Our kids aren’t really “ours,” you know? We’re foster parents, and the kids will very likely return to their family of origin at some undefined point in time. We don’t get to keep them. I’m not their dad.
But when the toddler screams “Dada!” in the night, I go to her as if I am.
And when she needs to be picked up and held, I do it as if I am.
And when she needs to be cuddled until she falls asleep again, I do it as if I am.
And when she needs to be laid back down in her bed, I do it with the utmost precision so as not to wake her–as if I am.
And for just that moment, and moments like it, I am theirs and they are mine.
