We
spent eighteen months waiting to be chosen.
We wanted to adopt a baby and no one had yet chosen our family. The wait
proved to be long, frustrating and challenging. But during those difficult
months, we gathered a posse. Early on, I wouldn’t have used that word, but
‘posse’ explains how it works. ‘Posse’ is the Medieval Latin word for manpower
of the county; a search party. In our quest to adopt, we had deputized family,
friends, friends of friends, acquaintances and strangers. At six o’clock on
Monday, February 6, 2012, Missy, our social worker called to say that the birthmother
of a baby boy, born just after midnight, had chosen us to be his parents. At that moment, our posse needed to be saddled
up and ready to ride.
Missy
also had a list of instructions. Dave and I were each on an extension. I had a
pen and took notes on scraps of paper. Dave handed our six year old biological
son Sam an IPOD to keep him busy. We squirreled ourselves away in the computer
room. We heard a knock. Dave opened the door, Sam asked, “Are we adopting a
baby today?”
At
that moment, I realized how thoroughly unprepared I was for this adoption.
After eighteen months of anticipation, all I saw was several pages of scribble
and a series of treacherous steps to climb before we could claim our baby. I
knew from listening to adoptive parents that between now and then, minds might
change and funds might be unavailable. I wanted to have an answer for my son
that would be confident and reassuring but not definite; something along the
lines of, “We’re heading in that direction” or “We have a ways to go”. True to
my husband’s steady and faithful hand, he bent down, looked Sam straight in the
eye and said: “Yes”. He said it as much to himself as he did to Sam. We said,
“Yes” to this baby, whatever we had to do. Sam returned to the living room and
his IPOD.
After
we got off the phone with Missy, Dave made phone calls to our family. I tried
to organize the notes into a working agenda. How could we get all this done
before tomorrow? I had written down what Missy said and added circles and
punctuation in a lame attempt to highlight the important pieces. As I reviewed
it, every step along the way seemed hazardous.
ü
Come up with fees tomorrow!!!!!
ü
Name the baby before 8pm. That name will appear on the adoption
papers. The birthmom wants us to use the name Zion. Zion?!?
ü
Buy a birthmom present. Birth mom wants open adoption: 2 visits a
year; letters and photos every month. Missy said maybe a picture frame? Photo
album?
ü
Get a goodnight’s sleep :(
ü
10:30am tomorrow go to Adoption Star. Bring Cashier’s checks (the amount circled several times in my notes along with the breakdown).
Sign the papers.
ü
12:00pm go to the Denny’s near the hospital to meet birthmom.
Google Maps?!?
ü
1:00pm meet the baby at the hospital. Meet the baby. Meet the
baby.
If
we managed to get all this done and no one changed their mind, we would meet
our baby boy. How many times had we been on the precipice of getting a baby?
There had been seven miscarriages and maybe 20 profiling opportunities? Too
many theoretical babies. But, this one was not theoretical. He was lying in a
bassinet at the hospital and we had been chosen. We just needed to get all our
ducks in a row and get to him by 1pm. I wanted to jump in the car, race to the
nursery and scoop him up. Missy had emphatically told me that would jeopardize
our chances. He seemed so close only an hour’s drive away but I had to
remember, minds might change and funds might be unavailable.
The Zion
Conundrum – Name the Baby
Our
nieces who live across the street rushed through our front door with their mom,
Dave’s sister, trailing behind. They waved scraps of paper. In such a short
time, Caeley and Sophie, age thirteen and eleven, had compiled a list of names
for their new baby cousin. They yelled out “Trevor” and “Mom likes Parker
best”. Dave, who was on the phone with his brother trying to figure out how to
get the money, tried to shush them. He was dealing with the inner sanctum of
our posse. We had deputized a chosen few first. They had the greatest stake in
our mission because the adoption meant a grandchild, nephew or cousin. The
girls ignored their uncle Dave. “Christian”, Sophie suggested. Sam excited to
finally be included put the kibosh on every one of the names on his cousins’
list. He proposed ZeeZee Zion. Dave tried again to quiet them. He needed to
hear his brother’s advice on the money.
