Always and Forever, Our Son

Of course, Dylan has felt like “ours” from the moment we laid eyes on him. This morning, however, we went before the judge who proclaimed him our son – always and forever.

I’m taking the occasion of the legal finalization of his adoption to at last write what I can. I’ve attempted to chronicle the hours before and shortly after his birth because I don’t want them to fade any further into the backdrop of our lives. And also because when we were waiting to adopt, I ate up the stories I could find about how families built through adoption came together. They fed my optimism and kept my cynicism at bay. I hope that our story – which does have such a happy ending - might do the same for someone else who is now struggling on the path to parenthood.

But it’s too late. Already I can’t remember when we signed what, who we saw when, what we said to whom. I feel so badly about this. How could those details that seemed so important disappear already?

I guess the answer is that they really weren’t all that important. Because I certainly do remember some things, the really important things, like slipping him into my blouse and holding this tiny, warm boy for the very first time, and like watching his daddy’s face as he coaxed him to drink more from a minuscule bottle. And like feeling torn between tending to my newborn son and his ailing birth mother, my heart bursting for them both.

Here is what I can recall – big and small – from Dylan’s birth, exactly nine months ago, way back on October 9, 2009.

I wrote extensively about our “fire drill,” which left off not knowing exactly when V., the expectant mom with whom we were matched, would give birth, but knowing it would be soon. After returning to our home – about 2.5 hours from her hometown – again without a baby, we stayed in a constant state of vigilance with the car packed and cat-sitter on notice. Though V. knew she’d have a c-section because of complications from her older son’s birth, she was worried about going into labor before the surgery could be scheduled and that we wouldn't make it in time.


After several days of waiting to hear from her, we grew anxious, beginning to fear the worst. Finally, rather than waiting for her to call, we called her. We were relieved when she sounded fine, and said emphatically, “You guys are going to be parents by this weekend!” She had conferred further with her OB, who was working to schedule her surgery. He told her to come to his office on Thursday morning, and that if his exam didn't break her waters, they'd proceed with plans for the surgery the next day. If the scheduled surgery took place on Friday, it would to be at Crummy Hospital, the county facility they had been hoping to avoid. V. shared horror stories of people she knew who'd been mistreated there, and she was especially nervous about how she'd be received as a parent placing her child for adoption. So we told her we'd leave as rush hour was wrapping up here on Thursday morning and would likely get there as her appointment was finishing up, in case we needed to accompany her to the hospital then and there.

Wednesday night came and neither M. or I slept much, so we got on the road earlier than anticipated. Traffic wasn't bad and we were happy we knew we'd make it there before the child was born. When we were about a mile out of her home town, we got a call from D., her wonderful friend who supported her throughout the pregnancy and in her adoption plan. He said they'd concluded the appointment already and the birth was not happening that day. It was scheduled for tomorrow at 5 p.m., but could possibly happen earlier if space in the operating room opened up.

I had heard before from someone who'd had to travel out of state for their adoption that some hospitals have special deals with local hotels and such. After making a few calls to the hospital where we thought the birth would take place, I was transferred to the Ronald McDonald House and spoke with an incredibly enthusiastic young woman. Though the mission of the charity is to support families with ill children, she said they had space available, so of course we could stay there. She also said it was just $15 per night!

The Ronald McDonald House (RMH) in this small city was only a few months old, and in the back parking lot of Mediocre Hospital. When we arrived, we were immediately greeted by friendly volunteers and staff. They showed us around the sparkling clean and fresh facility, which included a well-stocked kitchen and eating area, a laundry area, a living room with windscreen TV (unfortunately, I don't think we ever saw it turned off), a "computer room" still waiting for computers for the guests to use, and a little office alcove for the staff. Then there were three very small but comfortable bedrooms and two bathrooms, complete with towels and toiletries. Everyone really encouraged us to make ourselves at home (as I recall, someone had just baked cookies!) and asked us all kinds of excited questions about our situation.

Then they started presenting us with goodies. Apparently, the community had been incredibly generous and donated all kinds of stuff as the House was opening. So, we were given some handmade baby blankets, a diaper bag, and told we could choose as many books from the library to take home as we'd like. Then we were asked if we'd like any baby clothes. Since fear of jinxing our match had kept us from shopping for the baby much at that point, I said sure. They came back with three boxes of boy-baby clothes!

M. tried to nap for a bit, but I was too excited. Going through the clothes - which were mostly gently used - and chatting with the nice RMH people, I felt like I was at my baby shower. It was wonderful.

We met V. and D. for dinner at a small local Italian restaurant where we mostly just chatted and occasionally squirmed over the enormous day ahead of us all tomorrow. After dinner, they invited us to return to D.'s club house, which we appreciated. It was nice to meet a few more of her friends, all of whom were incredibly nice and accepting of us. But we didn't want to over-stay our welcome, or make V. feel she had to stay and entertain us when we could tell she was getting tired. So eventually we headed back to the RMH where we slipped into bed and held tight to each other. Was this really happening? To us? We were both so excited, we didn't sleep much.

D. called us in the morning around 9 a.m. and told us that they'd heard from the hospital and the surgery had been moved up to 10:30. He asked that we meet them on the north side entrance to the hospital.

We quickly finished up breakfast and showering and such. The staff and volunteers gave us directions to the hospital and sent us off with well wishes.

Getting off the freeway, we could see we were in a different part of town. Homes were boarded up, some with graffiti. Stray dogs roamed the streets. And ahead was a big, imposing old hospital.

We circled around it once, twice, but could NOT figure out where the north entrance was. There were doors and parking lots on both the east and west sides, but even after checking our compass, we couldn't figure out what D. meant by the north entrance.

Panic ensued as time ticked away. We did not want to be late for this! Finally, we parked at what seemed like the main lot and went in. The building was big and bustling and not well signed. We rushed through the whole first floor but couldn't find D. and V.

Finally, I stayed at one entrance while M. ran around the rest of the building. After many excruciating minutes, he returned, announcing he'd found them, and that they'd already gone up to the labor and delivery waiting room. We headed back up there, panting.

What a contrast with the Fancy and Mediocre Hospitals we'd visited during our false alarm trip! The small, cheerless room was cramped with big bellied women and their entourages. It was so stuffy in there that V. preferred to sit on the floor of the hallway outside the room.

We all exchanged hugs and M. and I expressed our regret for being a little late. V. seemed pretty nervous and a little withdrawn. It was tough to know what to say to her. She said she was scared about the surgery...but of course I wondered how she was feeling about the adoption. We joked uneasily for awhile, took turns pacing the hallway, and mostly just stood silently. All of us were asked repeatedly to get out of the hallway and to sit in the waiting room -- all of us, that is, except D. No one dared ask the muscular, six-foot-four-inch, tattoo-covered guy to do something he didn't want to.

Eventually, a nurse came and got V. We gave her another copy of the birth and placement plan, which we'd worked out carefully together with the guidance of our agency social worker a couple of weeks earlier. It specified all kinds of things about V.'s preferences, including that D. accompany her to the operating room, and that we be in a room nearby and brought in to assist with washing and tending to the baby. She wanted us to be the first to hold him.

The nurse indicated that V. would be right back. In actuality, she disappeared behind the double doors and we did not see her again until several hours after the birth. I wish I'd gotten to squeeze her tight before she headed off.

More time passed. And more. Then a different nurse came and retrieved D. After awhile, we could look through the foggy windows on the door and see a hulking figure we assumed was him, all scrubbed up and in a goofy smock and hat. We couldn't tell for sure, but it looked like he was in front of a gurney, and we assumed he was there, down the long hallway, with V.

We started to get nervous. Had they forgotten about us? What about the plan for us to be there in the moments immediately after the baby was pulled from the womb? At long last, a cheerful nurse came and found us. After confirming who we were, she ushered us too behind the double doors.

