My Has Ship Come (On the Ocean)

BY KINAYA ULBRICH

On June 27, 2018, I decided to take back my life. The Universe had dropped all kinds of hints that the time had come for me to move on. God, in His infinite wisdom, deemed me unfit, unworthy, or both, of taking on the greatest role of my existence – the role of being a mom.

It was time for me to “accept life on life’s terms”—words from my beloved mother that I fall back on when I have done all I can with a thing. When my praying, worrying, talking, begging and all the machinations do not yield the result that I want—I start that long, painful journey of accepting life on life’s terms. And now, I had to accept that I would never be a mom. I can still remember saying to myself, “I will not be a mother. I have been and will be a lot of things in life, but I will not be anyone’s mother.” Ironman finisher? Yes! Mother of children? No, ma’am. Not today.

My quest for motherhood had spanned decades. An attempt at biological children ended in heartbreak that I still carry. I imagine that somewhere in the multiverse, those girls, my mom, and me are living our best lives— and my husband is at work funding it all.

They are 20 years old, tall, caramel-colored, freckle-faced gingers—athletic and brilliant, of course.

A decade later, I poured endless amounts of time and money into the dark hole of international adoption right about the time the Ethiopian government deemed US citizens a danger to their “unwanted” Ethiopian children. The adoption agency insisted that I keep with the process but when they requested another $5K, I told them to lose my number.

Langston Hughes asks, “What happens to a dream deferred?” I guess it depends on the dream. Before 2018, I was consumed with mine. The more it was deferred, the more it enveloped me. I could not shake it. At some point, I began to believe that becoming a mom was the only way to honor my own mother, who had fallen inextricably ill in 2011, and whose death absolutely overwhelmed me.

My husband was a compliant accomplice, doing as he was told—give blood, give fingerprints, do a background check, give more money, send your pay stubs. But when I started googling “surrogacy,” he paused.

One day, I finally heard my friend when she asked, “What about fostering?” I don’t remember what I said aloud but in my head I was thinking, “ain’t no way“. After all, I have my limits. I refuse to get involved with CPS (child protective services)! CPS is a mess. I know it is a mess. Those children have issues. Those children are troubled. I do not want to be involved in the welfare system. My life is different. I am different. I am better. (Yikes.)

Then, my friend told me she adopted her son from foster care and I almost fainted. Her family looked as if they were pulled straight from the pages of a Disney movie and I wanted that. So I went for it.

In the interest of brevity, I will not tell you what it took to get certified as foster parents but trust it was tremendous and if you want to do it, trust that you can. It is time-consuming, but not insurmountable. And within 72 hours of being certified, our agency called, asking that we take 2 children. I said no. I was angry and frustrated with them (and told them so) that I had to say no but I specifically requested black or biracial (anything and black) children and was determined to have that.

The very next day, April 7, 2017, the agency called back and said, “We have 2 little African American boys, 18 months and 4 months. This is what you asked for. It’s written right here in your file. You said 2-3 children, as young as possible. And this is an easy case. You’ll probably end up getting these boys. So, are you home now? We will drop them off and get you to sign…”

I was breathless, dazed.

Imagine it. John and I were on the cusp of 50 years old and had been together since high school. We spent weeks at a time in Hawaii every year. I was an avid triathlete. We lived in a small condo in downtown Austin. And all of a sudden, we had babies in our living room. It was a whirlwind and a mess! My inadequacies were laid bare.

JOHN AND I WERE ON THE CUSP OF 50 YEARS OLD AND HAD BEEN TOGETHER SINCE HIGH SCHOOL. WE SPENT WEEKS AT A TIME IN HAWAII EVERY YEAR. I WAS AN AVID TRIATHLETE. WE LIVED IN A SMALL CONDO IN DOWNTOWN AUSTIN. AND ALL OF A SUDDEN, WE HAD BABIES IN OUR LIVING ROOM.

And everything that I feared about CPS came to fruition. We had to interact with the boys’ biological family in unprecedented ways. I did not like it. There were infinite doctors’ appointments, home visits, paperwork, testing, evaluations, case workers, diapers, tantrums, bottles, etc. The boys were beautiful but the oldest one had a meltdown after each family visit—whether his parents showed up or not. It was a nightmare and a dream come true, but still a nightmare.

