I'm their real mom.

Foster care is hard. Everyone knows that.

No one really talks about the fact that adoption is hard.

Every time my foster son asks questions about my adopted children's REAL mom or REAL dad, my heart sinks a little.

I AM THEIR REAL MOM.

I held them when they were newborns. I danced with them all night when they went through withdrawals from their "real" mom's drug exposure. I kissed all of their boo boos.

I sang to them, though the songs didn't come as easily with them. The bonding wasn't immediate, like they had grown in my tummy. There was almost always a realization that they weren't mine.

And then they were. They are. They're mine. I adopted them.

I often tell people that I have two home grown, two store bought and two that I'm leasing.

My children. Mine.

My name is on their birth certificates. But not their first birth certificates. And the social security office messed up somewhere so I still have to use their birth names, their REAL names on our taxes and with their insurance.

But they are mine. The boy has my husband's sense of humor, the girl has my sass and fire. The boy has his REAL dad's smile. The girl has her REAL mom's head tilt when when looks at you.

It shouldn't bother me. But it does. It bothers me because the boy tantrums so hard and so violently, but only for women, especially for me.

He screams, "I don't love you!" "I wish you were not my mom!" "You're mean!" "I hate you!"

The girl is starting to mimic. She says all of those except the hate.... She's following his lead.

Would he hate his real mom? I'm his real mom.

Would he wish she wasn't his mom? I'm his mom.

Would he hit his mom? I'm his mom.

I guess he would. He doesn't know any other mom. Why does it hurt? Why is it so hard?

Maybe I'm doing it wrong.

Adoption is a beautiful thing. I'm a saint, they say.

I'm not a saint, I'm just their mom.