This is an ongoing meditation on the process of adopting a child. I’m mostly through the logistical and ID hoops and mountains of paperwork. Soon I’ll be in the “pool” of eligible adoptive parents.
My life has intersected with a lot of other people’s so far on this adoption journey. One person I’ve met is a tiny little woman named Pam, whose beautiful, spunky blonde daughter came to her through adoption. Of all the formal classes, interviews and Q & A sessions I’ve had with the professionals, I’ve learned the most from Pam.
One thing she told me is to consider fostering — her daughter was only 5 days old and an emergency placement. With nothing but faith that it worked out, she loved that child as hard as she could, knowing that it could end soon. Two years later, it all became legal.
Another thing she told me, as I continually freak out about childcare, is about a referral site for licensed daycare providers. I went there, and scrolled down the list of names. Iris. Lucy. Bella. All names I like. As I clicked on each one, I felt like I knew even less than when I started. I imagined me and my bundled baby visiting each day care, refusing it for a funny smell, a creepy little kid like Chucky, a strange vibe from the owner. I imagined running out in tears, not wanting to loosen my grip on the baby. Which leads into something around not going back to work, and getting fired. Which maybe will maybe be the catalyst to my life on welfare — kind of a boon for the freelance opportunities though. But then there’s the health care issue and maybe baby and I would just have to go back up to the woods and eke it out ourselves. I’ve done it before.
Or maybe I’ll just find someone, when it’s time.