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I mentally had composed an entire post about pudding, but now I can’t write it. On Wednesday I received a letter I was only semi-pleased with, and I was going to compare it to a semi-sweet treat I find merely semi-satisfactory, but on Friday I received a phone call that negated most of my complaints. Thus, in the span of three days, the words languishing in my brain had reached their expiration date.
Perhaps I had better explain.
Like many Americans, I enjoy a delicious cup of pudding now and again. (Yes, I will admit to occasionally packing it in my lunch. Who doesn’t like chocolaty goodness?) On a recent trip to the grocery store, I reached into the refrigerated section for my usual six-pack of 100-Calorie J-ello Pudding Cups, when I spied the sugar-free variety. Although I’m typically not one to buy sugar-free anything, curiosity got the better of me. I checked the nutritional information, and AHA! The sugarless kind contained only 60 calories! Feeling like I had just outsmarted the J-ello pudding marketing “geniuses” who had jumped on the 100-calorie bandwagon, I opened my prize as soon as I got home. I ripped the tin-foil top off one of the cups, plunged in my spoon, and tasted… well, let’s just say it wasn’t quite the velvety numminess I had hoped for.
I was reminded of that experience this week when I received a letter from our adoption agency. I was fired up as soon as I saw the crimson print on the envelope because I knew exactly what was inside. Or so I thought. I tore open the envelope, grabbed the paper inside, and scanned the words “home,” “study,” and “approved”—SUCCESS! We had officially received the rubber stamp from our adoption agency! But when I went back to read the letter in its entirety, what I saw left a slightly sour taste in my mouth. At the end of the letter, our social worker mentioned that, if a child is not placed in our home within two years, we will need to go through the home-study process again, including personal interviews, medical evaluations, and financial reviews—all of which we just completed. Ugh. First of all, although I generally am a realist, I didn’t want to be reminded of the fact that we could be waiting for our child for two years. Second, I just spent an entire summer trying to refrain from pulling out my eyelashes—I don’t want to have to go through all of that scrutiny again.
However, a couple of days later, our social worker called. She wanted to know what our schedules looked like for the next few weeks because she has two birth mothers who want to meet us. Umm… what?! Holy crap—I’m still riding pretty high from the approval letter, and two birth mothers are interested in us? I had to shake my head to clear out the inrush of trivial blather (But we don’t have any baby furniture! We haven’t even replaced the carpet in the nursery yet!) just so I could pay attention to what she was saying.
After hearing the birth mothers’ situations, I once again have put on my I-refuse-to-get-excited exoskeleton. We are third on Birth Mother #1′s list: Her baby will be biracial, and her top two couples are non-white. She chose us because John was adopted. As our social worker said, “John has the whole adopted thing going for him, but he’s just too white.” (I’m going to assume she was kidding.) Birth Mother #2 is requesting ongoing visits with the child. I’m not sure John and I will fit that bill—if she’s looking to come over on Christmas and birthdays, we’re not the right couple for her. My current mantra is “wait and see.”
Even if neither of these birth mothers are right for us, I’m honestly just excited that someone looked at our profile without tossing it aside. (This must be how Oscar losers feel when they say, “It’s an honor just to be nominated.”) It pretty much justifies my decision not to change the profile after our social worker’s negative comments. Also, meeting Birth Mother #1 while knowing we probably won’t get the child gives me a chance to get rid of those first-time jitters. I can experience the initial birth-mother meeting without that shiny-eyed “this is IT” glimmer of hope and the inevitable crushing disappointment.
All things considered, I have to be pleased with the developments thus far. Only three days of “wait time” before getting a result? I think that calls for a celebratory pudding cup.
I used to wonder if my mother was a witch. Glinda, of course, not the Wicked Witch of the West. (grin) As a kid, and especially as a teenager, I never could understand how she got random people to tell her their deepest, darkest secrets within minutes—literally—of meeting her. It was like she cast some sort of magical truth-telling spell over them—and it drove me crazy. We’d stop at the grocery store for some milk, a trip that should take about 5 min, right? My mom would spend half an hour chatting up a new BFF in front of the dairy case! How she could go from discussing the benefits of lactose-free soy “milk” to empathizing with some lady about her husband’s latest affair, I never could figure out. My patience never lasted very long. “Mom, are you done? Mom. Can we go? Ma! Come onnnnn.”
