Do You Know Who Your Real Parents Are?

This post has been sat in my drafts for a fair while now and I’ve had my mouse hovering over the post button so many times but after a conversation that happened with someone a few days ago, I just thought screw it, and finally clicked that publish button..

Anyone who is adopted, fostered, been in the care system or anything else inbetween will know exactly what I’m talking about when I say that this question is an absolute pain in the ass to hear from someone who knows nothing about what it’s like to be in one of those categories that I mentioned previously.

Putting your genitals anywhere near someone else’s who happens to be of the opposite sex and creating a life does not automatically make you a parent. It gives you no right whatsoever to call yourself a parent. Perhaps it does legally, but morally? Not at all.

My real mother is the woman who took time off work to look after me, who stayed up countless nights while I refused to sleep as a child and simply cried until I had no tears left to cry, and put me back in my cot every single time I did my best Spider-Man impression and tried to climb out. She’s the woman who marched straight into each school I was at, and stood my ground when I was being bullied and run across a busy road, in order to reprimand a girl who had previously tried to thrust me into oncoming traffic. The woman who picked me up from school every single Wednesday in Middle School and drove me to my Physio-therapy appointments and later accompanied me to my CAMHS appointment. Following that, my real mother is the woman who would sit with my teenage self and hold me while I cried nearly every night, just as she had done with me as a baby, only this time I wasn’t shedding tears because I was hungry or because I was tired.

My real mother is the woman who taught me that as a woman I am no one’s lesser and in fact we are all equal. She taught me how to be patient when I feel like I don’t want to, she taught me how to be strong when I feel that I am at my weakest and she taught me that being kind to others, even when they may not have shown you the same courtesy isn’t a bad thing at all.

My real father is the man who would sit on the end of my bed and give me pep talk nearly evening. He’s the man who would put on a brave face in front of me, and break his own heart in private. He showed me just how a man should treat a lady simply by loving my mother with everything within him and I couldn’t ask for more than that. My real father is the man who makes me laugh when I feel that it’s the last thing I want to do in the world. He would go away for extensive times with work, but when he came back, it would be like he never left. When I was off school ill, he would always stop off at the petrol station on the way home and come into my bedroom with a tube of Fruit Pastilles or Smarties in hand for me, much to my mother’s dismay.

My real father is the man who taught me that it’s okay to put yourself before others, and that its okay to have high standards for yourself. He taught me that no matter what age you reach, it’s perfectly okay to be childish sometimes, and that everyone deserves a laugh no matter what age you are. He taught me which battles I should fight and which are best left alone however, he always taught me to fight for what I believe in. He taught me that acceptance is important, and although we are all different, we must all live in harmony with one another.

So, I guess the point that I’m trying to make, is that these two people are my real parents. They are the people that raised me and made me into the young woman that I am today. They are the people that backed me all way in whatever I wanted to do, and even though I changed my mind every five seconds in what I wanted to pursue as a career, they were still there, right behind me the whole way. Not pushing me, but there with open arms ready to catch me if ever I fell.

I’m 18 years old now. It’s not like I’m 7 years old anymore, sitting up at night asking my mother why my biological parents didn’t want me, spending my younger years wondering if I wasn’t good enough. I don’t do that anymore because I don’t need anything to do with either of them. They didn’t spend hours in the garden teaching me to ride a bike, they didn’t spend every week down at the doctors doing speech therapy because I couldn’t talk at 5 years old, they didn’t teach me how to read. My mother and father did that and I got pretty damn good at it and now can’t put a book down. I got through my first heartbreak without my biological parents, I got through the years of bullying without them and I joined my dream career without them. I did all that with the help and support of my mother and father. I didn’t need them back then and I sure as hell don’t need nor want them now. I have a great job without them, I’m going to get married without them and I’m going to have a beautiful family without them because there isn’t a damn thing they can ever teach me about raising and loving a child.

So, next time someone decides to have the audacity to ask me who my real parents are, they will just get redirected to this post. My real parents are, and always will be, the two people who raised me and I will forever be grateful to either of them for turning me into the young woman that I am today and that I will soon become.

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One Response to Do You Know Who Your Real Parents Are?

  1. This is so heartwarming and beautiful! ❤

    Like

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