Stock image of children playing I was 10 years old the first time my parents fostered a child. I was 26, married and the mother of a two-year-old when they fostered their last. But before they renewed their foster license, they asked me if I would be OK with another sibling who was younger than my son. I’ll never forget that conversation. I sat in a parking lot picking at a loose thread on my sleeve with my toddler napping in the backseat. My mother spoke through her crackly speakerphone, and I could hear the longing in her voice. “Dad and I would love a little girl after all these boys.” She meant my three younger adopted brothers, who turned our family home upside down with nonstop roughhousing. Dealing patiently and lovingly with scraped knees and broken furniture, my mother earned an invisible crown of sainthood that I swear perched on her deserving brow. “But we would understand,” she added sheepishly, “if it would be too strange. I mean, Ezra would have an aunt younger than him.” I stared up at the parking lot sign that read A.J.’s Fine Foods, well aware that my mother couldn’t take my youngest brother, five years old at the time, into a grocery store without a broken jar of some sticky substance splattered on the floor or a cereal box launched into the air like a football. How would she manage another baby? Then again, beneath her crown was a tough woman – fully armoured in years of parental experience that made her nearly impenetrable. My father, too. He coached my brothers’ Little League teams and egged on their boyish shenanigans. My parents were nearing 50, but if any couple could summon the energy for another child, it was them. “It would be unconventional,” I admitted. “But when have we ever been conventional?” I smiled sadly because telling my parents no could mean a foster child would go without the kind of home every child deserves. So, I agreed to the plan. A few months later, 4-pound, pale-faced Cassia arrived at just a day old. Soon her red hair sprouted into curly ringlets that twined around her face like ivy, and her cheeks filled with freckles sprinkled like a constellation across her button nose. Cassia became the first child in our family to truly favour my father, preferring to sleep with her tiny fingers wrapped around his. He awoke willingly at all hours to fetch her bottle, so smitten was he. When Cassia was 14 months old, my parents agreed to foster her older sister, a 15-year-old girl. By the following year, my parents adopted Cassia and her sister, growing the family from seven to eight children. With three biological and five adopted children, our family tree looked more like a vine. My son has uncles just a few years older than him, and Cassia is more an aunt by name and a cousin by age. My daughter Vera came next, and she adored Cassia. My son, meanwhile, favoured his uncles, who were three, four, and nine years older than he was. Though people admired our family for its unconventionality, the blurred lines sometimes became painful. One of my younger brothers physically bullied and teased my son. My son retaliated with sharp words that stung this sensitive brother’s feelings. What followed was a long, tense season with strained visits to my parents. Even on holidays, we found ourselves breaking up fights, mediating arguments and watching for signs that someone was about to snap. And then there is the matter of babysitting. I’ve watched my parents’ children more often than they’ve watched mine – not because they’re selfish or unwilling but because they’re busy. Their hands and house have stayed full long after most of their peers became empty-nesters. Sometimes I found myself juggling their children alongside mine so they could catch a breath. Once, I agreed to watch three of their kids. The day before they left, we discovered my family had lice. My parents had nonrefundable flights to Hawaii, so I did my best to purge us of the little vermin before their children arrived. It didn’t work. They ended up infested too, and we had three more sets of heads to comb through each day. When my parents returned a week later, my four-year-old sister picked phantom lice out of my father’s hair and continued to do so for months. I suppose she was traumatised by the little crawling things. I think I was, too. Because of my parents’ circumstances, it often felt like they were more like aunts and uncles to my kids than grandparents. I didn’t realise how much I felt that gap until recently. While vacationing with them up north, my father volunteered to take my children swimming and for ice cream while my sister was in school. For the first time ever, it was just my children and their “Papa Pat”. I met them at the ice cream parlour. They rambled up to me, sun-drenched and sticky with joy. “Papa Pat let me get toppings,” my five-year-old daughter announced proudly, holding out her treat for me to see. She looked up at my father adoringly. It felt like a hand reached out and squeezed my heart. I placed my palm on my chest, choking back tears. I hadn’t known, until that moment, how much I wanted my kids to have grandparents who had time to linger – to carve out space for them in the unrushed manner of retirees. Grandparents who weren’t still busy being parents. My dad caught my eye at that moment. He didn’t say anything, but I think he understood. And so do I. I’m not the only one who matters here. Recently, at a girl’s night, my friends asked me if it’s hard having my parents parenting their own children alongside mine. “It is,” I said, biting my lip. For a moment, my thoughts drifted to how my parents are getting older, and one day, I will likely assume some of the parenting roles for my siblings. I worry that the stress of parenting teenagers is harder on their health this time around. But then I considered the truth: this is my parents’ life’s work – their calling. I can’t imagine where my siblings would be without them, or what we’d be missing out on as a family if they weren’t in our lives. So, I sucked in my breath and finished: “But I can’t imagine my life without my siblings, and I’m so grateful my parents have provided them a stable home. That’s more important than anything my kids or I are missing out on.” No, it’s not always easy raising my kids alongside my siblings, but I’m proud to be part of a family that never stops making room for more. Kris Ann Valdez is an Arizona native, wife and mother to three spunky children. Her work appears in Business Insider, Parents, Scary Mommy and others. Follow her online at krisannvaldez.com or @krisannvaldezwrites. Do you have a compelling personal story you’d like to see published on HuffPost? 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