More to the point, I couldn’t understand what the purpose was. I have to confess, when I go to the grocery store, my main objective is to get in, get out, and get on with my weekend as fast as that stupid cart with the squeaky, cockeyed wheel will move. But when my mother walks into a store, a post office, or pretty much anywhere else humanity tends to gather in line formation and strikes up a heart-to-heart with a complete stranger, her goal is simply to listen and lend a sympathetic ear. I think that people see in my mother someone who genuinely wants to help without expecting anything in return. She’s not exercising any supernatural powers—she simply is being herself.
My problem is that I’m not always sure “myself” is the person others think I should be. Case in point: Last week, our social worker dropped by the house to pick up our adoptive-parents profile. She took one look at the document I had poured my heart and soul into—a sheaf of papers that very well could help determine the future of my family—and said, “This has too many words. Some birth mothers might see all the words and toss your profile aside.”
(Do hopes make a sound when they’re crushed?)
Wow, thanks for the words of encouragement, lady! “Too many words”? Seriously? I spent every spare moment I had during the past 14 days writing about myself and my husband until I wanted to yak, and your constructive (and I use that term very loosely) criticism is “too many words”? I’m sorry, but if I was a birth mother, and I was considering giving my unborn child to a couple of complete strangers, I would need a tad bit more than, “Hi, we think we’d be super-duper parents—why don’t you hand over that life you have growing inside of you?” I mean, hell, I should have just written, “Hey there, my husband and I have never been in charge of another human before, but it seems like a real kick in the pants, so why don’t you let us test out our parenting skills on your kid?” Isn’t the whole point of a profile to give a birth mother a true and accurate picture of the kind of parents her child could end up with—in short, to BE OURSELVES? Apparently, when our social worker told us to “be ourselves,” she really meant for us to be a blander, more concise version of ourselves. You know, “ourselves,” but without all of those pesky little details about how we intend to raise our future children. What birth parent really wants to know about that anyway?
Geez.
I think a birth mother who has chosen to review a stack of profiles is involved enough to want to do more than flip through a bunch of photos. I believe that the birth mother who takes the time to read our profile and choose us as adoptive parents is the birth mother God meant for us to have. And I’m betting that being “ourselves” is exactly what will bring our child home to us in the end.
Hey, look at that. Mom was right. (Again!)
Here’s Round Two of our profile; keep those comments coming!
…
What is John like?
At 32 years old, John is a self-proclaimed “computer geek.” He loves technology—basically anything with buttons. His career as a computer programmer has allowed him to provide a wonderful home for his family. John’s fondness for technology naturally led to an appreciation for science-fiction books. John shares Megan’s passion for music: His favorites bands are Foo Fighters, Metallica, and Tool, and he played acoustic and electric guitar, trumpet, and French horn for several years as well. Even his favorite video game, Rock Band, involves music!
Steve, Megan’s brother’s yellow lab, and Kalli, Megan’s and John’s cocker spaniel.
One of John’s favorite activities is playing with the couple’s cocker spaniel, Kalli. Kalli goes to Megan when she wants to cuddle, but runs to John when she wants to wrestle! John plays hide-and-seek with Kalli, running to hide behind a door or piece of furniture. When she finds him, she wags her tail so hard that her whole behind shimmies and shakes, earning her the nickname “Wiggles.” John especially likes to make up nonsense songs and sing them to the dog, which makes Megan laugh hysterically.
Because he grew up in a military family, John has lived all over the United States, including in Oregon, Alabama, New York, Massachusetts, Texas, Indiana, and Ohio. John’s parents are married and living with John’s younger brother in Washington, D.C. Although John’s father retired from the Coast Guard several years ago, he missed it so much that he went back to work for the organization as a private citizen. John’s mother also works outside the home as a flight attendant for a private Learjet service. John’s older brother, sister-in-law, and three nieces recently moved 5 min down the road from Megan and John, and the families enjoyed a few barbecues—and a birthday party—together over the summer.
John’s favorite childhood memory is spending hot, sunny afternoons on his family’s boat. Even though John fries like a crispy critter in the sun, he always looked forward to tubing, water skiing, and swimming with his brothers in the summer.
The Support System
Besides having many family members living in the area, Megan and John also have a large network of friends. These friends have supported Megan and John through the adoption process and are incredibly excited to welcome a new little one (or two) into the fold. Because most of their friends have young children, Megan’s and John’s future kids already have built-in friends of their own!
