The Five Little Ducks Blog

Meeting new people has become somewhat of a dreaded task to me. The conversation usually follows this pattern:

New person: “How many kids do you have?”

Me: (gritting my teeth and bracing myself) “Five.”

This is followed by one of two regular responses:

Option 1:

New person: (Their eyebrows shooting up, their mouths dropping, often laughing cynically). “Five? But you look so sane/young!”

Me: (chuckling dryly) “Who says I’m sane?”

Option 2:

New person: Wow! I can barely cope with one/two/three.”

Me: “I remember one. It was still really hard!”

Then comes the inevitable question which leads to having to explain our family’s circumstances.

New person: “So how old are they?”

Me: “I have two seven year olds, two five year olds and my youngest is two and a half.”

New person: “Oh! Are they twins?”

Me: “No… I have three kids of my own and two foster daughters.”

Cue disbelief and awe from the new person.

“You’re a foster parent? Wow… you’re amazing. Super Mum!”

I don’t blame people for responding this way. The younger, cheerier version of myself probably would have done the same. But I can’t help feeling annoyed and even discouraged when I have this exchange with someone.

I’m not amazing.

I’m certainly not super.

I don’t say this from a place of “woe is me” or asking you to feel sorry for me. It is the absolute truth.

I am extremely ordinary. So is my husband.

When we made the decision to take in Miss A and Miss L, we had good intentions, but this does not make us saints. I was just a nice girl who had read too many novels and watched too many movies, who was carried away by an idea of doing a good thing, and how rewarding that act would be, and how richly it would pay off. My husband had been carried along on the tide of my optimism. We adored our own children. Kids in general seemed to like us. Why wouldn’t we love somebody else’s children?

Becoming a foster parent forced me to confront the darkest version of myself, and every time I encounter her, I am disgusted. Sadly, I now understand why all of the step-mothers throughout history got a bad reputation. Raising someone else’s children is extremely difficult. I relate more to Miss Trunchbowl than Miss Honey. Cinderella’s step-mother? Yeah, I get her. It’s very hard not to show favour to the children your own body bore. I used to like Annie, but now I can see how her perky singing and mischievous ways aggravated Miss Hannigan to the point of singing despairingly about “Little Girls”. The callous matron in every orphanage in every historical novel makes so much more sense now. I am not proud of this revelation. I am ashamed.

For every time that I get things right, there are two or more instances where I nagged, nitpicked, reacted rather than responded, and compared the girls to my own children. There is the dark pool of feelings of resentment and frustration. Every day I have to repent, to choose to try to do better, to ask God for help; to love Miss A and Miss L, to be patient with them, and be grateful in all circumstances. Daily my heart drones to God, “Help me. Please help me.”

When somebody tells me that I am amazing, I feel like I’m being placed up on a pedestal that is missing a leg; inevitably, I am going to fall off.

Amazing is a label that simply doesn’t match my mediocre parenting style.

I have had to make peace with “good enough”.

We are doing our best, and hopefully that is good enough. In some moments we fail, and in others we excel. Hopefully that is good enough. Sometimes I ask the children calmly to clean their room, other times I yell it like a banshee. Hopefully that is good enough. Sometimes I am the fun mum who lets the kids have pizza and popcorn in the lounge room for movie night, or who takes the kids to the parks then says yes to ice cream. Sometimes I am the tough mum who forces the kids to wash their filthy hands, to use manners and to eat their least favourite dinners just because I said so. Hopefully that is good enough. Sometimes I feed the children healthy snacks and meals, other times I let them graze on junk food and way too much sugar. Sometimes I make them play outside and say no to technology, other times I let the TV babysit them. Hopefully that is good enough. Sometimes I am present and involved. Sometimes I laugh with the kids and do silly voices. Sometimes I cuddle them and praise them. Other times I am barely keeping it together and I am stressed and I push the children away because I can’t cope with being harassed or touched at that time. Hopefully that is good enough.

I am so grateful for the people in my world who don’t tell me that I am amazing (although I understand the kind intent behind those of you who do). The people who listen to me when I say that I am struggling. Who share a knowing look with me when things are tough. Who acknowledge that certain behaviours are really annoying and that the tension in our home is real. I am thankful for those who share their wisdom with me, and pray with me, and for those who tell me how far the girls have come. I appreciate those people who allow me the grace to be human and who understand that our situation is complicated, for encouraging me that our “good enough” is ok.

Perhaps what is good enough now won’t be good enough in the future, and we will have to grow our parenting skills alongside the children’s ages. That is ok with me. Good enough allows plenty of room for improvement.

I shall leave you with my favourite quote from the original plucky orphan Anne of Green Gables; it is a thought which is often comforting to me.

“Isn’t it nice to think that tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it yet?”

Amen, sister.