We’ve been watching The Fosters, because apparently the teenager version of myself is still inside. I am in love with the drama, the romance, the family moments, the heartbreak, the whole shebang. It helps that it does an okay job, for a television show, of talking about fostering/adoption. It’s not brilliant or raw as life really is, but it’s better than I imagined (perhaps a low bar).
Anyways, this is not meant to be a television show review. It’s just that there’s a scene where Jude, the foster child, is yelling at Jesus. “It’s my room! This is my room too!” He throws his hat at him. The moms give Jude a lecture — no throwing things, no hitting, zero tolerance, yadda-yadda-yadda… Jude leaves the room. The moms squeal. They hug each other. “He threw something at him! Just like a brother!”
I totally get this. Many times over.
The first time was a long car ride back from a far away city. Well, an hour. I guess an hour is not that bad, but it was that day. Little Man was singing, humming, and saying something repeatedly – I think it was before the “chicken butt, chicken butt” days. Diva did NOT like it. She started to push him. Again and again. “Hands down, Diva! Hands down.” I ended up spending the car ride stuck in the back seat, sandwiched between two car seats. Afterward, Husband and I squealed about Diva saying, “I’ve had enough. Be quiet, you!” We laughed. We took pictures, both mental and phone. We loved it.
Yesterday, it was Diva, again. She kept grabbing Little Man’s books and throwing them on the floor. He was not pleased, “Diva!!!”. He swatted at her hands a couple times. We did the whole parent song-and-dance — “Please keep your hands to yourself.” Again – squeals. Little Man, for most of his life, was Diva’s parent. He was her protector. He was never her brother.
Piece by piece, we’re putting together a family. A brother and a sister, who squabble and bicker and forget to use their words. A mom, a dad, a brother, a sister — a family. Sometimes, at least internally, these moments are kind of cool.