Megan also attends a non-denominational Christian church in the area. She was very excited when she learned that the pastor and his wife have several adopted children of their own. The pastor’s wife was instrumental in guiding Megan and John through the beginning stages of the adoption process.
The House and Neighborhood
John and Megan live in a three bedroom, two full-bathroom home. The entire top floor of the house is one large room that already is being converted into a nursery. With two windows, a carpeted floor, and mint-green walls with white accents, the room is light and airy. It is just waiting to be filled with the pitter-patter of little feet!
Situated in a residential community, the house is centrally located within walking distance of the beach, two parks, a public pool, a library, and city police and fire departments. The neighborhood is located in one of the area’s highest-rated school districts, and many children walk or ride their bikes to school. With so many trees around, Megan and John often see wildlife—it is not unusual to glimpse a deer eating grass out of someone’s lawn. Megan and John recently even saw a white owl at the end of their driveway!
Plans for the Child
(Deleted for privacy.)
… several friends and family members already have volunteered for babysitting duty! Spanking is not a form of discipline Megan and John will be using; instead, they plan on utilizing positive reinforcement and rewarding good behavior.
Although Megan and John feel college is important and will motivate their child to do his or her very best in school, the child also will be encouraged to follow his or her own dreams. Megan’s and John’s goal is to raise a healthy and happy child while instilling a sense of personal responsibility, independence, and respect for others. They feel the best thing they can do for their child is to raise him/her with the strength to stand on his/her own two feet.
Conclusion
John and Megan share a mountain-top sunset kiss.
While Megan and John are tremendously excited to welcome a child into their home, they also realize how difficult this decision must be for a birth mother.
“I am so thankful to our future birth mother, even though she hasn’t actually picked us yet,” Megan said. “I am already asking God every day to bring her peace and a sense of well-being.”
Because Megan and John realize that a lot of birth parents feel it is important to continue to receive information about the child after the adoption has been finalized, they are committed to sending letters/photos every six months. Megan and John are open to discussions about further contact.
Mostly, Megan and John just want to make sure all decisions are made in the best interests of the child. Megan and John don’t want a birth mother to choose them solely because they want a child as soon as possible—they want to be chosen because the birth mother/father feels that Megan and John are the best adoptive parents for the child.
…
That’s it! Now all I have to do is get the right birth parent to read it…
OK, it might seem like I was slacking last week. In truth, I didn’t post anything because I was too busy writing our adoptive-parent profile. Basically, the profile is like a resume: You have to look good on paper so the birth mother will want to bring you in for an interview. I put our profile in a magazine-article format, complete with a fancy-schmancy headline and photos. Of course, I can’t leave you hanging; below is the first half of the profile:
Whether a giggle, guffaw, or outright howl, Megan and John love to laugh. Married for five years, one of the foundations of their relationship is a shared sense of humor.
Megan enjoys some wedding-cake frosting.
“Megan’s laugh is contagious,” John said. “I like making her smile.”
Although Megan says she is easily amused, John often takes his time thinking up ways to make her chuckle.
“I can usually tell when he’s thought of a good one,” Megan said. “He gets this little grin on his face, and his blue eyes just start to sparkle!”
This appreciation for the joys of life is one of the most important lessons John and Megan want to teach their future children. The two have had their share of difficulties, but they truly believe “a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down.”
Additionally, Megan and John have the advantage of being more than just husband and wife—they are also friends.
“I actually had an interesting problem at our wedding,” John said. “You’re supposed to have your best friend as your best man, but I was already marrying mine.”
Megan and John share a wedding kiss.
Megan and John cannot wait to show their child the same degree of unconditional love.
WHY ADOPTION?
Megan and John tried to get pregnant for four years before Megan realized that God had been trying to point her toward adoption for quite a while.
“I took that last pregnancy test, hoping and praying that this would be the day I finally got some good news,” Megan said. “When I found out that the test results were negative once again, I thought, ‘This is ridiculous. There are thousands of children already out there who need a loving Mommy and Daddy.’”
Once Megan took time to think, she understood that one of the reasons God matched her with John is that John was adopted as an infant himself.
“I had a great adoption experience,” John said. “So choosing to adopt wasn’t a hard decision for me.”