Then it was over.

Four months after getting the boys, John returned from a hearing (I had to stay home with the boys) and told me we had to pack up their things because the judge ordered that they be returned to their mother. Despite all the upheaval and turmoil, or because of it, we had formed a strong bond with the boys. Our sadness was palpable. We tried to stay upbeat but they knew something was up. They grew so much in the time we had them. All those days of being loved, nurtured, and fed made a difference. At least there was that. We did that for them.

We gave her everything. She took it and then asked for our car seats. Why not? We no longer needed them.

Then, amazingly, she called us the very next day asking that we come get the boys for a few days. We bought new car seats... Over the next year, we were her childcare. We were her main support. The boys were dropped off full of bed bug bites. We told CPS. We told her. We bought all the supplies and toys all over again. They wore the jazzy Honest diapers— the best of everything. Yet, at the end of the visit, she’d say, “I’m coming to get my boys. Where are my boys?” I hated it.

Most of our interactions were frustrating. She always ran late. Nothing could be planned. I would sit around waiting to hear from her and it made me so resentful. Once again, I stopped calling and she stopped calling. She gave us the silent treatment for over six weeks—and I finally let go.

On June 27, 2018 I decided to listen to the Universe and “accept life on life’s terms”…I let go with both hands. My life was good. Maybe we could move to Hawaii. Maybe I could do Ironman at Kona. I knew that my husband wanted me to call her, but I had to protect us.

I finally dismantled the beautiful mahogany crib in our guest bedroom. Dismantling it piece by piece felt like a meditation in surrender. I put all the pieces in our hallway and covered them with a blanket. It was finished.

Then, my phone rang.

My heart did not jump. My pulse did not rise. I listened to everything—all the niceties, all the drama - but felt very detached. Something inside me was broken or mended. I was not sure which. But I said yes to the visit. I knew my husband and my support team would be thrilled but I had just dismantled that bed…

The boys looked awful. The light was gone from their eyes again. Their hair was matted. It was heartbreaking but my heart was not breaking. We did the usual—bubble bath, Classical Baby, delicious foods, cuddles and snuggles—all of their favorites. I made a bed out of a sleeping bag and the babies slept like angels.

Then, the phone rang at around 11 pm, and I heard her breathless voice say, “I have to come get my babies.”

We woke those poor littles up and walked them downstairs to her hot car—without AC. It was about 100 degrees out and we saw she had a third little baby bundled up in winter gear, stuffed in his middle car seat. He gave me a cooky giggle grin. His fat face was red as a tomato. I wanted to cuss her out but instead I offered our concern for her dead or dying relative, bid her adieu, went back upstairs to our cool, comfy condo.

A few hours later, around 3 am, CPS called and asked if we could take the boys. All THREE of them, including the 7-month-old!

When I hesitated (after all, I had let go!), they told me the boys would likely sleep on a cot at the CPS office if we didn’t take them.

So, less than 24 hours after dismantling my dream, we became foster parents to 3 little boys. I fought against it. I told their bio mom that this was temporary, and even asked if there was someone else who could take the youngest. There was not.

Over the next 5 years, our boys never left us, except for a few hours when a judge granted their bio mom unsupervised visits (which she proved was too much for her). We have been their absolute advocates and caretakers. They do not know any different. They are bright, vibrant, smart, rambunctious, and brilliant. They are full of our blood, sweat, and tears—and full of the blood, sweat, and tears of everyone who has been on this journey with us.

When I think back to how detached and removed I felt that fateful night, it puzzles me. When I think of how many times I called to inquire about someone else taking the youngest, who is now the center of my existence, it is bizarre. Maybe my dream was even bigger than I could have imagined and I was protecting myself.

On March 10, 2023, we adopted our boys and I officially became what I thought I’d never be – a mom. We are blessed, grateful, tired, and happy.

What happens to a dream deferred? I’m not really sure. My deferred dream took longer than expected but finally came true.

Note: There are over 28,000 children in foster care in Texas alone. A large proportion of them are black and brown.