We will introduce some works from the collection of works in past Oyako Day Essay contest.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
THE DAY I BCAME A PARENT<\/span><\/p>\n I suddenly became the mother of a 10 year-old, American boy. He was cute for the first month, but from there on, he plunged into rebellion. The following morning, there were candles by the side of the bed spelling the word \u201cfamily\u201d that danced before my eyes. My foster son had gathered the candles beforehand and stealthily placed them by my bed while I slept at night. Eight months later, a distant relative took charge of him. <\/p>\n Famale | America<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" We will introduce some works from the collection of works in past Oyako Day Essay contest. THE DAY I BCAME A PARENT I suddenly became the mother of a 10 year-old, American boy. Not a blood relation, but a foster parent. He was cute for the first month, but from there on, he plunged into rebellion. He was difficult and emotionally unstable. How many times did I think I should to stop being a foster parent? When I thought of giving over my role to a social worker, the words stuck in my throat and I couldn\u2019t go through with it. Our mud-slinging went on for a half a…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":8,"featured_media":2882,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[21],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-3114","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-news-en","category-21","description-off"],"yoast_head":"\n
\nNot a blood relation, but a foster parent.<\/p>\n
\nHe was difficult and emotionally unstable.
\nHow many times did I think I should to stop being a foster parent?
\nWhen I thought of giving over my role to a social worker, the words stuck in my throat and I couldn\u2019t go through with it.
\nOur mud-slinging went on for a half a year, till that fateful day: Mother\u2019s Day.
\nHe\u2019d never called me mother.
\nAs if that was reserved for the woman who had left him; because they shared the same blood and there was a special love or bond between them.
\nWho did he think I was, this person who didn\u2019t even look like him?
\nThe hired help who washed his dirty baseball uniforms? A teacher\u2019s aide who tutored him late into the night? Or maybe just some complaining meddler.<\/p>\n
\nKnowing nothing of weeping for joy, maybe he sought to escape any confusion.
\nDays later at his therapy session, he made a drawing. It was a picture of him, my husband and myself walking together. Looking at the letters through eyes blurred by tears I could see that \u201c1, 2, 3: Family\u201d was written on the drawing.<\/p>\n
\nThe fourteen months I spent with him were filled with intense up and downs.
\nWhat I most remember is finally overcoming his mistrust and the young boy I loved in the hope of restoring his childhood. The therapist told me that I was the only foster mother who had not abandoned him.
\nAnd then it was time for us to part. When I couldn\u2019t find any words, he broke the silence by saying, \u201cYou\u2019re my favorite.\u201d After continuously refusing my hugs and signs of affection, he clung to me now with tears in his eyes.
\nWe were parent and child.
\nTrials of emotion and perseverance had led him to look on me as a parent, a bond beyond blood and names.<\/p>\n