My 21 sons have so far entered adulthood in rather bumpy ways. I talked today to a therapist who used the term, ‘emotionally delayed’, to explain to me the obvious issues involved in the adoption of older children from the system.

The average age of joining our family is around age 8. This represents eight lost years of their childhood. Years spent in fear, in abusive and neglectful situations. Some of my kids had been homeless, most had been in foster care, all suffered tremendous losses and came to me in distressing shape.

That kind of damage can not be undone by the love of a new mom. I believe that the effects of the damage can someday be overcome, but it is a long, hard battle, fraught with misadventures, mistakes, missteps and misdirected anger.

It is hard, hard, and hard. It is eventually rewarding and worth the effort.

My older sons, physically in their twenties, are truly still little boys on the inside. Some didn’t join our family until they were 12 or 13, very few years left in them needing a parent, and often they resisted my attempts at parenting them. Having come so far and so long without a mom, why let their defenses down and trust me?

I understand now that parenting is more of a process; it evolves over time due to their needs and their abilities to put their confidence in me. Hitting age 18 always churns up a firestorm. Why would she still love me? Acting out results since the boys are usually so non-verbal and so not in touch with their feelings.

They leave home, they come back. They storm off, they call me crying. They test me time and time again, knowing eventually on some level that I don’t budge. I am what I am, what I’ve always told them that I was. I’m gutsy enough to proclaim, “Son I’m your real mother. A real mother is the one who loves you and raises you.”

And that’s what I do. I love them and I raise them forever. Esoteric, rambling explanations of my love don’t mean squat to a guy. A bear hug from me when they’ve done wrong is proof enough for them. An acceptance of their apology without conditions is what they’ve come to expect from me. I have to be simple and concrete with them, they seem even more emotionally needy at times than my daughters.

I’ve been able to get many of them to participate, in a limited fashion, in therapy. Usually it more benefits me, even if it’s nothing but a repetition of what I’d already told them, a reinforcement of correct behaviors. We have a male therapist, a large, physically imposing man who has been able to get through to them.

My sons are always watching me carefully, certain they’ll trip me up at some point, equally as sure that they can’t be outsmarted by me as for many, many years I remain committed to them, proving that ‘unbudgeable’ can really be a word.