Then things moved quickly. We were urged to wash up and put on scrubs, which made it suddenly seem very real to me. We were taken into an operating room and told that V.'s surgery was about to begin in the next room, just through an open door where we could see various medical personnel in smocks bustling around. Our room was bright and quiet, with a "baby tray" warming up. We were introduced to two wonderful nurses, Dave and Eva, who chatted with us with just the right balance of friendly excitement and professionalism. Every now and then, they'd walk to the other room and bring back an update. "She doing well, joking around." Or, "the surgery's begun."


Just seconds later, Dave said he'd be right back. Indeed, he disappeared through the open door, we heard a little more noise, and then he came back, walking briskly toward us.

In his hands was a tiny baby. Covered in goo, and with his mouth wide open, gasping for air, there was our son!

Dave put him on the tray, and he and Eva gave him calm, encouraging words. Though M. said later he couldn't, I could tell pretty quickly that something was not quite right. First, the little guy was awfully purple. Second, he wasn't crying vigorously. Still, he was very sweet. Ten tiny little finger, ten tiny little toes. A perfectly shaped head with lots of dark hair. At one point he opened his dark, glistening eyes and seemed to look around wondering where the heck he was.

Dylan was born on October 9th at 12:51 p.m., weighed 5 lbs. and 14 oz., and was 18.5 inches long.


Dave and Eva stayed calm and reassuring, but they explained that he was obviously not the 39 weeks of gestation that we all anticipated. They could tell by things like the (lack of, I believe) creases on his feet. He had a strong heart beat, but they were worried about his breathing. His coloring and "retraction" - the way his little chest sucked in severely with each breath - suggested immature lungs. The nurses continued to play with his feet, trying to get him to pink up a bit more. While we went on snapping photos and just staring at this little creature, oblivious to the seriousness of the situation, they turned him first on his tummy, then declared they didn't like the way he was grunting, and turned him back to give him some oxygen through a mask that was way too big. This did improve his coloring, and they seemed encouraged.


Never-the-less, after about 15 minutes of checking his vital signs and attempting various mild intervention, they indicated he needed to take a trip upstairs to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. Of course, this was scary to hear, and I think our first real reality check that things weren't going as planned. Still, Dave and Eva were very upbeat and calm, which kept us from getting panicked.

As we followed them wheeling the little guy across the hallway to the elevator, V.'s OB emerged from the operating room. He congratulated us, looking a bit harried and surprised when he learned where we were headed. He explained that the delivery was tougher than he expected because Dylan's umbilical cord was wrapped around his neck. He was also surprised to learn about the new suspicion that the baby was several weeks more immature than he'd predicted, but said that because of the cord and the pain V'd been feeling against her prior cesarean incision, it was good he'd scheduled the surgery when he did.

So up we went to the NICU. Though I was very focused on our son, I was aware that we'd entered a strange and foreign world. The sights, sounds, even the smells were so unfamiliar. For the next hour or so, Dylan was assessed by various medical professionals, all of whom were very friendly and excited about our adoption situation. There was a respiratory therapist who was especially generous in explaining what was going on. She indicated that they would give him Surfactin, a drug commonly delivered to preterm babies, because it helped decrease the tension caused by fluid in the cells of the lungs (or something like that). They also hooked him up to an IV to deliver antibiotics, a heart monitor, a thermometer, and a nasal cannula, which delivered enriched, pressurized oxygen.



Very quickly, Dylan's little body seemed to get lost in a mass of wires and tubes. He didn't seem to mind too much, but we sure did. Though everyone we asked answered our questions, it was hard following what exactly was going on. I remember trying to interpret their medical lingo to get a better sense of his status. At one point, some of them were talking about how they "didn't like that he was floppy." This terrified me. I started to fear that maybe there was brain damage or some other very serious complications.

My memories here really starts to blur. I know that at some point, the hospital's pediatric social worker found us. She took us to a little room where we waited and waited while we fidgeted, worrying about the baby. Then she brought us paperwork related to assuming authority for making medical decisions. She also brought us paper wrist bracelets that became our keys back into the NICU, where only parents and grandparents of the wee patients were allowed.

We were also starving, so somehow eventually we made it downstairs and got burritos from the lunch truck at the curb. I think I was running on adrenaline at that point, because being out in the sunshine, noticing others going about their "normal" lives while the baby who might become our child was suffering upstairs, just felt like an out-of-body experience. In particular, I remember being really startled to notice several patients in their hospital smocks smoking cigarettes around the flag pole.

While scarfing down the food, we contacted our social worker at the adoption agency and told her it looked like Dylan would have to be admitted to the NICU for a few days, which essentially threw out the window the placement plan we'd so carefully discussed with her and V. She consoled us, and said that in her experience, it sounded like everything would ultimately be fine. She said that if we needed her, she'd make the trip to the hospital. I wanted to tell her that, yes, we needed her! We really needed someone who could take control and make it all right. Instead, we agreed to keep in touch.

Meanwhile, we were wondering about V. and how she was doing. I can't recall exactly, but there were some challenges in finding her. Eventually we did. She was pretty out of it, and sharing a room with two (and eventually three) others who were rooming in with their newborns, which must have been so hard for her. Her friend D. stayed constantly by her bedside, with his huge, muscular body crammed in the little wooden chair.

She was glad to see us, and eager for a report on the baby. We knew that she took his welfare very seriously and personally, so we didn't share all of the upsetting details with her (and in fact, at that point, we didn't know all of them). We showed her some photos of him, and at that point we all decided on his name.

We also presented V. with a couple of small gifts of congratulation that just seemed so, so inadequate. One was a pair of pajamas in her favorite color, pink. The other was a sock monkey. When she saw it, she squealed with delight and explained that she'd had one just like it as a child, which she'd loved and called JooJoo. We told her that we'd gotten another for Dylan, and that we thought maybe in the future, when they were both thinking about each other, they might like knowing that the other sock monkey was with them, too. She seemed to really like this, and as we talked, the idea developed that we'd take photos of Dylan on a regular basis with his monkey, so that she could see how much he was growing.


Eventually, we went back to check on the little guy. While we were out, they'd moved him to a different spot in the big room so that he was now lined up near other babies and more permanently connected with various beeping and flashing monitors, oxygen, etc. They had also put a feeding tube down his nose, which was really hard to see, and even worse to imagine the insertion.

Fortunately, we were then able to meet with the doctor who became his pediatrician while he was in the NICU. Of all the personnel with whom we interacted, this guy was the most tight-lipped and somewhat morose. He definitely wasn't the warm, fuzzy baby doctor I was hoping to acquaint my child with. Still, he gave us fairly encouraging words. He explained that, though serious, Dylan's situation wasn't atypical for a baby of his gestational age and that he didn't anticipate any long term impact. Essentially, he thought all the kid needed was some time, and that after a few days, he'd go home a healthy boy. Whew!

A few days. Though much longer than anticipated, that sounded manageable. Unfortunately, a few days turned into a few more days, and ultimately almost two weeks. Though Dylan's breathing continued to improve, early on his blood work showed sign of an infection common in preterm babies, and so an antibiotic course was started. Though the doctor was always reluctant to project how long we'd all be there, when we learned it was a 10-day course, we got the picture that we'd need to get a bit more comfortable being so far from home for awhile.

In sharp contrast to the doctor's chill was the first shift nurse to which Dylan was assigned, Ruth. A jolly middle-aged woman with a warm Jamaican accent, she was so kind to us. She cooed over how adorable he was (which was hard to tell, with all the tubes and wires and such), and told us that he was not one of the sick babies. He just needed to "cook" a bit more. She asked us about things that made us feel like normal, proud parents.

For example, she asked us what his name was, and we shared that at that point, we still hadn't decided. There were two top contenders, and we - along with his birth mother - wanted to meet him before deciding for sure. We told her as long as she promised not to tell any of our friends and family, we'd share them both with her. When we did, she said, "oh, they are both excellent names for this boy. The first one, that's a serious, powerful name. A politician's. Dylan, that's an artist." And you know how that part of this story ends.

