I Am Not Enough for My Kids

I brought my children home through sheer determination, but it was not enough.

For about ten years, adopting children was my part-time job. During some years in Tanzania, I drove downtown two or three times a week, fighting an hour or more of epic Dar es Salaam traffic each way. The social welfare office was located in a large warehouse-type building divided into cubicles. Birds circled in the rafters above my head while I sat and waited (sometimes for hours) on a hard wooden bench outside my social worker’s office. She shared it with two other people, their three desks crammed so close together that there was barely space for anything else. She kept my files in a plastic grocery bag. 

I never called in advance, because I learned that my social worker would always tell me not to come. So I never called; I just showed up. She was there only about half the time, so I wasted half of those long trips.

Ninety percent of the time, even if she was there, there was no movement on the adoption process. But I took the chance and made the drive again and again because I wanted her to see my face. My strategy was this: to make an overworked, underpaid social worker so sick of me that she eventually did what I asked. It worked. 

The whole process took years. And then it took more years to go through the American immigration process (which was its own special nightmare). But I did it four times, and nothing was going to stop me. There’s a reason why Dobson’s techniques in The Strong-Willed Child failed on me when I was five years old. Determination has always been my strength. I wanted to adopt four children, and I got them.

I took that same determination into parenting.

I was going to be the mother that these children needed. If love and grit could do it, I was going to do it. They would be happy. They would be healthy. They would be motivated and responsible. They would appreciate books and cooking and serving others. They would be trustworthy and kind. They would have a secure identity in being adopted, being both American and Tanzanian, and being Third-Culture Kids. They would love each other, their childhood, and learning new things. 

I had a strategy to accomplish each of these goals. I was determined: I would find a method, a chart, a book, a list, a boundary, a consequence.

But what I discovered is that bringing them home, as challenging as it was, was the easy part. Raising them is much harder. And I’ve slowly, incrementally, had to accept this hard truth: Determination is not enough. I am not enough for my kids. 

I can’t bind up all the wounds. I can’t protect them from all the bad things. I can’t make them love the things I love. I can’t keep the bullies away. I can’t always stop them from being the bully. I can’t force a (sincere) apology. I can’t change DNA. I can’t create motivation. I can’t make this world fair. I can’t keep them safe all the time. I can’t manifest love and security into their hearts. And of course, I can’t always be the kind, patient, and wise mother I imagined I would be. 

Lord knows, I thought I could. I really did. I thought I was supposed to be enough. I read all the books that made me think I was supposed to be enough. I was supposed to have enough love, enough wisdom, enough determination to heal all the losses and fix all the grief and set all the boundaries and live out an example for them to follow. Even now, I stare into the dark ceiling under the heaviness of night, searching for new ideas. So much determination, but it’s not enough. 

Of course, this doesn’t mean my devotion and love and discipline mean nothing. I do give myself permission to feel joy and pride in the things my kids have accomplished and progress they have made: he shows great teamwork, she bought food for a homeless person, he apologized yesterday, she budgeted her money really well, he is fantastic with little kids, she is fantastic with special needs kids, she’s a great employee, he is becoming a great leader. So many good things, and I see my fingerprints.

But twenty years ago, I never thought I would one day feel this overwhelming helplessness as a mother of teens and young adults. I didn’t anticipate shedding so many tears over what I have not been able to do. 

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. 

As much as I am devoted to my kids, it really is rather presumptuous of me to believe that I could be my kids’ savior. Throughout the entirety of this child-raising season, I have been begging God to do his work in my children, yet often living as though it all really depends on me. I say I trust him with my kids, but that lack of trust shows up now as I prepare to release them, and lament over what I could not do.

I was never supposed to be enough. I wasn’t created to be. 

It’s ironic what I forget, over time. Now that the end is tied up with a pretty bow, I like to think that it was my determination that brought my children home. Really? Why is that my primary memory of those years? 

I dig back deeper into those memories and think of those many months of fighting and waiting to bring home Grace, when I often despaired that it would be impossible, but God made a way. Or that time when the U.S embassy denied Josiah’s visa, and we had to cancel our home assignment plans. Or how God “just happened” to make our house homestudy-ready years in advance, just in time for the exact right moment. How that homestudy didn’t get us a fourth child, but did get us an immigrant visa for Lily. Or how, after years of refusal from other social workers, God miraculously brought us the most amazing Tanzanian social worker who opened the way for us to bring Johnny home. 

Looking back on the whole story of my kids’ adoptions from beginning to end, those successes actually had nothing to do with my determination. It wasn’t even a factor, really. It was all about God, his work, his miracles, and his timing. My part? Perseverance. And perseverance is a lot different than determination. Determination implies that I am in control, that if I just try hard enough, I’ll get the outcome I want. Perseverance, on the other hand, means trusting God while not giving up. 

So as I sit in this messy parenting stage of preparing and launching my children into the world, I realize that the uncertainty, fear, and helplessness I’m feeling mirror those adoption years. I may not be enough, but God is. He is their Author; I am not. I get the joy of being a part of the story, but he is the one writing it. My determination cannot control the ending, but I can persevere in loving them and trusting God.