This week we’re very happy to share a piece from Abi Lancaster, an Early Permanence (EP) foster mum. THICKER THAN BLOOD is a powerful and affecting read, with Abi reflecting on her role as an EP Carer, and some of the reactions she receives from other people.
‘As a prospective adopter of our Early Permanence (EP) / foster baby’, says Abi, ‘the piece ‘Thicker than Blood’ came to me as I found many questions thrown to me about whether bonding with our newborn EP baby was different to the bonding with my biological child, who was about five years old at the time. This piece explores the intimacies of the bonds we made from the early days, in the context of the confusing world outside, that seemed to challenge whether our bond was ‘true’, ‘real’ or ‘thick-enough’.
With rhythmic, highly visual writing Abi takes us through the rituals of a day with her foster baby, addressing her extraordinary piece to ‘you: the mother of my child’.
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THICKER THAN BLOOD
Abi Lancaster
I cradle your baby close to my chest. She reaches out to touch my lips. Her lips, busy with feeding, make a symphony of noises, and I sink into those dark eyes. Those eyes that don’t match mine. Those eyes so intense I see my own reflection. Those eyes given to her by you: the mother of my child.
I wipe your baby’s bottom, till it’s clean enough to kiss again. I run my fingertips over her skin, and study her birthmark. A strawberry mark, from the time before we knew her. I’ve watched it grow, and change, and one day it will fade. But the scar that won’t fade is the one I can’t see. The visceral scar. She’ll scratch at it; re-open; re-scar; remembering you: the mother of my child.
I sit naked with your baby, and let her touch my breasts. I yelp when she pulls my nipples too hard, and we laugh in surprise at the noise. I am her larger-than-life jukebox: press my nose and I can sing Twinkle Twinkle. She invites me to tickle our spot: about two inches below her armpit, either side of her belly. She squeals in glee asking for more. Then later, exhausted, we move to the slow songs, and your baby cries for tiredness, for teething, for missing you: the mother of my child.
I hear your baby's cough through the darkness. An electric-shock alarm clock. Drawn to the crib of your baby, she smiles with relief at the sight of my face. She reaches up for her morning songs, her story books, her rituals, formed in our home with our family. Yet we have no face, no songs, no rituals from you: the mother of my child.
I walk your neighbourhood. Your baby hearing the noises and smelling the scents of her time in your womb. I play a game of would-I-rather: Would I rather bump into you in the street, or at the courtroom? If I found myself looking at a woman with those eyes, that face and that smile, could I be sure it was you? I know every hair on your baby’s body. I could write a manuscript describing her face. So surely, I could recognise you: the mother of my child.
I tell your baby that it’ll all be OK, as the others in the waiting room chatter. It’s a phrase I repeat in my head, more often than I say out loud. Your baby’s name is called, and as I stand up, no one turns to stare. Later, I settle her, as the nurse approaches with the needle. A comfort smile. I hold your baby. Steady. Firm. That piteous cry. I weep inside and continue to hold. I have a lifetime of holds for her. Thicker than blood, your baby will never be abandoned by me: the mother of your child.
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Thicker than Blood by Abi Lancaster appears in the Mothership Writers anthology Dispatches from New Motherhood. All 50 pieces from the book will be published here over the year to come, creating an online library of what it really means – right here, right now – to be a new mother.