My children grew up amongst a caravan of foster brothers and sisters. Specializing in infants affected by prenatal drug addiction, our family was usually comprised of my husband and myself, Francis, his sister, Dinora, foster/adoptive brother, Steven, and one or two foster babies. Our children often played an active role in child care, frequently holding a little one, feeding a bottle and changing diapers. When going to the mall, they would proudly push the double stroller. Throughout their childhood, sixteen foster babies lived with us, and caring for them was just a fact of life.

Francis is now an adult who lives in California with a wonderful wife and a cozy home complete with a grill for grilling steaks and a lawn to mow. When his daughter was an infant, he would bundle her up in a baby blanket, like I had bundled up those babies who were going through withdrawal. (Newborns like being in a tidy bundle because they arrive with strong startle reflexes and without much control of their arms and legs. By pulling her arms and legs in close and securely wrapping a blanket around her little body, baby India felt safe and secure.) Now that she is older, he dresses her in matching outfits and tries to do “her hair”, tiny blonde wisps that are almost invisible. He sings familiar songs to her, songs that he heard me sing so many years ago: “Itsy Bitsy Spider”, “Hush Little Baby,” and “The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round”.

After 2 years, she sings along with him and does the accompanying hand movements, a delight for both of them. When he expertly changes her diaper, he plays “This Little Piggy” with her toes, exaggerating the “wee wee wee home” by tracing his finger from her toes to her chin, tickling her slightly. When she sits in his arms on the couch, ready for bed, he reads her books with large print; “Goodnight Moon”, and “Five Little Monkeys Jumping on the Bed”. His little family spends weekends doing fun things; the aquarium, the zoo, the park, or out to eat. And yes, he changes her diapers when they go out to eat, making a fuss if that particular restaurant doesn’t have a changing table in the men’s room. (It IS San Jose…)

Steven, also, is a father, who is living in the house my mother used to own. His grass needs to be mowed, and he is forever borrowing our gas tank to grill his food, not quite the same situation as Francis’. His co-parenting situation is also different as 2-year-old Rose splits time between her dad and her mom’s houses. Steven, too, expertly changes diapers, and carries around a backpack full of toddler necessities, diapers, wipes, a change of clothing and a sippy cup. He dresses Rose in fashionably matching outfits, (except when he puts her in tights, he doesn’t quite understand that she ALSO needs pants or a skirt over them.) Her incredibly curly hair is pulled on top of her head into a pony tail so one can see her face, which usually has a smudge of dirt on it from playing outside. He sings songs to her and lets her watch Barney the Dinosaur, his favorite show when he was little. Rose has his same interest in animals, giggling and pointing when she sees a duck swimming by on the lake or a dog walking by. They love going to the zoo together and to the park to play ball. Rose beams brightly in his presence, and contentedly melds her body against his in a loving embrace. Steven may have some mental health issues, but he is a great father and, to her, he is perfect.

Both Francis and Steven have thanked me for giving them the experience to practice on all those babies years ago. I realize that by being a foster parent, I was not only caring for little ones, but also nurturing awesome parenting skills in my oldest sons. In honor of Father’s Day, it would be great if moms could remember that the little boys they are raising today will grow up to be fathers one day. Prepare them well!