by Sarah Abbott

Our family story would not be complete without this chapter. These two “littles” have brought to us what was missing. Thank you to their mother for expanding and enriching our world and also for sharing these words.

For all my life, there have been parts of my story I know, not because I remember them, but because those who came before me held the memories and passed them on to me. I know about the Kansas heat the summer I was born and the doctor singing the Sara Lee jingle when he learned my name. I know about the road trip to Colorado in my first weeks of life and the portable baby bed crafted out of a cardboard box.

It’s different with my children. When we first met in 2016, they already had lives and experiences which I cannot speak to. I do not hold their earliest memories, and these stories are not mine to share. The first time I met my son was in a conference room full of caseworkers where he anxiously paced the perimeter of the room, looking out the windows and listening to music on his toy. He was a bundle of movement, pacing the floors, drumming every surface and making music everywhere he went. I brought him home four days later.

He was so tiny that at seven years old, he could still easily fit in my lap or ride on my back while I completed chores and made dinner. The day I brought my son home, I spoke to my daughter for the first time. I called her to introduce myself and give her an update on her brother, and from our very first conversation I was struck by her incredible tenderness towards her siblings and her willingness to show me, a complete stranger, an abundance of grace. Our relationships happened individually and over time. I got to know my son over hours of pushing him on the swings at the park, taking walks, building forts, and carrying him in my arms and on my back. My daughter and I connected over weekend visits and family outings until she was no longer visiting, she was just home. Over a summer of jigsaw puzzles, camping trips, family dinners and evening tea we became a family of three.

Over the past seven years we have created our own shared family history, inside jokes, rituals and traditions. We often reminisce together: remember the Christmas we tried to go to the light show that had been sold out for weeks or the time we nearly burned down the porch with the ladybug firecracker? Remember when we went to the drive-in movie and Kiko took a bite out of the car’s steering wheel? There is the week we spent at the beach, seeing the ocean for the first time and the months of Covid spent baking and having movie marathons.  There are years of collected memories now, many good, some hard, just like every family.

My kids are their own remarkable people filled with unique traits for which I can take no credit: My son’s silky, soft hair, long eyelashes and intricate drumming rhythms. My daughter’s beautiful skin, artistic talent and love of animals. None of this comes from me. Yet, over time, we have shared pieces of ourselves with each other. My daughter has inherited my mom’s pie baking skills. My son shares my dad’s love for nature and road trips.

My son is teaching me to appreciate hip hop music and be present in the here and now. My daughter is teaching me to be more emotionally honest and to approach life with curiosity. I know I don’t get to choose which traits of mine my kids will adopt. My hope is that my influence in their life doesn’t ever change who they are but encourages them to fully be themselves. My hope is that whatever else they take from me, first and foremost, they know they are loved unconditionally

Although I am not genetically related to my kids and the three of us are very unique individuals, we also share a lot of similarities. We share a love for soft blankets, cozy spaces and warm lighting. We share an appreciation for honest conversations and being together in silence. We share an understanding that there is value in our differences and communication is more than words. Over the years we have developed our own shorthand of whistles, clicks and quacks that communicate nothing specific but everything important. It means we listen to one another, both what is spoken and unspoken. It means we see one another both our uniqueness and similarities. It means we speak each other’s language. And when one of us calls, the others will answer.