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I am a happily married, suburban mother and wife. I am also a foster parent.  And the adoptive mother of a beautiful four-year-old daughter. She is black and I am white. Which isn’t a big deal, but it is.
Sometimes at night, I lay awake and think, question, and second guess myself.  All the things that happened during my day replay and I wonder if I am doing it right, this mothering gig, not only as an older mom, but as a mom who is not black, and if that matters anyway. So, I thought I would share some of the things that I stay awake to over-analyze.  I hope that I won’t offend people, but I’m sure I will.  So, these next several posts will be about her. And me. And the impossible goal of getting it right as a Mom.
Last summer, my Little Miss and I spent some of our afternoons out on the back porch.  We took her figurines out there with a bucket of sidewalk chalk.  Sometimes we drew flowers and butterflies, hearts and stars.  Other days we drew elaborate neighborhoods complete with parks and ponds (and once a horse corral) for her figurines.  I loved being outside in the dappled sunlight, creating with her while listening to her happy chatter. Then one day, I stepped inside to answer the phone, and when I came back out, she was sitting there on the porch, rubbing white chalk up and down her leg.
“Oh no, Cadence,” I told her.  “Chalk is for the porch, not your leg.”
“But Mommy,” she said.  “I want my skin to look like yours.”
Have you ever hurt so much that you thought you could feel your heart shatter?  My first thought was about all the nights when I put her to bed.  I would walk with her, cuddling her little chubby body and rubbing her back while I told her about how God designed her.  I would talk about his marvelous plan for her and then name body part after body part, from her precious toes to every curly hair on her head, all designed for her by the Creator, to make our perfect baby girl. I was trying to remember if I had named her skin.  I thought I must have.  How could I have left that out?  I must have praised her beautiful skin.  It looks like Nutella; how could I not praise that? My next thought was “what have we done?”  I pictured a wide curvy road, paved with white chalk, and my stupid, naïve thoughts, leading us straight to hell. Why did I think that I could raise this child? How could I do this to her?  She would live her whole life comparing herself to me. Would she think that I was teaching her things, not because I was her Mommy, but because I was white? Would growing up in a white family her make her feel inferior? I was so panicked, I called a friend.
“Hello?”
“Hi, T.  You’re black.”
“Well, yes I am.”  Laughter.  “What’s up?”
I told her. And then I related my story and my fears and my guilt, and asked for her opinion.
“I think it’s healthy.  She is identifying with her Mommy. That’s normal.  And you are seeing some things you want to address. Just be intentional. But I think you’re fine.”
I hung up the phone and thought about it. She wanted dance lessons.  I decided to sign her up for a class with a black female instructor.  I wanted her to identify with me, for sure.  But I also wanted her to see successful black women that were worthy of emulating, I wanted her to identify with strong women that looked like her. I signed her up the next month with a place that said the instructor was black.
Then, that night, after her bath, when we were smoothing her lotion down her legs and massaging it into her little toes, I did it.  I praised her beautiful skin, clean and glowing in the bathroom mirror, and we talked about how cool it was that God could imagine people and put so many on the earth who were different, but the same. Because that’s a big deal, in a good way.