A heart for caring

The 50-something woman sitting with a young boy in the pediatrician's waiting room had struck up a conversation with another mother, and I was soon included. The boy had the same first name as the grandson I was waiting with -- a natural ice-breaker. Before long we three women were sharing "war" stories from our lives as parents.

The day hadn't been going all that well. I was, as I often am by midday, wishing I could close myself off from the rest of the world and take a nap. Raising a toddler is exhausting at any age, but as my mother likes to remind me, I'm pushing 60 -- as hard as I can, under the circumstances.

I assumed the boy who shared my grandson's name was, perhaps, the youngest of the woman's children. But no, she said. Her biological children are grown now. This boy was one of eight children who have found their way into her home, and her heart, through foster care and adoption. One of those who came to her was a pregnant teenager who decamped after delivering her baby. That was years ago, and the baby, now in school, is one of that houseful of children who call the woman Nanny.

What struck me, aside from the remarkable facts of her life as it is today, was the woman's cheerful attitude. She didn't look tired, didn't sound tired. What she looked like, what she sounded like, was happy.

The wee one at home was being difficult that night as I attempted to get him settled down for bed. My thoughts drifted back to the woman at the doctor's office. I wondered what bed time at her house must be like.

As I struggled to stay awake long enough to tell my grandchild one more story, I imagined her gliding from bed to bed, planting kisses on the foreheads of eight children who would soon fall asleep, safe in the knowledge that they were loved.