Grief of Parenthood
I was a mother and now I’m not.
Four days after the passing of my father-in-law, my wife and I welcomed our foster son. He came to us at five months old, barely sitting up on his own, and deliciously full of baby rolls. Twenty months later, he left our home and went to live with his biological mother for the first time in his life. We were parents for almost two years, but that title was taken from us.
Realistically we understood that fostering was meant to be temporary. But simultaneously, the care workers from the Department of Children’s Services implied that adoption or guardianship would be likely. Conversations went from “we’re pulling for you to adopt him” to “the bio-mom is doing well in her program and reunification will likely happen soon.” We lost him in slow motion. It was a terrifying and excruciating journey.
On the final days he was here, we worked on his baby book. It was a little treasure that his first foster family crafted during his months with them. It was so special to have visuals and milestones mapped out from his newborn months. Images of him asleep on the previous foster mom’s chest just days after being born and ones of him rolling over for the first time while the foster dad played guitar. So, we added to these gems with photos of the two Halloweens, two birthday parties, two Christmases, and countless milestones he experienced with us. We listed off his favorite foods, songs, and games. We tried to give his bio-mom a glimpse into his unique toddler language and what some of his quirks were.
My favorite additions to the book were handwritten letters. The first foster family wrote a letter to the baby and one for us as we took on his care. We followed their tradition by writing a heartfelt letter to him that we hope he’ll read one day and one for his bio-mom to thank her for letting us be in his village. We later learned that this book was never opened, letters never read, and efforts unnoticed.
We had to accept that our grieving moments were her moments of rebirth. We poured our hearts into that book, expecting closure. In truth, maybe she didn’t need to know everything, but rather needed to learn for herself and build new memories with him.
We openly grieved losing him. We cried a lot, leaned on our support system, and discussed coping methods in therapy. We worked for months to heal and navigate what our new normal was as a childfree couple.
Even though I was devastated when he had to leave, during those years with him, I grieved older versions of myself. Missing the flexibility to come and go as I pleased, the closeness with my spouse during our pre-baby late night walks, and I especially missed, the version of me that was happy and calm. I was a hollow shell of myself and was extremely unhappy when he was here. I don’t believe I was meant to parent. This is one of the raw and authentic pieces I am sharing with you. Consider yourself a close friend.
My struggle was not with him; it was with the tiny losses we experienced when he came. Freedom, sleep, energy, money, slow mornings, clean house. Some parents will tell you, none of these things matter or that your love for your child will outweigh these losses. I’m an honest person, so I’ll tell you. For me, that love wasn’t big enough to conquer my personal losses. I was too selfish to be a good parent. I was good to him, made countless sacrifices, I poured into him but really, my wife was the best parent. So, my heart broke even more to see her lose him.
Being a mother took so much from me, and I truly struggled during that season. But then when he was gone, I mourned motherhood more deeply than I expected. I missed the nuances of clearing toys, folding onesies, and trying to figure out the source of mysterious stains. I missed dance parties to 90’s music, giggles paired with running feet, and the soft curls on his crown. The weeks after he left, I wept on the floor of his room, in the shower, in the car…I felt empty and broken.
Let me not mistake my grief for longing. Although it was heartbreaking to lose him and the hope of long-term parenting, it was a relief to return to who I’d been. I was grateful to sleep through the night and sleep past six in the morning. I spent my days looking forward to those regular starry sky walks with my love that we embraced during the pandemic and that were lost when he came. I was excited not to catch the monthly daycare germs. I finally felt like I was myself again and it was nice to also save some money.
Just when I thought I was good and all healed up, a moment of recognition would find me. Months after he left us, I was faced with the closed door of his room. A museum of what once was and a painful reflection of what would never be. I would slide in and out to grab a roll of paper towels or to open a window but otherwise the room was frozen in time and collected dust. In time I found the courage to disassemble the crib, box up old clothes, and throw away items he’d never need.
We had several friends with babies or who were pregnant during this season and our intention was to pass along some toys, clothes, and other items. But nothing prepared us for the ache of sorting through his clothes – clothes he never got to wear and clothes he’d grown out of. We sent bags of clothes with him and still, the room was a shrine. Each time we entered the room, it was labor. But each time we passed items to another family, it was healing.
Eventually, we felt strong enough to let friends in to take what they needed for their families. The pain began to dull with the reassurance that we were doing something meaningful for someone else. So many people poured into our family when he was here — new toys, hand-me-down clothes, boxes of diapers. We were grateful for it all and knew that we needed to pass those blessings along. We drove donations to different non-profits and were welcomed warmly and with gratitude for the car seats, strollers, unopened toys, and designer clothes. All of it packed and given away to other people who needed more — people who had children.
I set some memorable clothing to the side for us. The onesie he wore to his first Pride event, the elephant Halloween costume, the glow in the dark dinosaur footie pajamas. These were the special moments; these were the items that traveled us back in time. I sent them to a local quilter to freeze the memories for us. The quilt arrived just days before our first Mother’s Day without him in two years.