Ruth taught us how and where to touch him. She said that in her experience, the little babies preferred constant pressure to stroking, and so M. and I both spent several hours that first day and night just cupping his little head in our hand, or laying our fingers on his small shoulders. Because of his various tethers, we weren't able to hold him yet, which was really hard. But we were able to change his diaper, and sing, and whisper to him.

At some point that afternoon, M. and I managed to go to the cafeteria and find cell phone reception. In the courtyard with construction going on around us, we made a few quick calls to our parents and siblings - all of whom were waiting anxiously to hear from us - to joyfully announced Dylan's birth. We regretfully told them it looked like we'd be there for awhile.

Later, when we checked in on V., we asked her if it was really okay for a bunch of people eager to meet her and Dylan to show up tomorrow. She confirmed what she'd said during our birth planning - that it made her happy to know Dylan had family excited about his arrival, and that she wanted to meet these people who were now part of her family too. This made my heart swell!

We went back to the RMH and made ourselves something quick to eat for dinner from the generous cubboards, sharing the news of Dylan's birth. We were reassured we could stay there as long as we needed. Then we headed back to the NICU. The main entrance to the hospital was closed, but we told the security guard where we were headed and were given immediate entry. It was kind of weird - both good and awful - that we were given the privilege of visiting our patient anytime, 24/7.

We stayed for a couple of hours. When we finally surrendered to exhaustion, Ruth assured us that she would call if there were negative developments, but that she didn't expect any and we should get a good night's sleep.

Surprisingly, we both did. But we were awoken about 6:30 a.m. by the phone ringing. It was Ruth. Of course, my heart flew to my throat. Was there a problem with Dylan? It turned out her shift was ending and she just wanted to share that he'd had a really good night. I thanked her and told her we would be there in about an hour.

That day was especially active and is now especially blurry. I know we went in early and met a new nurse, who was also exceedingly nice. She related how things had gone over night - slight improvements in his breathing, etc.

Most importantly, we got to hold our boy! What a sweet, soft, warm little bundle he was. The nurse advocated kangaroo care, which means as much skin to skin contact as possible. So M. and I took shifts all day, shifting his wires and tubes so that he could lay on our chests.


Then our parents and siblings began to arrive from around the state. We could only take grandparents in to meet Dylan one at a time, and our siblings were only allowed to see the little guy from across the room through a large window.

Similarly, V. could only have a few visitors at a time. So we did what we could to coordinate smoothly. For the most part, I was proud of our family. For example, they understood open adoption and our relationship enough to bring V. flowers and such.

V. had warned us that she might have a few biker friends visit her too. I was glad that a couple of rough looking guys who acted like teddy bears did indeed show up to wish her well. There was a funny exchange between one of them and my mom about whether the A on his cap stood for the baseball team or some other Angels.

I remember feeling really torn. I wanted to just sit in the rocking chair with Dylan on my chest. But, there were relatives around, clearly excited to meet the little guy, and I was delighted to introduce them. And V. needed attention too. She was feeling good, but still needed help gettng to the bathroom and such. We also sensed that she didn't want to be alone. Since D. finally left her side for a few hours, we stuck as close to her as we could when others weren't around, sometimes taking shifts, with one of us with her and the other with the baby.

That evening, our relatives still in town brought food back to the RMH where we all enjoyed dinner together. Then M. and I went back to the hospital and arranged with V. to go visit Dylan together. We helped her get dressed and shuffled over from the maternity ward to the NICU, trailing an IV bag. Then we had some fun announcing to the security intercom that Dylan's motherS were there to visit him.

We went in together - to the astonishment of a few nurses, I think - and she met her son, our son, for the first time. She held him and snuggled and smiled adoringly at him. We asked if she wanted some time alone with him, but she declined. After a little while, she said she was tired, and we shuffled back.

The next day, she was released exactly 48 hours after giving birth. Clearly, she wanted to get out of the hospital and, I suspect, start moving on with her life. In the week or so following that while Dylan was still hospitalized, we saw her twice more, for two very nice dinners. After one, she returned to the NICU to visit the little guy again.

I must say that in the months before we connected with V., while we were waiting to adopt, I spent an inordinate amount of time either fanticising or fearing what the time around our child's birth would be like. In most of my imagined scenarios, I envisioned there would be a time when a young woman would bravely pass a bundled baby into my arms and I would be transformed into "momma."


It didn't happen like that at all. Now I realize that there was no possible way I could have anticipated how events unfolded or how I would feel about them. I was surprised by how mixed my emotions were. I was stunned, scared, and enormously hopeful and happy. I was also incredibly sad and worried for a lovely young woman who was trying to do right by the baby she brought into the world. I wanted to make sure V. was okay. But I also wanted to make sure D. was okay. Both of them had no one else and needed us.

Many, many times since Dylan was born, I’ve begun drafting his “birth story” in my head. I wanted to make sure to get it all down in writing, for him and for us. I wanted to create something that not only captured the details – the things I know he’ll be curious about at some point in life – but also conveyed the “hugeness” of it all. As milestones like bringing him home from the hospital and his six-month birthday came and went, I regretted not taking the time nor summoning the emotional space to get it down. Now, I fear I've achieved quantity rather than quality in describing our experience.

It is so hard to understand, let alone explain, how all those strange moments and ambiguous emotions came together to become the most powerful experience of my life. Nine months later, with Dylan a thriving and happy little boy, on the day he is at last recognized legally as our son, I can't tell you when, or how exactly, but sometime in those earliest hours after Dylan emerged from another woman's womb, I at last became a mother.

Little Birdie

I've written before about how grateful I am for the internet. Barely a day goes by when I don't wonder in appreciation at the information available at my fingertips. The web has been incredibly helpful in researching our options for parenthood. Since I'm one of those people who likes to gather a lot of info before taking action, you can imagine the many hours I've spent over the last five years - first about "normal" conception and pregnancy, then about infertility and treatments, followed by all of the adoption options. And now, of course, I am loving learning about parenting!

But what is most amazing to me is the personal connections I've made thanks to the World Wide Web. There have been many times on our path to parenthood when I felt alone, freakish, or misunderstood, and all I had to do was hop online and Go*gle a bit, or read someone else's blog, or participate in a couple of the discussion boards I've discovered.

What a modern phenomenon to find solace in the experiences of someone I've never met - and probably never will meet, writing from across the country or even around the world! I've often been struck that I know so very intimate details about some couples' relationships, some families' histories, some peoples' medical makeups, but I have no idea what they look like, where they live, how they make a living, or other typical details we know early in our relationships "in real life."

Like in other personal relationships, there have been a few (well, more and more) people I've "met" online that I feel a real connection with. Perhaps I relate closely with their experience, or perhaps their writings bring me new insights or move me in special ways, or perhaps I just get the sense that they are really cool people. These are my "e-buddies," as I call them to M. In many cases, I don't think they even know who they are (that I stalk their blogs, for example, rarely or never commenting) or who I am. Weird, huh?

So, I'm especially tickled when my internet life intersects with my real life. I've been known to exclaim out loud when I learn that one of my favorite e-buddies lives nearby and haunts many of the same places I did when I lived in her city, or that someone I "followed" from our agency's waiting families profile is finalizing his daughter's adoption not far away. (Congrats, Bobby!)

I think I originally discovered Brook's blog, Babbles by Brook, through Lisa of Welcome to Babyville, who I found through her very thoughtful and articulate posts on our agency's discussion board. I took special interest in Brook's adoption progress because I realized that she and her husband became eligible to adopt about the same time M. and I did. When they matched and brought their adorable daughter Lily home during a very dry and depressing period of no contacts for us, I was both envious and encouraged.

Back in January, when Brook expressed an interest in learning more about who is following her blog and threw in incentives, I jumped at the chance to enter her contest. She said that any "lurkers" who responded would be entered into a random drawing to receive a cutie little birdie she'd made by hand. (So crafty!)

Truth be told, I'm not a big fan of birds (but that's a story for another post). I probably would've responded anyway, but when I continued reading and learned that she'd sweeten the deal by forwarding chocolates made by her husband, I quickly posted a comment telling her a bit more about myself and how much I appreciate her blog.

