School meetings are usually dull. Today, not so much.

One of the kids I care for is changing schools tomorrow, and after a horrendous few weeks of paperwork, a new chapter is finally beginning.

During a meeting today, the professionals from school kept calling me “mum.” Repeatedly. Almost like they were daring him to correct them. Aaaand…  He didn’t – not once.

Instead, he tried not to laugh, giving me side glances with a knowing twinkle in his eye that said, “You see what just happened?” So I quietly joined in, doing my best to keep a straight face.

Later, I mentioned that R would be picking him up for therapy. The school asked, “Who’s R?” and without thinking, I shot back, “His brother.” That was it – instant coughing fit as he tried to smother his laughter. By the time we got home, the car had turned into a comedy sketch, with him chanting “mum, mum, mum” on repeat like the seagulls in Finding Nemo squawking “mine.” I was howling.

I leave it to him to decide what to call me. After a rocky few months, he’s settled on “Auntie” to most of his friends, and if he chooses, “Mum” at school. It’s his choice, his life, and I trust him to decide how he wants me to be known in public.

I’m not here to replace anyone from my foster kids’ lives before me. But I will mother them in every sense that counts: fiercely protecting them, fighting for them, and loving them unconditionally. They need patience, care, acceptance, and laughter – I will give them all of that, every single day.

And I’m lucky to have my birth kids along for the ride, especially when R starts conspiring – you just know it’s going to get interesting.

At least I didn’t get called Gran.

Anyway.

You know what I’d like people to take away from this rambling?

Professionals, friends, anyone involved: respect the voice of the kids in care. Let them tell you what they need. Let them guide you on what matters most.

Because, in the end, it’s not about what I’m called – it’s about them feeling seen, safe, and loved.