The first time he spent the night with us was a Mother’s Day weekend. He was a pudgy little human, serious and calm. I remember looking at him in wonder — not in a loving way, but in a terrified way. What the hell are we getting into? But my love, she looked at him and was fully consumed with pure admiration. He’d captured her, she was his. In those first hours, they already seemed made for each other. He even looked like her a little bit. It seemed meant to be…until it wasn’t.
Witnessing my wife lose him was harder than experiencing the grief myself. I watched her lose him in stages and pieces. After every quarterly court date or monthly visit with the caseworker, I could see her faith in the process depleting. Each time someone would mention reunification, I could feel her spirit break just a little more. The tears of frustration were always followed by agonizing cries, It’s just not fair.
After a while, I decided I was fully prepared to lose him. I understood that each time someone mentioned him returning to his bio-mom, the more likely it was to actually happen. I fully understood what each phase of the process indicated. He started with one-hour weekly visits with his bio-mom, then two hours twice a week, then three days a week. Visits going from fully supervised to partially supervised to unsupervised over time. Based on what they’d warned us; I knew that the increase in visits and trust in her ability to be alone with him meant that they were moving towards making a decision for him to leave us. Even with all this understanding, I was ill-prepared for the moments of crushing pain I’d feel when he left. There was a void in our home and in our hearts. Despite my overconfidence in being prepared, his departure gutted me.
A few months before the judge’s decision for him to reunite with his mom, we wrote a letter to the court. We pleaded with the judge to let him be ours, to give us guardianship, and that we’d still be willing to include his mother in his life. We explained that he was a deeply rooted member of our family and that our village would continue to surround him with love. We pleaded and were denied multiple times. The resentment and anger we felt toward the process permeates every conversation we have.
I could write endlessly about the lack of communication, confusing policies, secrecy versus privacy — all the hardships we experienced while working with the State during our fostering. And maybe some of that frustration plays into why losing him was so painful. Maybe it’s because we found out he was leaving via text message on New Years Eve from a caseworker we’d never met. Maybe it’s because when we’d verbalize issues with someone, we’d be met with blank stares or silence. Maybe it’s because caseworkers along the way got our hopes up when they told us they really believed we’d get to adopt him. All of the heartache we felt from him leaving was compounded by the dozens of people we worked with who let us down.
When we found out he was leaving, I was laser focused on two priorities. First, my concern for my wife during this time of mourning and two, my focus on the logistics of preparing him to leave. What I didn’t anticipate was the radiating heartache from loved ones. People who he called auntie, Gaga, Mimi, Gigi…people who loved him as much as we did.
Selfishly, I’ll admit that I wasn’t in the place to care for anyone’s emotions other than my wife and myself. We were very clear about that from the beginning. We had to choose our own wellbeing for a while. I’m not saying that was the right choice or not. I don’t know if pushing away our mothers during this extremely painful time was the best decision, but we had to choose our household first. We needed to hold each other, sob together, and rebuild together. We needed to take time, apart from others' opinions and emotions, to come to terms with what our family would look like moving forward. I don’t believe this was fully selfish but maybe more like self-preservation.
I sympathized with our friends who had to break the news to their children who called him their cousin. I understood the random bouts of tears from my mother who was closer to him than I even was at times. I respected the frustration from family members who went into fight-mode as if that would fix anything. I appreciated the daycare workers who wanted to write letters to the court on our behalf. My love for all of them grew during this time but my desire to care for my wife, turn inward for healing, and figure it all out on my own was overwhelming. I could not find a way to politely express that I didn’t care about how they were feeling. I found myself deflecting and minimizing my feelings at times just to move the conversations along quickly.
Whenever I start to feel consumed by the ache of him being taken away, I have to dig through that muck to find the joy and gratitude. Gratitude that we were able to play a role in his life and that we can still see his smiling face even if it’s through a phone. I must remind myself that he is still breathing, still laughing, and still growing. He is still alive and that needs to matter more than my pain. Typically, when I’m upset, I absolutely hate it when people respond “Well, at least…” but somehow in this grief, I am glad he’s at least living.
This healing and grieving are ongoing. Now that his bedroom is a reimagined guest room and his belongings are tucked in the garage, I don't fear stepping inside anymore. The random tears still come when I wonder how he is, but we are molding a peaceful life. We are finding contentment in it being just us forever. We are finding each other again and it’s magical.
Motherhood comes with waves of grief. Grieving older versions of yourself, grieving younger versions of your littles, and inevitably grieving separations from your child. I know we were only his moms for two years, but in that time, we built deep bonds, witnessed countless milestones, and made life-altering sacrifices. Although he’s still alive, this is a chapter of our lives that we will always mourn and continue to heal from.
-Arielle Dance
Arielle Dance, PhD, lives in New Jersey with her wife and chihuahua-terrier. Dr. Dance is a writer on topics of disabilities, grief, and self-advocacy. She is published across multiple platforms and has an award-winning children’s book, Dearest One, that focuses on words of wisdom from a grandmother. Her children's book manuscript, Miss Mimi's Welcomes All, won second place in the 2023 Black Voices in Children's Literature Writing Contest. She is the writer at Diversability, an organization that amplifies disabled experiences.