It was so fun to return home several weeks ago and discover a little package. Out popped a little birdie who flew all the way from Indiana. She now sits on the rail of Dylan's crib, and once in awhile, she makes her way into his nest.

I look forward to sharing with Dylan the special way his birdie came to him, and I imagine that it will be a childhood treasure he hangs onto for years and years. (The chocolates? No so much. They were delicious and disappeared almost instantly.)

Show and Tell

Show...

During the six months between when Dylan's birth parent's rights were terminated and when we can apply to the state for his adoption, we must be monitored by our agency. This means we must attend a support group meeting or trek to the office each month. In January, to cover this obligation, we were invited to speak at the conclusion of a weekend intensive, which is essentially an orientation with people who have just "signed on the dotted line" and launched the process to become adoptive parents.

Almost exactly two years ago, M. and I sat in the same room and listened first to a birth mom talk about her experience placing her child and maintaining a relationship with him and his adoptive family, and then to a new adoptive mom, who brought along her adorable tiny baby. The stories they related really helped us understand how this whole open adoption thing could work; they had a powerful impact on us. So, eager to "pay it forward," M. and I agreed to tote Dylan across the city and talk about our own experiences bringing him into our lives.

It was kind of strange. In a way, meeting with these new hopefuls brought me back to a very painful time: the period in my life when I wasn't sure I had much more to give to our family building efforts. And a time when embarking on the path to parenthood via adoption brought both new optimism and increased risk. As I looked out on this group of people, I wanted to tell them that I knew they'd probably already been down a rough road, and that while there is a light at the end of the tunnel, unfortunately, they should strap themselves in for some more bumps on a wild roller coaster ride (to mix some crazy metaphors).

Asked to share "our story," we spoke honestly and from the heart, though I think how we ultimately matched with V. and brought Dylan home is more interessting than how we actually related it all. We need to hone our story-telling skills!

The questions from the group were good. One person asked what we know now that we wish we'd known when we were in their seats. At first we responded with some technical tips about the arduous process to get "in the books." Then upon further reflection, I said two things.

First, I had kind of expected that when we final "got" our baby, there would be this magical moment when he was placed in my arms and he felt like ours. That single, special moment never came. Instead, because of our attachment to his birth mom and our desire for the match to continue to progress smoothly, for us the moments immediately following his birth were just as much about her and how she was doing as they were about him. And oddly enough, I am glad for that. We will have a liftime of magical moments with our son. But V. was our focus at a time when she really needed us.

After our talk, one of the participants thanked us and said that she now realizes she and her partner need to progress with more thought about what they can offer a birth mother than what she can offer them. So, that reframing is a good thing, I think.

Second, for a long time I've recognized that I attempt to manage my stress by fighting to control things around me. Part of that is struggling to anticipate things I can't possibly predicct. During our long wait, I spent ungodly amounts of psychic energy trying to guess how things might unfold so that I might have a chance to better prepare for them emotionally and otherwise. However, at some unidentifable point shortly before Dylan's birth, things became so unpredicatable, I just had to stop fighting and go with the flow. Looking back now, that made it so much more enjoyable. While I don't think its in my nature, I wish I hadn't tried so hard to figure everything out much sooner. I told the group that I wish I'd known there was NO way I'd guess how my baby would come to me and trusted more that however it happened - as long as it happened - I'd be okay.

Of course, throughout the whole session, Dylan was adorable. I think I caught in a few people's eyes that same baby lust that the little guy in the session we attended 24 months before had tiggered in me. I must admit, it was so gratifying to show off my son.

..and Tell

Like most new parents, when we are out and about with our little guy, he attracts lots of attention. People want to know what his name is, or especially how old his is. They often comment on how much hair he has and his gorgeous dark eyes.

And when people make these comments, there's always a little something in me that wonders if I should share that he is adopted. If I know the people, or the conversation becomes more involved, I will usually say something. More and more, though, I just say thank you...without adding, "he's adopted, so we have nothing to do with how cute he is."

Recently I noticed that I feel less driven to share that he was adopted when I am out alone with Dylan. When M. and I are together and Dylan attracts attention, I feel more compelled to reveal the special way he joined our family. What's weird is that I think this relates to some kind of latent fear of the questions that might come up when people can see that this little boy obviously came from some other gene pool than his parents'. I want to pre-empt any odd assumptions or awkwardness.

I hope this is something I get over soon. I'm surprise by how challenging I am finding it to navigate the issue of when to try to "pass." I know that when to share what with who about a child's adoption is a hot top with ambigous answers. Ultimately, I want Dylan to make the decisions about disclosing that information. But until then, I need to work on my own feelings and language related to "telling."

Let the Wild Rumpus Start!

We have more good news to celebrate. Tuesday morning, Dylan’s birth mother V. called us personally to let us know she was meeting with our adoption counselor and signing the papers to terminate her parental rights. She knew this was an important step and that it would bring us some comfort to know.

In fact, we danced around the front porch. Though Dylan has felt like our son since before he was born, it was a huge relief to cross this hurdle.

Since we have also received the necessary clearance from three different Cherokee tribes, we can now begin the legal process to officially adopt him, which should take between six and nine months. Technically, we are currently his guardians for the time being.

We’ve now sent an “official” birth announcement email to our extended family, friends, and colleagues. And TWO different "Welcome Baby Bashes" are being planned! We are so grateful to let everyone know about our darling Dylan, and it fills our hearts with joy that he’s been so warmly welcomed.

Fire Drill (Part I)

Well....

Last Sunday evening, we were enjoying a delivery pizza and some good red wine with our friends Anne and Andy when the phone rang. It was V., who explained that she'd been experiencing painful contractions and thought we should stand by because "tonight might be the night." We told her, "no problem, we are ready to go!" She told us she'd call back if things seemed to be progressing.

We hung up and....squealed!!! And jumped around a bit!! The Raggedies were a good audience.

We tried to settle down to watch the big show: the season premier of The Amazing Race, our favorite. During commercial breaks, we scurried around, making sure we truly were ready to go at a moment's notice. M. watered plants and washed dishes. I can't quite remember what I did, other than run around, but I'm sure it was productive!

The first contestants had just made their way to Phil and the mat when V. called again. She said she couldn't take it anymore and was headed to the hospital.

Oh, boy!

We both jumped in the shower, checked and double checked our various lists, and we set off. Once on the road we did a few things:

- M. drove carefully but faster than usual, with intense concentration.

- I called my mom and told her we'd keep in touch when there was more news.

- I called M. sister and told her the same.

- I called the agency as instructed. The operator patched us through to the on-call social worker, who happened to be S., our adoption counselor. She sounded excited for us. I asked what we were supposed to do when we arrived, and she encouraged us to go on up to labor and delivery.

- I recalled some good advice I received on my wedding day: take some "mental snapshots" of special moments. This will make it easier to recall a few things in the blur.

We were a little more than half-way and just out of a mountain pass when we decided to run into a service station for a bathroom break and something to drink. Alas, we left the cell phone in the car. Fortunately, we thought to look at it when we returned two minutes later, and sure enough, there was a message from D. He indicated that he thought they'd be sending V. home, and asked us to call him. We tried to call him back but couldn't reach him. So begins a very sad part of the story.

Pulling into the parking lot at the hospital, we tried to call again. No response. Were they still there? We debated what to do. Ultimately, we decided to go in. Because it was about 11:30 p.m., we had to enter through the emergency room, which was crammed with sick and uncomfortable looking people. After inquiring, we were sent on up to Labor and Delivery.

The elevator doors opened on a calm, quiet floor. Behind closed doors, we could hear the occasional cry of a tiny baby. Some further exploration finally yielded a nurses' station where we inquired about her. They directed us to her room. So she WAS still there.

I knocked softly. No response. I opened the door slowly and whispered. No response. I went on in. No V! She wasn't even in the bathroom. Finally, a more in-the-know nurse clued us in that they had indeed released her about 45 minutes earlier.

