Protecting myself from shotgun comments

My whole family recently attended the bar mitzvah celebration of the son of very dear friends. J and their son have been close friends since the first grade. J, as well as my husband and myself were offered honorary roles at the religious ceremony and it was really, really special.

For those who have never been to a Saturday religious service at a synogogue, let me explain that it is not a place where two year-olds do all that well. It is LONG, as in about three hours, and you are expected to sit quietly in one place for its entirety. Other than yelling for my friend across the crowded sanctuary and yelling I see "B!" (the bar mitzvah boy) at the top of her lungs, CD kept herself busy weaving between chairs getting (mostly) smiles from people around her, many of whom knew her already. Sure, we had to remove her a few times, but all things considered, she did quite well.

A gentleman sitting next to me was particularly entertained by CD. He kept trying to get her attention, smiled at her and asked her questions. He warned me that I am going to need a shotgun in a few years to keep the boys away because she is just that cute.

I could have just laughed and smiled and thanked him for the compliment. Instead, that little self protective thing kicked in and I responded, "she has been with us in foster care for over a year now, we are hoping to adopt her and we really hope to be so lucky to have in our lives when it is time for shotguns!"

Ugh. I kicked myself immediately. I could have just let it go. It was an unecessary comment. I think I really was just trying to protect myself from the image of my beautiful CD as a striking brown eyed, blond teen getting too much attention from hormone ridden boys and her *not* being my daughter.

I don't even buy clothing for her in the next size yet. It still feels presumptuous to think that I will be the one dressing her when she gets to that bigger size.

It's not that anything bad happened from this conversation. It, of course, opened up dialogue about foster care and it turns out that this gentleman is the father of one of my son's good friends in school. He had heard all about her friend J's foster sister and his daughter had been one of the many students to support J's charity project, which ultimately resulted in a large donation to the Dave Thomas Foundation.

Almost 14 months later, she is my daughter who isn't my daughter. I refuse to introduce her as my "foster daughter" because it sounds stupid to me. I tend to introduce her as "my little girl" as that feels more accurate. If we are fortunate enough to adopt her, maybe then I will start stocking up on the shotguns that we will need to keep the boys away.

We should be so lucky.