As a young boy, John actually bragged about being adopted. Playing at a buddy’s house one day, little John kept telling his friend’s family that he was adopted. However, because John looked so much like his adoptive family, no one believed him! In fact, the friend’s mother called John’s mom to let her know that John apparently thought he was adopted.
“That’s okay,” said John’s mom, laughing. “He’s just proud! We really did adopt him when he was a baby!”
Megan and John want to give their children the same first-rate adoption experience that John was fortunate to have.
WHAT IS MEGAN LIKE?
At 29 years old, Megan is a magazine editor with a bachelor’s degree in journalism.
… (deleted for privacy) …
Megan likes to challenge herself with a daily 4- to 5-mile run, but she also appreciates relaxation time, usually ending the day with a few chapters of a mystery novel. Megan enjoys TV shows, such as “The Closer” and “The Office,” as well as movies, like “The Dark Knight” and “Superbad.” She is passionate about music—her favorite alternative-rock bands are White Stripes and The Raconteurs—having played the piano, cornet, and trumpet for many years.
Megan’s favorite activity, however, is cooking. She takes pleasure in finding new dinner recipes to try each week and even uses her coworkers as guinea pigs to taste-test her baked goods.
“Before making cookies for my friends or family, I always make a batch to take to work,” Megan said. “If the container is empty by the time I leave at the end of the day, I know I have a good recipe!”
Even though Megan’s favorite thing to eat is a greasy cheeseburger topped with crispy bacon, but she would much rather cook Italian food.
“I think I just really like pasta sauce,” she said. “I love throwing a bunch of herbs and spices in a pot and seeing what comes out.”
Megan has lived in Ohio for most of her life and considers herself lucky that her family still lives in the area. Although Megan’s parents divorced when she was a teenager, they both have remarried; Megan’s parents, stepparents, and older brother all live within an easy 45-min drive. Megan’s father has been a Lutheran minister for more than 30 years, and her stepmother is a kindergarten teacher. Before her retirement, Megan’s mother was a special-education teacher, and Megan’s stepfather is a legal and compliance insurance analyst.
Because the family didn’t have much money when she was growing up, Megan, her brother, and her parents spent a lot of time sitting around the dinner table playing cards and board games. When extended family came over to the house, everyone would spend hours devising various card-game strategies.
As Megan’s brother does not yet have any children, Megan’s and John’s kids will be the first grandchildren for Megan’s parents! They already are planning ways to spoil the future little ones.
Although Megan technically only had one brother growing up, she felt like she was part of a big family because she spent a lot of time with her cousins. Because Megan’s mom and aunt are identical twins, they spent a great deal of time together, which meant the cousins saw a lot of each other as well! Therefore, Megan now dotes on her cousins’ children, showering them with affection as she would nieces or nephews.
…
That’s Part 1! I’ll be sure to post John’s half at a later date. Let me know what you think!
Do we ever get tired of stereotypes? As a naive college student, I thought that those kinds of oversimplified labels were a thing of the past—as far as I was concerned, Americans as a whole were on the path to enlightenment. It was the dawn of the 21st century, after all. Then, of course, everything changed one sunny morning in September 2001. New York’s Twin Towers came crashing down in a fiery madness, the kind of monumental barbarity no one in my generation had ever experienced. And with that singular shocking event, a new stereotype began to permeate our collective unconscious. (When the word “terrorist” is mentioned, what image pops into your head? If it’s anything other than a male of Middle Eastern descent wearing a turban and traditional gambaz, I will personally take you out for a beer.)
I’ve learned since then that no one is immune to stereotypes. For example, my cousin Matt is an imposing bear of a man. Over 6-ft tall and built like a Steelers linebacker, Matt looks as though he could squish your head like a grape if he was so inclined. Add in tattoos, earrings, and a glare that can melt the flesh off your face, and most people tend to think twice before messing with him. (I have to add that Matt, I, and some of our siblings inherited the evil eye from our twin mothers—it just looks righteously badass on him.) A few months ago, I accompanied Matt on a late-night grocery run. Like a lot of after-hours supermarkets, ours had a police officer posted at the exit. When Matt and I stepped up to the bag-it-yourself counter to pay for our items, the officer moved from the exit to stand at the end of our lane, his arms crossed over his chest in an aggressive I’ve-got-my-eye-on-you stance. As I am a rather vanilla-looking suburban chick, I was pretty sure I wasn’t the cause of the officer’s concern. What the officer couldn’t know, however, was that we were at the store because Matt needed supplies to cook breakfast for the family the following morning. A whiz with a whisk, Matt makes the kind of delectable edibles the Food Network clan could only hope to achieve. And if you ask him why he uses his little time off of work to slave over a hot stove, he’ll tell you it’s because he loves to watch the expressions of pleasure on people’s faces when they try his creations. Melt-in-your-mouth sausage gravy and biscuits as a code for “I love you”? I can dig it.