So back to the parking lot in a quandary we went. We tried calling again.

Briefly we debated heading home. Then we decided better and headed to a hotel that M. had scouted out online. I called and found they had availability, in fact at a good rate better than advertised on the net. We headed over there, concerned about V. and not sure what to do.

We checked in and headed to bed. I'd just drifted off when the phone rang. But no one was there.

We were both sound asleep about 2 a.m. when the phone rang again....

...and Closer

Friday was great. The drive was uneventful and went quickly, with me reading through all the relevant stuff provided by our agency, and Matt putting the petal to the metal.

When we pulled into the parking lot, I saw D's big old Bronco. We hadn't expected him to be there, but were delighted. He's been such a great support to V. Next to it was a nice Prius. I joked that it must be the social worker's. Sure 'nuf, when we left three and a half hours later, that's what she got into! Interesting symbols...

M. spotted a Carrow's worker making her way into the restaurant ahead of us and quipped, "Little does she know, she'll be serving us her entire shift." He wasn't too far off.

When we walked up, D. was at the door, on the lookout for us. V. and S., the social worker, had already been meeting for more than an hour. It was great to see V. She seemed happy to see us, and her big belly looked even rounder and lower. I told her truthfully that I'd been feeling really good and excited until just a few minutes before when nerves took over. She said that she'd had the same experience. S. had been walking her through a lot of paperwork, and talking about the process for terminating parental rights. I'm sure it must have been very emotional.

Anyway, we chitchatted with nervous energy for a bit, and then S. got us down to business. First she asked me and M. to talk about our "love story," which was fun to do. She asked us about our childhoods, etc. Then she asked V. about her childhood, which was very challenging. She's been through a lot, so its impressive to me that she's been able to stay focused enough to make an adoption plan. She really wants a better life for her child.

S. asked us all a bunch more questions. What was really nice is that we had already talked about most of it. M. and I had decided that at this meeting, we needed to reveal something we feared might be a real turn off to V., and when an opening came up, we waded tentatively into it by telling her there was something we didn't want her to be surprised to learn later, but that we worried a bit about how she'd react. She looked a little concerned. Matt confessed: we're vegetarian. There was a big look of relief! "That's no problem. I was a vegetarian for awhile too!"

Later in the conversation, when we were talking about the hospital experience, who she wanted to be there (D. in the operating room, us there with the baby immediately after) and who she didn't, V. said, "Well, there's something I've been kinda worried about telling you guys." Uh oh. "If my friends visit me, they'll probably be wearing leather." She and D. explained that D. is part of a bike club, and that many of the people who have been encouraging her in her adoption plan are their buddies who have tattoos and wear jackets with a skull on the back and the name of the club, which is a "bad" word. Both V. and D. really wanted us to know that these are good, caring people, and that we shouldn't be intimidated by their looks.

M. assured her that we didn't care; if they are friends of hers, they are friends of ours. I did thank her for letting us know, so that I could warn my mother!

Finally we wrapped things up. S. gave us more paperwork to bring to the hospital. It turns out, the IAC won't have a representative there (unless there is a problem) and we have to give V. the termination papers. A little weird...S. did say that she'd contact the hospital on Monday to give the social workers there a heads up about this being an adoption situation and about the various arrangements we'd discussed regarding caring for the baby while he and/or V. are in the hospital, etc.

Then M. and I followed D. and V. in the old Bronco to her doctor's appointment. My goodness, it was the chicest office I've ever been to! As M. said, it looks like HGTV has been here. I was delighted to see that the receptionist and others knew V. and treated her with friendly respect. We waited with D. in the waiting room for awhile, while V. was getting checked out and then they called the three of us back.

The assistant who took us back congratulated us and told us that she was adopted, AND that Dr. H. is adopted. Cool!

Poor V. was stretched out in an uncomfortable position, waiting for the doctor to come back and give her the ultrasound. Several minutes later, he showed up and introductions were made. My initial impressions? Very nice (but not overly friendly) and YOUNG!

He hooked up the machine and squirted V.'s big belly with the goo that she reported was painfully cold. Immediately, there were blobs on the screen.

Truthfully, I expected this to be a very emotional moment. It was definitely special, but for me it was more interesting intellectually than emotionally stirring. I think that's partly because the baby was not in a position in which his features could be easily identified. That's an ear? Okay, doc, we'll take your word for it.

He is reluctant to schedule the c-section date and will wait until her 38th week to do so (around Oct. 6th). But he said it could be anytime now. The baby looks healthy; I asked if he could tell how much the baby weighs now. He thinks about six pounds.

We talked about how if it is a scheduled c-section, it will be at one hospital, but if she goes into labor, it becomes an emergency c-section and she can go to any hospital, including the one where they both prefer to deliver.

The appointment wrapped up with the doctor telling us we were doing a really good thing, and me expressing what I'm truly feeling, that we are very fortunate. We shook his hand again, thanked him for his special care of V., and told him we'd see him soon. Weird!

We walked out into the afternoon heat and all breathed a deep sigh of relief. V. admitted being exhausted. We took awhile to say goodbye, letting her know we'd be ready to be back as soon as she needs us to be.

...which might be tonight. She called earlier and spoke briefly to M. She thinks she may be having contractions.

Getting Closer

We'd had plans for months to spend a long weekend in San Diego last weekend, a couple of days at a B&B in M.'s old neighborhood and a couple of days camping at the beach with my brother and his family, who were out from Arizona. So when we didn't hear from V. after her appointment on Thursday afternoon as anticipated, we started stressing. Might she be in trouble and unable to call? Or could the baby have arrived and somehow we'd missed connecting? Or, most probably, had she changed her mind about placing and neglected to tell us?

I scrambled to finish things up as much as possible at work, but then arrived home to a big decision: to go, or not to go to San Diego? And if we go, for how long? Our nights at the B&G were non-refundable.

M. was operating under the assumption that we would go, but just until Sunday because V. had told him she suspected the baby would be born on Tuesday (not sure why she was thinking that; something about her doctor's schedule...) Not having heard from her, I was especially eager to escape to the beach. So I convinced him to add our camping gear to our stuff so that we could stay longer if the circumstances enabled it. I declare that I didn't want to live our lives on the edge of our seats waiting for this baby - who may or may not become ours - to be born. (Fortunately, due to someone's superpower - organization - it was quick and easy to get the gear together.) Off we went.

We had a nice drive down and checked into our accommodations: kinda shabby and funky but charming, with a kinda shabby and funky but charming inn keeper. Then we began exploring the neighborhood and the adjacent canyon on foot. According to M., the area has really gentrified! There were all kinds of trendy restaurants and shops along the main stretch. We settled into a chic wine bar over two nice glasses and an abundant cheese plate. As we were wrapping up, my cell phone rang (a rare occurrence). It was V.

She apologized for not calling earlier, and we ensured her it was no problem! She told us that all had gone well at her appointment yesterday. She had been concerned because she was experiencing less movement, and the doctor encouraged her to drink apple juice. She has been, and the kid's perked up. They did end up sending her to the hospital for some more extensive monitoring and reported that she IS having contractions...but they are NOT labor related. Her due date has been revised to October 16th (again with the caveat that she may not make it that long). This was especially good news, as it puts her close to 36 weeks of gestation.

And she asked us to join her at her doctor's appointment tomorrow! Of course, we are honored and thrilled.

Since we're headed out to see her, we're going to use the occasion for an official "match meeting." We've been assigned a new adoption counselor, S., who will see us through the rest of the process. M. and I haven't met her yet, but our interaction with her on the phone so far has been positive. She seems responsive, empathetic, and professional...as evidenced by her willingness to drive out to the boonies to meet us with V. this week.

