks again. Yes, my precious boy, I am your mommy, and I am enough.

For more insights on parenthood, check out our post on defining family through love and connection at Cervical Insemination. If you’re looking for an at-home insemination kit, Make a Mom is a reputable online retailer. Additionally, for those considering fertility options, March of Dimes offers excellent resources.

In summary, motherhood is a journey of love, learning, and connection. Through my adopted son, I’ve discovered that being a mother isn’t about perfection; it’s about being present, nurturing, and loving unconditionally.


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