We
are a working class family and keeping large sums of money available is
unrealistic. In most adoptions, the adoptive parents meet the birthmother while
she is still pregnant. Dave and I had falsely assumed it would be the same for
us. It was our intention to borrow from his 401K and that takes a week to
process. A week seemed a mere blip of time in the adoption game. Wrong.
Adoption
agencies do not operate on credit.
Unlike Popeye’s Wimpy who will
gladly let you pay Tuesday for a hamburger today, adoption agencies want their
money before you get the baby. Dave’s brother, who had the funds available,
wanted to wire the money but the amount was too large to do via Western Union.
He was willing to drive all night to meet Dave halfway between here and
Virginia Beach to hand off the cash; we would pay him back when the money from
the 401K came through. That strategy was proving impractical given our time
constraints.
Dave
hung up the phone and joined us. He said, “Henry”. And I said, “Only if we can
call him Hank”. This is how it went with Sam’s name. He wanted something traditional
and I wanted a nickname, but both of us had to agree on both names. It took 5
months to agree on Samuel/Sam. Now we had no time and the additional
complication of fitting whatever name we liked around the name Zion. Because I
am a history nut on Western Expansion, the name was intriguing. I suggested,
“Utah” for Zion National Park. Dave rolled his eyes. He searched online to find
out what Zion meant, “The World to Come”, so fitting. We decided to go with the
Western theme and Dave came up with a real cowboy name, Caleb Zion. We’d call
him Cal for short. Caeley loved it, “That’s what they call me at school.”
Babies R’ Us
aka Space Mountain
It
was 8pm and we needed to get to the store before it closed at 9. I had kept a
few essentials from when Sam was a baby: car seat, crib, changing table. I kept
them in my Mother’s attic. My sister-in-law had a cradle that had been passed
from brother to cousin and back again. But, we needed supplies and the
birthmother present.
Babies
R’ Us seemed a shop of horrors to me. I had avoided stores like this for years.
After 10 years trying to make babies appear, I learned to fear baby stuff. My
aunt sent me a silver baby rattle. After the first miscarriage, I pulled a
blanket over my head, held that rattle in my fist, cried and didn’t stop, for a
long time. I didn’t buy a single item for my son Sam until I was seven months
pregnant. I bought him a hat and leather baby shoes. Now, I keep them in a
shadow box as a remembrance. We spent so
many hours and days and months waiting on pregnancies and then later profiling
opportunities. Birthmothers never chose us but that didn’t mean we hadn’t chosen
them—our profile was always out and about. All those theoretical babies and I
never got to push their wee arms through a sleeve or diaper their bottoms or
shake a rattle as their hands reached for it. Baby things were the stuff that kept
my grief going. That’s why I was so unprepared.
And now we had been chosen but this baby could just as easily pass from
real to another one of my theoretical babies. Minds might change; funds might
be unavailable.
So
I did what I always do when faced with anxiety, grief, and uncertainty. I
detach from my thoughts and emotions. I space out. And then when I can, I rely
on other people, my posse in this case.
Dave,
who usually has enough focus to sustain us during these times, was on the
cellphone still trying to figure out the money with our mothers, his brother,
sisters and brother-in-law. He had one hand pressed to his ear and the other pulled
packages of onesies into our cart.
I
looked at the basketful of stuff. So haphazard: a changing table pad but no
cover; cradle sheets, no mattress; 24 onesies but only one outfit. It was
February in Buffalo. My mother had rescued some of Sam’s clothes’ from my many
trips to donation centers. I hoped she was in her attic pulling together baby
stuff.
I
wandered away and found the aisle with the frames and photo albums. I turned
one over and over in my hand. Picture frames and albums usually hold treasured
memories. Would the birthmother want to display his picture? How could I know?