Before we rendezvous with V., S. will pick her up and they will do some counseling and probably sign some pre-termination papers, etc. Then we'll meet up with them at Carrows. (M. and I are kinda hoping this doesn't become "our" restaurant, in light of its limited veggie menu). We'll go through all kinds of things together, including things how V. wants the hospital experience to go, naming, circumcision, contact after birth, etc., etc. Fortunately, I think we've already talked about most of these things with V., so we're not expecting a lot surprises. I am a little nervous that we may share something - such as our atypical diet - that will turn her off. But we've resolved to continue to be open and honest.

After the looooong meeting, we'll accompany V. to the doctor's appointment that will likely include an ultrasound. Oh, my! Following that, we've offered to take her shopping to get some pants that fit (we've joked about how quickly she's growing out of jeans she thought were huge at one point) or something nice and comfy for the hospital. But, I'm guessing that it will be a very long day and she'll be too tired. And truth be told, I'm sure we'll be exhausted too after the intensity of it all.

With most of these details settled, we were able to REALLY relax and enjoy the rest of our weekend, staying through Monday evening. (M. had to get back to deal with an unexpected work crisis on Tuesday morning, but this gave us most of that day to get more on top of all the things I needed to, to feel a bit more prepared, such as seven - seven! - loads of laundry and getting the timing belt on the Subaru replaced.

The water was so warm and clear. We loafed about and caught up with family. Both of us got a bit more sun that we should've but it felt like an end-of-the-summer priveledge. We board and body surfed and built drip castles. The weather was just about perfect and we really enjoyed each others' company.

We returned home late on Monday night to several big packages, a few of them "essential" baby-related items including a car seat. M. and I have resolved that we'll pack an overnight bag - but not more - to take with us tomorrow, in case we end up needing to stay longer than expected. :)

Work this week (ummm, TWO days) has been crazy busy. But when I left (very late) this evening, I sent an email to my boss and assistant with a five page To Do list for all of my major programs and projects this fall. I told them that I anticipated being able to make further progress before needing to take my parental leave but that the info was incase they need to pick up where I've left off, and that I appreciated their support of our adoption. My boss also signed my leave application, with blank dates. So I'm feeling a bit more like the details are coming together.

I just hope it is not all for naught....

(Sorry I haven't found time or energy to provide more consistant updates; I'm afraid it doesn't bode well for my ability to keep up with blogging during early parenthood. Thanks, though, to all who have been in touch and/or sent your good thoughts and encouragement our way. I hope to have more good news - and to share it - soon!)

It's a Match!

Note: This post indulges those who've begged for details (yes, that's you, Mom). For others just hoping for a quick update, skip to the bottom.

Aug. 31 p.m.

M. and I go for a jog around the neighborhood. We return and he (fortunately) checks his email. He says, “Hon, come check this out. We got an email from a birth mother and it sounds good.” I’m skeptical. Truth is, we’ve received many messages from “birth mothers” over the months, and there has always been something off about them, such as the one that attached photos of “herself” that were obviously stolen from a maternity magazine. There are a lot of scammers out there…

But Matt was right. This email included some important details, including a full name (V.), a hometown (someplace a little more than two hours from us), and reference to things she liked about our profile. She also said that she was nervous, but knew open adoption was the right thing to give her daughter – who is expected in a few weeks – the life she deserves.

We hopped on line and hammered out this response:

Hi V.,

Thanks so much for your message! It is great to hear from you. We totally understand that you might be nervous. We are too! But it's great that you are reaching out and working to make a plan for you and your daughter.

We loved hearing that one of the things that attracts you to us is our traveling, because it is something we really look forward to sharing with our child someday.

What more can we tell you about ourselves now? Of course, we're really curious about you. How has this pregnancy been for you? Are you feeling okay? It's probably felt like a long, hot summer!

Feel free to email or call. We plan to be home for the rest of the evening tonight (we just got back from a run and now we're making dinner together), and after about 8 p.m. tomorrow night. We hope to hear from you soon.

Take care and best wishes,
M. and Kristin

We start to make dinner and the phone rings! We spend about 50 minutes chatting with V. At first it is a little stilted and awkward, but we all acknowledg that it is an unusual situation and laugh at ourselves.

We like the questions V. asks and we mostly ask her about herself – what she likes to do (photography, writing – sound familiar?), and her son, who will be two in December. Though she sees him often, her dad is “parenting” him, and she knows that it won’t be any easier for her with another baby.

We learn a little about the baby that she is carrying. She is quite active and already responding to music. V. indicates that she’s receiving regular prenatal care and that the doctors report her daughter is healthy. The mystery is due date: V. has been given two – one is Sept. 15 and the other is Oct. 28. (???!!!)

Before we go to bed (for a restless sleep), we send off another message:

Hello again,

We really enjoyed connecting with you by phone.

Of course, it is music to our ears that you are considering adoption and that you might want to get to know us better. We really do understand that this is an incredibly difficult and important decision for you. Know that whatever you decide - to parent or place your daughter, with us or with another family, we think you are a strong, brave, and compassionate person.

We'd love to continue to get to know you more. Would you like to plan another time to talk?

All the best,
M. and Kristin

Sept. 1.

In the morning, I call the birthparent intake counselor at our agency, as instructed, and let her know we've received "a contact." She says she knows V. has been in touch with another family. Uh oh! But she indicates that the situation seems to be "good" (implying to me that she thought it was legit.)

n the afternoon, another friendly email from V. arrives. Attached are four photos! She thanks us for helping her feel comfortable and not nervous any more. (So sweet!)

I send her back a message that says:

Hi V.,

Wow, [your son] is ADORABLE (and his momma is pretty cute too :) )! Thanks so much for sharing those photos.

You may have already checked out all the photos of us in the "gallery" on our adoption web site. We’ve also created an adoption video; its kinda goofy, but it might give you a better sense of who we are: [YouTube Video link]

How did your doctor’s appointment go today? Hope all is well. Were you able to get a clearer sense of the due date?

We’re glad you felt comfortable talking with us. We were nervous at first too. Lets face it, its a pretty unusual and awkward situation. So it was great that we seemed to connect about so many things. If you want to talk again... We don't want you to feel pressured to get in touch soon; we know you have a lot going on. On the other hand, if you are eager to keep things rolling, we want you to know wed be excited to chat some more.

Take good care,
Kristin

She writes back that afternoon, saying she'd love to talk again soon and sending along some more photos. She says her doctor's appointment has been moved to Friday, so still no clarification about the due date. She tell us that she's been stressing for months, but that now she is feeling calm and relaxed. She's talked with some other families, but none of them make her feel how we do. She thinks we'd be a great family for her baby.

Whoa!! Deep breaths. This is all going so well..and so quickly! We exchange more messages and plan to talk about in the evening.

But the call doesn't come...I spend another near-sleepless night.

Sept. 2

Then I get to work and log on! She's emailed apologizing for having phone trouble. She asks if we are excited about becoming parents. I respond:

Hi V.,

Thanks for your message. (I wish I'd thought to check my email last night!)....

M. and I are excited and ready to become parents. We've waited a long time, and have so many hopes and dreams for our little one. We've enjoyed our connection with you and are hoping that this might be a great match for everyone...especially your daughter.

Take care,

Kristin (and M.)

We suggest that she get in touch with a counselor at out agency who can "tell [her] more about the open adoption process and give [her] an idea about counseling and support available with no pressure involved." We encourage her to email or call us with more questions in the meantime, if she'd like.

In the afternoon the counselor tries to reach both of us but has to leave a message. She indicates that she's talked with V. (yeah! Follow through!) and done an "intake," which means she's asked her some of the sensitive questions it hasn't been appropriate for us to. We are delighted by the scant info we receive: no history of drugs or physical or mental health issues. We get just a little info about the birth father.

V. does email again, and asks some more good questions, such as why we want an open adoption. M. responds. Then later in the evening she calls and we both talk to her, this time for almost 70 minutes. It is an easy, interesting conversation. Except for...

She asks if we have any names in mind. I start to go into a spiel about having a long list, but wanting to narrow it down with our eventual birth family. At that point, I pass M. the phone and she tells him that she has a name she loves. Well, folks, it was, how shall I say...a name we would classify as "a made up Irish name." M. jots it down and it's so far from anything we've imagined, I can't help but laugh! He stammers, "Well, eh, what do you think of XXX?" Think of her contributing Madisonia and us suggesting Sarah. We all kinda giggle at how far apart we appear to be and move on to more compatible subjects.

