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.
Last night was my third of four workshops through my agency. This time an amazing mother brought her four teen-aged daughters. Who were adopted — two as babies, the other two at 15 and 12. And they couldn’t have been more gracious and funny and smart and like regular sisters, alternately picking and snuggling up on each other. Except they were born to Jewish, African American, El Salvadoran and garden-variety white women, and didn’t look a speck alike. We heard all their stories of love and horror. And each one of us prospective parents in the room, I swear, were bowled over by their charm and grace and bravery.
At the end of the night, the eldest girl, at 17, made an appeal to all of us hopefuls who’d signed up for the infant adoption program. “Consider taking an older child. They have a harder time finding a home.”
It struck me so good and true and — possible. So yes, I am considering taking an older child as my own, with eyes wide open to a whole new layer of complication.
We might have to give away the Paul Frank baby hoodie, the only thing I’ve bought so far in anticipation.