These days, it seems as though every member of the human species is subject to stereotypes. Birth mothers are no exception. First mothers are assumed to be either a “Juno”-esque teenager crying on her hamburger phone to her BFF about last night’s broken condom or a strung-out stringy-haired prostitute who didn’t even realize she was pregnant until it was too late to have an abortion. At our latest training session, it felt as though even our adoption agency was perpetuating this modern myth. The presentation included an “ABC News” video in which two real-life teenage mothers decided to create adoption plans for their babies. The girls had supportive families and even were living in a kind of sorority house for pregnant teens where they were able to take advantage of all the medical care and counseling they needed. At the end of the show, each mother handed her baby over to her chosen adoptive couple (one of the mothers even conducted a ceremony during which Whitney Houston’s “I Will Always Love You” played in the background); there were a few tears and wringing of hands, but everyone seemed basically content with the outcome.
As the social worker turned off the TV, I sat there, utterly flabbergasted.
“But wait,” I said. “I’m glad that worked out for those girls, and I can only hope that my adoption goes that well, but that’s not really realistic, is it?”
I knew from my own research and from orientation at the adoption agency that this was not the picture of a typical contemporary adoption. No, the social worker admitted, most adoptions don’t look like that or go that smoothly. In fact, according to our adoption agency, the average birth mother currently is a woman in her 20s or 30s—usually single or divorced, but occasionally married—who already is taking care of at least one child. She has no outside source of emotional support and already is stretching every dime she has to take care of her little family; she knows that adding another hungry mouth will put the new baby and the rest of her nearest and dearest in jeopardy. In the absence of other options, she wants to make sure that her child has a chance at the stability she currently is not capable of providing.
Additionally, no matter the birth mother’s age, financial situation, or support system, minds often are changed at the last minute, and adoptive parents rarely heave sighs of relief until papers are signed and approved by the court six months after the child has been placed in his or her new home. The adoption process is an overwhelming emotional struggle for birth and adoptive parents alike. People who maintain negative stereotypes through self-imposed ignorance are thoughtless and foolish. Adoption agencies that reinforce idealistic pigeonholes with saccharine-soaked paradigms are, at the very least, reckless and irresponsible.
Heck, if I didn’t know any better, I’d expect my future birth mother to be a secure, well-adjusted adolescent. All of her medical, emotional, and physical needs will have been met, and she will have absolutely no qualms whatsoever about giving her perfect, well-cared-for child up for adoption. Evidently, she will even come complete with her own subscription to Tiger Beat and a penchant for early ’90s pop-gospel ballads.
I think I might be watching too much “Law & Order.” (In my defense, the show has so many spin-offs, some version of the original is pretty much on whenever you get the urge to pick up the remote.) J and I visited our adoption agency to have our fingerprints processed for our background checks. I was all ready to have my fingertips inked—to be “in the system.” Once again, my crime fantasies were dashed: There was no ink, no black stains on my hands. I couldn’t go to the bank and freak out the teller, pretending that I just got out of “the joint.” The whole thing was anticlimactic: All we had to do was press our fingers on a scanner. (sigh) Stupid technology. Ruins everything.
Our conversation on the ride home was a bit more interesting, though. Let me begin by noting that my husband is not the most eloquent man in the world. He is not into poetry; you will never hear him expound upon the elegant beauty of a bird in flight. He’s more sci-fi than Shakespeare, more “Shawn of the Dead” than “The English Patient.” He tends to create new words by combining synonyms. (For example, stomach plus tummy equals “stummy.” No joke.) I complete his sentences, not because we’re still in the googly eyes honeymoon phase of our relationship, but because I usually can finish his thought faster than he can. The flip side of the coin is that, when he actually has something serious to say, it’s usually worth listening to.
