This week’s post from my Foster Parent Diary series at the New York Times’ Motherlode blog, running every Tuesday through July.
My 3-year-old foster son, BlueJay, is playing on the living room floor, running toy trains around a track, when he suddenly looks up and asks: “Is this my house? Is this my blue house?” I look back at him in surprise. We’ve had a bit of a rough morning and I’m surprised to see his scowl suddenly replaced by this new, perplexed expression.
“It sure is, honey,” I tell him. “We all live here. Me, Daddy, Ryan and you. This is our home.”
He frowns for a moment; I know he is not quite convinced. He asks again: “I live here? This is my home?”
“Yes, it is,” I tell him. “I’m so happy you live here with us.”
“Oh, that’s so nice, Mommy,” he says, his face relaxing. “I’m so glad, too. And you take me to fun places? Like the park and the playground?”
“I sure do.”
“And you call me your ‘honey?’ And you call Ryan your ‘sweets?’ ”
“That’s right. You’re my honey, and Ryan is my sweets.”
He nods and picks his trains back up, this time with a little smile on his face.