V. promises to let us know how her doctor's appointment on Friday afternoon goes.

Sept. 3

I am able to reach the adoption counselor. She relates more details of what V's reported. What's cool as that we already know almost all of it, because we've already talked with her about it directly. This is feeling like what I hoped an open adoption would feel like: open and honest.

M. and I talk about wanting to meet with her soon, so that we can really determine if we'd like to match with her. We're getting excited. We call her that evening and SHE asks tentatively if we'd like to meet her. We respond enthusiastically! We agree to meet her at a restaurant in her hometown for lunch on Saturday - two days away!! I let her know that if she'd like to invite a friend along, we'd welcome that. (She's spoken fondly of her friend who encouraged her to stay with him when things weren't going well with her roommates. V. says that D. is the first person she talked with about adoption, and that he's been a wonderful support.)

Sept. 4

M. picks up a phone call from V. She says, "I hope you haven't bought anything pink!!" She's in shock. Having been told previously that she's having a girl, she been envisioning the little one she's carrying that way. But this afternoon her doctor found strong evidence to the contrary. She emails us an ultrasound photo, and sure enough, even we amateurs can make out some pretty strong clues of maleness!

She relates a little to M. about other news from the appointment, but she asks him for me to call. I'm delighted to do so when I get home from work. It's funny. M. and I only allowed ourselves to think we might be having a daughter for four days, and when we learned we weren't, I think we both felt some loss. But it was very easy to shift gears and get excited about the prospect of a son, especially for me, who's been fantasizing about a little guy in rocketship jammies for years.

V. and I have another nice, long conservation. She reports that the doctor again indicated that the baby is doing well. According to the measurements, he's due date is Oct. 28th. However, according to his positioning, he could come much earlier. I am somewhat relieved to learn that the doc scheduled the next ultrasound for September 18th, suggesting that he doesn't think the baby will show up before then. Regardless, I can't help Googling "delivery at 32 weeks" and learning some scary things. I hope that kid can stay put for several more weeks! (V. thinks it will be earlier and told us we're now on her friend's speed dial!)

We also know now that he'll be born at an Adventist medical center. M. and I immediately think, "Yummy veggie food in the cafeteria!" V. is happy about this too, since her other son was born there and she is already familiar with it.

I bake cookies for V. that evening, which is a nice way to keep somewhat distracted. Never-the-less, I fall into bed exhausted but have trouble sleeping. I am too excited.

Sept. 5

Is this the day? Will we actually meet the woman who will make it possible for us to become parents? Will we get to see our son, snuggled safely inside her belly?

What will it be like? What will SHE be like? What if she takes one look at us and decides we're too old/fat/ugly/whatever to parent her beloved child?M. and I both wake up earlier than we would on a typical Saturday morning. We laze about a bit and marvel at the strangeness of our situation. It is nice just being in bed with my sweetie.

But then I can't take it any longer. I get up and start doing "things." So does M. He prints out some nice pictures that V. hasn't seen before, to give to her. I print out my earlier post about my Open Adoption Wish List. From the conversations we've had, I think V. will appreciate it.With a little more last-minute rushing than I'd prefer (which I will attribute to M.'s butterflies), we're out the door and on the road by 10:15 a.m. It's a nice ride. We talk about other stuff. But we never stray for long. We ask each other several times how we're doing. We both always say something like, "Good. A little nervous, but mostly excited."V. has suggested we meet between noon and 12:30 p.m. at a place she loves.

We're starting to get stressed because it seems like we'll be a few minutes late. So I give her a call and let her know. Unfortunately, I have to leave a message, so I worry that she's sitting there, wondering if we've abandoned her.We pull up to the restaurant. She's not there. In fact, NO one is there. Uh oh! The place is closed for lunch on the weekends. We wait awhile. M. and I make jokes that she's seen us and made a U-turn. I feel just a little bit anxious.

Then they pull up. Hugs are exchanged. Laughter is nervous. V. is very cute, with a nice round belly and a little penguin waddle. D. is a big guy whose looks could be intimidating, but his welcome is warm, and I can tell that he is protective of V., which endears him to us. She is embarrassed about the restaurant being closed. We assure her that the Carrows down the road will do just fine. We precede over there.

...And we spend a couple of hours together. Conversation is easy. We discover similarities and many differences, but there don't feel to be judgments involved. V. seems delighted with the cookies and genuinely interested in all of the photos. She talks more about what it's like to be pregnant, and has us both put our hands on her belly to feel the little guy move about. (A Juno moment!) It gives me goosebumps and a lump in my throat. She talks about wanting to make good of her difficult situation, and that maybe this was all meant to be. (Remember, I am not a faithful person, but I definitely get chills then!)

We talk about her doctor, and the hospital, and that she wants D. to be in the operating room with her (her previous birth was a c-section, and this will be too), but she wants us to be there to give the baby his first bath. Oh, my!We tell her that we hoped timing would work out for her to come visit our home before the baby is born. She said she'd love to.

Finally, dessert course eaten and dishes long cleared, server shift over and other guests out, we wrap things up by lingering in the parking lot. M. has the presence of mind to ask to take a few photos, and he does. They are cute and I'm already picturing them in our son's life book.We drive away wondering if the next time we see each other, there would be a little baby to welcome.

Sept. 8

And today, V. calls the agency and so do I. Independently, we report that we are so happy and excited. It's official: WE HAVE A MATCH!

Open Adoption Roundtable #4: They Don't Call the Wait a Rollercoaster for Nothin'!

This week’s prompt over at ProductionNotReproduction is to “write about a small moment that open adoption made possible. It might be about something that happened during an interaction or conversation if you have face-to-face contact. Or a moment centered on a letter or picture, if you don't. Just a single, small moment that could not have happened if the adoption were not open.”

The assignment has elicited many lovely responses from adoptive parents describing their first moments with their new children, birthparents relating especially meaningful interactions with the children they’ve place, and such. As a whole, these entries are powerfully beautiful and encouraging, and they reinforce our decision to pursue open adoption to build our family.

…which is why I feel a little awkward submitting my contribution. First of all, we’re not in an open adoption yet. We’re just waiting – and waiting – for a match. Second of all, the scenario I’ve elected to describe is kind of “woe-is-me” and a downer. But, it’s where I’m at right now. And I think it is a genuine, revealing slice of a brief period on our path to parenthood, one that exists because we hope to have a strong relationship with our child's birthfamily.

Friday, 5:30 p.m.
We receive an email from our adoption coordinator that another counselor is working with an expectant mother (“S”) who has expressed interest in us (UP!),
but that subsequently she hasn’t returned phone calls. (DOWN)

Sunday, 4:00 p.m.
I happen to turn on my cell phone and retrieve a message from the counselor telling us a little more about the situation (UP) but it is from last Wednesday, despite the fact that I’ve asked the agency to remove my cell number from the database, because I never use the phone. (DOWN)

Monday, 11:30 a.m.
The counselor returns my call from earlier in the morning, in which I reported that I’d just received her message and inquired about the situation at this point. She says that she did receive a call from S over the weekend, so she is back on the radar. (UP)

The counselor tells me more about the situation and it sounds encouraging. I ask her to let S know we’d be excited to speak with her. (UP, UP)

Monday, 12 noon.
The counselor calls me back and lets me know she’s talked with S again and she’s very interested in us. In fact, she tried to call us this morning. Counselor advised her to call after 5 p.m. our time, when we’d be off work. (UP!)