“I’ve been thinking about something,” he said. “I really think that our main job as parents will be to lift our children up.”
He began to explain that, as parents, it will be our job to make the choices that
will give our child(ren) the chance to have the things we couldn’t have and to be the people we never had a hope of being—to “lift” them closer to whatever it is they will need to live a life fulfilled. I’ll take this a step further. When children are infants and toddlers, the “lifting” is physical. A scraped knee means a little one is lifted into a lap for a loving booboo kiss. A muscle car driving over the speed limit means a youngster is grabbed and lifted into a safe pair of arms. Rather than a tangible act, “lifting” can be a synonym for “sacrifice.” Giving up a gleaming kitchen remodel (you know, the one with the stainless-steel fridge complete with ice maker and water dispenser in the door) and saving the $10,000 for a college fund is one example of lifting. Working two jobs and scrimping every penny for a miniature winter coat and pair of snow boots is another. Simply saying “no” and not giving in to every whim can be a way of lifting. (Kid: “I want an official Red Ryder carbine-action two-hundred-shot range model air rifle!” Adult: “You’ll shoot your eye out, kid!”) In turn, birth parents “lift” their children by giving them up to loving adoptive parents, hoping with all their might that their newborns are getting a ticket into a life free of fear, pain, loneliness, poverty, or whatever else their current lives might have in store for them. Although “lifting” might just seem like good parenting, it is actually more a euphemism for “love.”
With a tear in my eye, I stared at my husband. After a second or two, I finally asked what I was really yearning to know: “Are you just trying to get into my blog?!!”
“Did it work?” he asked. “I had to make up for the post you wrote about my messing up dinner like a doob.”
(That’s right. D-o-o-b. I think it might be a combination of “boob” and “dork,” but only he knows for sure.)
***If you are sensitive to issues relating to the sexual and physical abuse of children, you may want to refrain from reading this post.***
I have no funny stories to relate to you today, no endearing children to write about. I spent three hours this evening in a child-abuse workshop. (This was the second of five training sessions—and only the first of two on abuse—my husband and I must complete for our adoptive-parent certification.) I watched a 40 min. video during which abusers described in horrific, graphic detail the sexual and physical abuse they perpetrated on their victims. A 15-year-old girl talked about the five younger children she had sexually abused. When asked why she ruined the life of her seven-year-old male cousin, she raged about the abuse she had suffered at the hands of her older brother and the multitude of objects he took pleasure in inserting in her various orifices. A father chronicled the decade he spent molesting his daughter. He received one year (ONE YEAR!!!) of jail time. An older woman spoke about the guilt she had felt after whipping her two little boys with a curtain rod. After the beating, she threw the rod at her three year old, striking him in the eye and piercing his brain. He subsequently died.
I also got to see a slide show that featured photographic examples of physical abuse. (You know, just in case I couldn’t figure out what a beaten child looks like.) I examined bruised thighs, swollen lips, and cigarette-burned feet. I scrutinized a child’s back that very obviously had been struck repeatedly with a belt or other wide, whip-like device. I inspected an infant’s feet that had been held in scalding hot water. The burns were so bad, the baby looked like he/she had on a pair of red socks.
I simply don’t have the vocabulary to express my anger at this point. I think I would feel better if I could just find one of these assholes/bastards/scoundrels/
villains/weasels/snakes/miscreants/good-for-nothings/reprobates/lowlifes/
creeps/jerks/beasts/rats/dogs/heels/slimeballs/sons of bitches/scumbags/
scuzzballs/dirtbags/sleezebags/whoresons and throw him/her into oncoming traffic. As that seems rather unlikely, I think I will go to bed and cry.
I am constantly surprised. Surprises can be good, bad, or—sometimes—painfully hilarious. In the interests of time, I’ll skip the “bad” examples—If you’ve read my previous posts, I’m sure you can fill in the blanks. Instead, let us first turn to the “painfully hilarious.”
Exhibit 1: My cocker spaniel, Kalli, is convinced that she is actually RoboDog. Although she is relatively small at 25 lb, in her mind, she is as fast as the Flash and as indestructible as Superman. Because of her Doberman-size confidence, she thinks she can outrun birds in flight and pounce on pesky squirrels, which typically have the advantage of a vertical means of egress, i.e., those tall, leafy things we call trees. I have suffered many a shoulder injury after having the misfortune to be holding onto her leash when she makes a mad dash for her prize. Yesterday was one of those disastrous days.
