I have never considered myself very maternal. I make babies cry and I really do not understand the appeal of them. Puppies I totally get; babies, not so much. For much of my life motherhood was something I intended to do someday but in recent years it had started to feel like an alien concept.
So when I unexpectedly became a mother to a 7 year old girl, I am smart enough and self-aware enough, to know, I should have been better prepared.
In 2008 we were asked to take custody of a relative of my husband whose own parents were unable to raise her. I had met her once and had just one memory of her kicking the family dog, which did not endear her to me; but still, we did not hesitate. She needed a family, and we could make one.
In the weeks before she moved to our home, I was a buzz of activity and planning. I painted and decorated her bedroom in an explosion of pink (it looked like a My Little Pony stable had imploded). I dragged out my childhood books and toys, enrolled her in school, and identified every sporting club in a 20km radius. I had plans and at the top of the to-do list was, “be a perfect mother”.
There were a series of bureaucratic processes that needed to happen before we could take custody, but like any bureaucratic machine, progress was slow and I spent many hours on the phone pushing, prodding, and demanding results. I was louder and pushier than I had ever been. I barely knew this child but I loved her already. I felt that slaying the bureaucratic monster was my first battle in a lifetime and I was determined to fight for this little girl. I was a mother and my sword was drawn.