I
texted Megan, a person in our posse with a lot of know-how. I met her on Facebook through a friend of a
friend. She had adopted her second baby a few months prior. She helped me
consider the complicated issues of biracial adoption and trans-racial families
(meaning a family comprised of more than one race). Through discussions with Megan
and others, we had opened up our adoption possibilities to include biracial
children. Not any one adoption story would be the same as ours, but through
them I would learn how to navigate.
The
baby awaiting us in the hospital was African American and Latino; we are Caucasian.
The gulf between discussing biracial adoption and becoming a trans-racial
family seemed to widen with each step we took toward the baby. In keeping with
my coping strategy, I detached from the thought. I did not want to lose my
footing now. My cellphone beeped with an email. Megan wrote, “WHAT!!!!!
CONGRATULATIONS!!! … Okay, People sometimes get a necklace with the baby's
birthstone. And those necklaces are very modest, beautiful, and run around
$125. I thought it would be a special gift but I left a gift receipt in there
in case she wanted to exchange it for cash. Will you please call me tonight if
you have ANY questions about birth mom protocol or anything like that? So so so
happy for the soon to be 4 of you!!!!!”
The
birthstone and receipt seemed right: practical, commemorative, and less
complicated than the frames and albums. The jewelry store had already closed. Buying
the present would have to wait until our already over-booked morning. Our goal
– 1pm Meet the Baby seemed to be
getting farther and farther away.
A Good Night’s Sleep L
I
tossed; Dave turned. I wandered down to the computer to seek comfort from my Facebook
friends (many of whom live in other time zones or are insomniacs). Much of the
posse was formed there. When I create our profile, I had appealed to my FB
friends to edit it and then they helped with several revisions. Initially, I
put in numerous pictures of Sam because I thought that would say to prospective
birthmothers, “Proven Parents”. My online community disagreed. They said a
birthmother would read, “You already have a kid to love.” I changed our profile
based on their suggestions.
I
knew I couldn’t yet broadcast our news (minds might change; funds might be
unavailable). I longed to hint. I felt like they deserved to know. Many of them
were there from the beginning. Maybe if I talked in code…
The
next round of people we gathered into our posse guided us through the
homestudy. They had enough of a past with us to vouch for our future. The posse
expanded when I had to fill out a background check that asked for every place I
had lived for the past 25 years. On Facebook, an ex-boyfriend and ex- roommate
volunteered to drive around Seattle to help acquire 16 years’ worth of addresses.
Later,
the posse grew larger when we tried the “private tract” adoption process.
Private tract is the “six-degrees of separation” form of adoption. We tried on
our own to locate a possible birthmother. The people on our Christmas card list
received our personal adoption materials to give to OB/GYN doctors, school
guidance counselors, priests, whoever might know someone who might know someone
who might be putting a baby up for adoption. I rallied my cousins’ friends on Facebook.
They peppered their college campus health centers with our flyers. No leads
came from this effort, but unwittingly we had told our story so often that we
widened and deepened our associations and connections.
Even
though I tend to over share, I didn’t that night on Facebook.
In the Car
and on Our Way
The
next morning, my mother and sister/brother-in-law drained their respective
liquid accounts. They rushed to our house to give us two cashier’s checks. It was a loan. When the 401K came through, we paid them
back. Their quick action and generosity overwhelmed me. Minds might still
change but the funds were available.
We
were in the car on our way to the mall before our meeting at Adoption Star. As
we approached the exit to the mall, we did a quick time check. Too late. Shopping
would wait until after our meeting at Adoption Star and before we met the
birthmom at Denny’s. I knew her name now. Missy had faxed the complete Birthmother
Profile. Rachel the birthmom had been honest, very honest and yet I still
didn’t have a sense of her. I tried not to project into the future. If I was
going to get through this day, I had to take it one minute at a time.