I was out in my front yard, holding onto Kalli’s leash and ruminating over the appalling length of my lawn. I can try to blame my recent jet lag or job stress, but the fact is, I simply wasn’t paying attention. Like a mother who takes her eyes off of her child for just a second before her rambunctious tyke disappears around a corner, I made the mistake of glancing away from my dog. At that moment, a garbage truck turned the corner, and my sweet little puppy turned into Cujo, barking louder than my bus driver’s smoker’s cough and running after the truck like it was full of Kentucky Fried Chicken. Remember when I said I was holding onto her leash? Suddenly I was flying through the air, the wind in my hair, experiencing—for one extremely brief moment in time—the joy of weightlessness … a sensation that quickly turned into the searing pain of the concrete sidewalk greeting my face. I somehow managed to keep hold of Kalli’s leash while my white flip-flops became airborne, eventually landing in a muddy rain puddle. I lay there on the wet turf for a second, biting back a stream of profanity that would have rivaled Christian Bale’s Terminator tirade, before struggling to my feet and doing the “did-anyone-just-see-that” glance down the street. With grass in my hair and fresh road rash on my knees, I gathered whatever dignity I could possibly muster and slunk back into the house. Hey, maybe I’m famous: My little episode could be the top-rated video on YouTube at this very moment.
While I obviously can do without those kinds of surprises, it’s rather nice to experience a pleasant one once in a while.
Exhibit 2: J and I had a “couple’s interview” with Deb The Social Worker last week. She asked us about how we met, what kind of support systems we have in place, that kind of thing. She also asked about our strengths and weaknesses as a couple. J talked about how our past difficulties have shown us how much our relationship can actually handle. After all of the battles we’ve conquered together, future obstacles just look like a big piece of chocolate cake. When you’ve already been to Hell, you might not look forward to a return trip, but at least you know what to bring.
“I think another one of your strengths is that you really seem to be friends,” Deb said. (Well, duh. If I didn’t actually like my spouse, I wouldn’t have married him.) “Yeah,” J said. “I never understood those men who are constantly working overtime. I actually like my wife. I want to go home at the end of the day.”
Sweet, huh? It gets better (get out the Kleenex):
“I actually had an interesting problem at our wedding,” he said. “You’re supposed to have your best friend as your best man, but I was already marrying mine.”
Now that’s the kind of surprise I like.
My one-on-one interview with Deb The Social Worker started out as a “casual chat” and turned into more of a therapy session. Recounting my life story, literally from birth, in two hours while trying not to sound completely dysfunctional was a tad stressful. (Okay, let’s face it, taking an exam you haven’t crammed for is “a tad stressful”—this was more on par with jumping out of a plane after discovering your parachute was packed by a blind guy with no thumbs: Rather liberating, yet getting safely to the end without crapping your pants would be a pleasant surprise.) Fortunately, as a social worker, Deb has seen and heard much, much worse. I’m sure my Lifetime movie-of-the-week pales in comparison.
The really interesting part came after Personal History 101, when Deb began to ask questions that honed in on various personality characteristics. “Give evidence of your ability to empathize.” “Analyze your personal and emotional maturity.” And, my favorite: “Describe the level of openness you have in relationships.” Uh, oh. As previously discussed, I have King Kong-size privacy issues. (See my original post, “Blogophobia.”) However, I came up with what I thought was a pretty smart answer, which also had the advantage of being true: “I think my level of openness in a relationship correlates with my level of trust in the other person.” Deb thought a moment, then shocked me with a zinger: “So, how do you know who to trust?”
(Da, da, da, dummmmmm…)
How do I know who to trust?! My mind went blank. Forget about jumping in with a witty quip, my brain couldn’t even put together an intelligible sentence. I felt like I was in a Final Jeopardy round and that incredibly annoying time-is-almost-up song was getting close to the end. (Annoying because it gets stuck in your head. It’s stuck in your head now, isn’t it? See what I mean?) I needed a prop—water to drink, a pen to drop, anything—I was desperate for time to think. Any possible answer that popped into my head was, as usual, completely inappropriate: “Lady, if I knew the answer to that, I would have written a New York Times bestseller, made my millions, and bought an accessory baby from some third-world country like all of those other famous people.” If only I could have used The Force or borrowed Samantha’s nose wiggle, I would have been able to skip right over the knee-knocking moment, but, alas, Deb waited for my answer. What I ended up with was a less-coherent version of the following:
Trust is something that happens gradually over time. For starters, trust builds when the person in question follows through, keeps promises, and knows the meaning of confidentiality. Respecting boundaries is key. Further, I think most people experience varying levels of trust. For example, I trust that my nosy neighbor would water my plants if I asked her to keep an eye on my house while I was away, but I also trust that she would go through my mail. I trust my husband with our bank account, but I do not trust him to give an honest opinion on what I look like. (That’s undoubtedly smart on his part, however. “You look like a homeless Troll doll” wouldn’t win him any husband-of-the-year awards.) Basically, I don’t mind trusting an acquaintance with small odds and ends, but only someone who has ridden in my roller coaster gets to handle the big stuff. A trusting relationship is like Jenga: Poke enough holes, and the whole thing comes tumbling down. Unfortunately, it’s such a pain in the ass to set up, no one wants to put in the effort to build it more than once—a lot of the time, it simply seems easier to move on.
I feel like I just ordered my future child off of a McDonald’s drive-thru menu. J and I recently slogged our way through yet another form: the “Child Characteristics Checklist.” I now realize why social workers don’t hand out this questionnaire at the beginning of the application process: Once prospective parents are into an adoption agency for a couple thousand smackeroos, they’ll be less likely to run screaming in the opposite direction after they check out this mind-bender.
The checklist basically lets our adoption agency know what type of child J and I will or will not accept. All that was required was an “x” in the “Will consider” or “Will not consider” column for each characteristic. Good or bad, some sections were easy for us to complete. Yes, we will consider either gender; no, we will not consider a terminally ill child. (I know my mother thinks I’m a strong person, but mommies-to-be who choose to parent a terminally ill little one have to be a super-human mix of Mother Teresa and Wonder Woman. I can’t remember where I left my invisible plane, so I guess I’m out.) Some sections, such as those on various medical conditions, were difficult simply because we weren’t familiar with the topics. (Thank God for Wikipedia and Web MD–I now know what it means to be a macro/microcephalic or to have neurofibromatosis.) I found the section on temperament and personality to be hilarious. We had to consider 24 possible attributes, such as shy, energetic, sweet, withdrawn, and, my personal favorite, responsible. Who says they will not consider a responsible child? (“No, I insist that my son pelt the neighbor’s yappy Shih Tzu with rocks and carouse until dawn with the reprobate down the street. I simple cannot abide a child who insists on doing his homework.”) Interesting sections included those on criminal history: juvenile court involvement and current or previous charges/convictions. These didn’t apply to us because we are applying to adopt an infant, but it never occured to me that a child available for adoption might have been convicted for murder, assault, or rape.
The truly arduous topics were those that J and I previously had never discussed and now had to delve into at length. (Questionnaire: “Will you consider/not consider a child conceived as a result of rape/prostitution/incest?” Us: (Blank looks) “Uh, I don’t know, what do you think? Does that matter?”) Worse were those about which we had to consider every possible scenario, such as a family history of various mental illnesses. For example, schizophrenia can be hereditary. However, Deb The Social Worker told us about one of her birth mothers who had become schizophrenic after extended drug use. Because the disease didn’t actually run in her family, it was extremely unlikely that the child would suffer from it as well.
For me, the hardest part of the checklist was a short section on the first page—one which, a day later, is still partially blank: Race. Let me be perfectly clear—J and I have no qualms about whether or not we could love a child who isn’t white. My kid could look like Grimace or Mayor McCheese and I still would give him big, sloppy kisses and cut the crusts off of his PB&J. The question is, what could we—people so white we turn into crispy critters after 2 min outside on a partially cloudy day—have to offer a little African-American boy or Asian girl? How culturally relevant are Mike and Carol Brady to Rudy Huxtable? If someone calls my child The N Word or comments on how she looks “just like a China doll,” what advice could I possibly give? Those are not situations with which I have had personal experience. (Although my first instinct would be to suggest a foot-stomp/gut-punch combo, I have a feeling that’s not really appropriate.) Transracial adoption has spurred polarized viewpoints in adoptive parents and adoptees alike. I realize that this is one of those issues that each person must decide on for him/herself; the problem is, I have no idea how I really feel.
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