10:30am Meet Missy at Adoption
Star
The
staff at Adoption Star surrounded us with hugs and congratulations. I had
gotten to know so many of them during our wait. I looked for Lynnlee the intern
who had brought our profile to the hospital. The mother had asked for childless
families. Lynnlee had insisted on bringing ours “just in case”. I wanted to
find her, give her 10,000 hugs, and run back to these smiling faces. The
director Michele stepped forward to shake our hands, she said, “I’m
superstitious so I’ll save my congratulations for when the adoption is
complete.”
Minds
might still change.
My
heart sank but before I could dwell there, Missy ushered us into her office.
She had stacks of legal documents on each bore the name Caleb Zion. We had
named him and yet he wasn’t yet ours. It suddenly felt like we were making him
up as if this were all a dream. I kept thinking if I sign those papers, maybe
he’ll materialize. Too little sleep. Too much stress. Standing on the brink of
transformation, events become surreal.
We signed
the papers and handed over the cashier’s checks. The fairy tale Rumplestiltskin
came to mind. All I could remember of it
was the princess made a pact with a hobgoblin to spin straw into gold so she
could meet her prince and have her baby. If a hobgoblin had appeared to me in
those 18 months of waiting and said, “You must spin straw into gold for all
eternity”, I would have agreed. The desire for a child to love and raise is profound. And for some of us, making children appear is
a crazy-making challenge. I felt at times that I would do just about anything.
The
last group I marshaled into the posse was my answer to pacts with hobgoblins. Rather
than give in to despair, I began to seek connections. I grew up in Oregon. I
contacted many of my classmates on Facebook. One of my old friends, Deb, had
“liked” the Adoption Star Facebook page. She now lives in Brooklyn and adopted her
daughter from Adoption Star nine years ago. Her daughter was born in Buffalo
and they were coming for a visit to introduce her to her birthplace. We set up
a date to have lunch and later, Sam and her daughter played in the park. Deb
was the first person to tell me an adoption story that happened on a moment’s
notice with all the accompanying panic and challenges. At the time, I thought
“Oh that won’t happen to us. We live here.” Now, I was relieved to have her
story in my archive of adoption stories. Our mutual friend, Lisa, who now lives
in Hawaii had also adopted. During the past several months, Lisa and I spent
hours on the phone and email. She told me about her two failed adoption
attempts. From her, I learned to be wary.
In high school, Lisa, Deb and I would cross Main St. to have the fifty-cent
hot lunch at Lincoln Elementary School. Sometimes I imagine time travel: I meet
up with the younger me, Deb and Lisa. I tell them that we will meet and connect
again and will share something more than a cheap meal. I wonder if we are drawn
to people because of some unconscious understanding of the future. I don’t
usually fall into the trap of “meant to be”. Life, it seems to me, is a series
of choices. However, if physicists are correct and time isn’t as linear as we
perceive it to be, wouldn’t choices forge a path into the future that winds
back into the past? Maybe I started rounding up my posse back in high school.
As we
were leaving Adoption Star, Missy asked if we had spoken to our lawyer.
Financially, I hadn’t wanted to retain a lawyer until an adoption seemed
possible. I started to feel that panic and then I remembered my old suite-mate
from college Kelly had thought to email me the name of a good attorney. The
number was still on my phone. The posse had our back once again.
The
paperwork at Adoption Star had gone so smoothly, we had time to go to the mall
and buy the necklace with the birthstone as Megan had suggested. Then, we were
on our way to meet the birthmom at Denny’s.
I
thought that might be the end of our need for a posse. But for a long time
after, a friend or a family member or a complete stranger who knew someone we
knew would appear with support, advice, a helping hand or a gift for our new
baby. I was astounded by the outpouring of kindness. I’ve surrendered to the
outlay of generosity. Dave and I believe the best pay-back is to be a gun for
hire. We posse up for other hopeful adoptive parents.