Monday afternoon
Unable to accomplish any real work, (DOWN) I spend all kinds of nervous time rehearsing our first conversation in my mind and Goog*ling S’s home town, even researching extended stay hotels…(JUST SILLY)

Monday, 5:10 p.m.
I race home and hope to find M on the phone already. He isn’t. (DOWN) He says he’s been listening for a call and is trying not to get too excited. (UP)

Monday, 5:30 p.m.
I flop on the bed, feeling a bit nauseous. (DOWN)

Monday, 5:50 p.m.
Still flopping, and trying not to let the sting beneath my eyes escape. (DOWN)

Monday, 6:15 p.m.
I decide to go for a run. (UP and DOWN)

Tuesday, 6:00 p.m.
No further developments. (DEFINITELY DOWN)

To Market, To Market

If you are interested in pursuing open adoption, you'd better get pretty comfortable pretty fast with "marketing" yourself.

There are lots of reasons that M. and I have chosen open adoption as our path to parenthood, most of which I've blogged about before. One of the reasons, I suspect, that many others follow different paths is because this way requires a certain amount of self-promotion.

Open adoption relies on future adoptive parents creating and disseminating the information about themselves that will attract prospective birthparents and ultimately motivate them to match. And, while M. and I wholeheartedly embrace the principle that birthparents should have the choice of whether and with whom to place their child, its hard not to see the thousands and thousands of other hopeful adoptive parents as the "competition." Clearly, the way we represent ourselves is critically important.

Not a big deal, we thought. After all, we've got a lot to offer, so it won't be that tough presenting ourselves attractively. Plus, I am well practiced at writing promotional material, and M. has lots of experience with design and especially with optimizing web pages.

Oh, we were so niaive. Marketing ourselves has turned out to be the most awkward, uncomfortable part of this process. (At least so far!)

Different agencies and attorneys handle the marketing of adoptive parents differently. Our agency required us to create a two-sided, full color "Dear Birthmother letter" - which M. and I have come to refer to as the DBL - that they can send to inquiring birthparents. We also have to create our own web site that we link to the agency's along with all of the other waiting families'.

What is presented as the final hoop to jump before officially joining the "book" of IAC's waiting families is for their main office in the Bay Area to receive 100 copies of the DBL and an 80 word blurb with a link to your web site. I believe we started drafting our DBL in February 2008....and we weren't eligible until July. For five months, nearly every weekend - and many weekdays - was frought with discussions, drafting, and decisions.

First, I took a stab at the text, guided by a fairly vague list of requirements provided by the agency and several sample letters. Then M. made tons of edits. We realized it was way too long; we had to encapsulate our lives in about 800 w0rds. So we cut and rearranged and edited some more. Meanwhile, we were scouring our digital and print files for photos to include. We knew that these visual representations would be particularly important.

At last, we had text with which we were comfortable. Okay, I'll say it: with which I was proud. We emailed it off to our coordinator at the agency. A few days later, he emailed us back with his reaction. It wasn't the "this is the best text I've ever received. I have no changes, and I know you'll have your baby in a few weeks" I'd hoped for. Instead, he had a long list of changes to "suggest." Examples include changing every reference we made to "our kid" to "our child" and eliminating reference to my "brothers' and their tribes of crazy kids" because it might offend Native Americans or the mentally ill.

While we weren't entirely convinced that his changes made our letter better, we deferred to his experience and incorporated them, and then sent off another version, hopeful it would pass muster this time. Nope. More changes. We ended up going back and forth about four times, each time feeling that the things that distinguished our letter from the other families' in the waiting pool were further diminished. And each time the wait to meet our baby extended further and further.

One particularly aggravating dilemma was what we refer to as the "his and hers" section. Our agency recommended that letters include sections written by each partner about the other, citing this as an opportunity to say nice things about the individual that you can't say as a couple without seeming vain. But in our opinion, these sections in the sample letters we'd read were trite and formulaic. We tried to convince our coordinator we could convey the same information and emotion in other ways throughout the letter. He wouldn't buy it.

Ultimately, in the interest of getting the project done and moving on, we acquiesced to many of the "suggestions," which we came to feel were actually requirements to approval.

Then we got to move on to design. Our coordinator suggested we show him a slew of photos which he could help us sort through. Shockingly, he told us we had wonderful photos, and we just needed to narrow them down. In the end, we picked a few that showed us interacting as a couple and individually with kids who seemed to be having fun, others that pictured us doing active things, especially involving the ocean since our letter talks a lot about our shared love for it, and one that shows us in an exotic location to emphasize our passion for travel.

The hardest photo to come up with was our "cover shot" - the required 4x6 "head and shoulders, both partners smiling, no shadows, no distracting backgroud," etc., etc. It took us four different shoots in three different settings before M. and I (and our coordinator!) settled on one with which we could all live. (In case you are wondering, it's tough to smile naturally for shot 326.)

Then the design process began. It was complicated by not having good desktop publishing software. We tinkered, the program made big changes. We got things looking just right, only to have the printed version vary significantly from what we were seeing on the screen. Frustrating!

At last we had the DBL ready and all approved by our agency. I called a local print shop we often use at work and asked for a quote on the project. What do you know, they offered to do it for free! It was another touching example of how people have helped us along our path in unexpected and wonderful ways.

We got the letter back and had a pasting party with my mom, meticulously gluing our cover photo on to each letter and personally signing each one. Knowing that the agency only links new families to their site on Friday afternoons after they've received the letters, we rushed to get them sent Priority Mail.

Meanwhile, we were working on our web site. We decided to just link initially to an html version of our letter. We - particularly my web marketing expert partner - didn't want to delay any further to do all it would take to have a great web site. (You know, something related to the cobbler's shoeless children...)

Of course, that Friday I checked and refreshed the "Choose a Family" page on the agency's site incessantly. Our thumbnail photo and little blurb with a link to our site didn't show up. I fired off a pleasant but direct email. By Monday morning, we were live! And the wait began in earnest. We could be contacted by a potential birthfamily any time.

We took a deep breath, and then began working on our real web site. It might not surprise you that this was easier for us than the DBL, partly because our agency didn't impose the same rigid guideline, and partly because the unlimited space of a site gave us much more freedom to really express ourselves. But mostly it was easier because M. is so good at what he does professionally, it was (almost) fun to put his skill and creativity to work on a personal project.

Don't get me wrong: it took us several more weeks before we were ready to forward a new URL for linking. We spent tons of time looking at other peoples' sites, talking about what worked and what didn't. We added back and adjusted text we had eliminated due to the restraints of our letter. Then there were hours spent selecting and uploading more photos, and then paring them down to a number we feel is reasonable. M.'s facility with web design enabled him to add backgrounds and other attractive elements we didn't know how to do with the desktop publishing program. Finally, we were satisfied with the web site and it went live.

Since our agency tells us that about 10% of their clients match with birthfamilies through their own personal connections, we crafted an email with a link to our site. We thought long and hard about who to send it to. We ended up decided to "come out" about our adoption plans to many acquaintances and co-workers, in addition to our closer friends and families who were already in the loop, in order to throw a wide net.

Again, we were overwhelmed with the positive responses we received. The encouraging words and promises to forward our web link to others meant so much to us and helped us feel that word was getting out. It was an exciting time.

Each day I'd return home and check out how many hits our site had received. Especially interesting is the Google Analytics chart that maps were the hits are coming from. We took it as very positive signs when the map began to include states like Oklahoma and Alaska, places where we personally don't know anyone. Maybe our own networking will bring us our baby!

So, I've written what I believe is my longest post yet, and I've detailed the painstaking process to get our marketing information together. It was indeed all arduous. But I haven't yet brought up what really made if so challenging for us. The hardest part is all of the navel gazing involved in determining just what to share - and what to exclude - of ourselves and our lives.

For me at least, there was a lot of self-doubt involved. So many of the sample letters and other web sites we'd seen boast about homes on friendly cul-de-sacs and active church communities. They related how so-and-so can't wait to be a stay-at-home mom (usually bolded). We couldn't say any of those things. And truth be told, we wouldn't. They aren't things we seek in our lives. But are they things birthmothers seek for their children?

Presenting ourselves authentically is our highest priority; we know that to make the best possible match, we must be honest about who we are. But that makes us wonder often whether who we are is attractive enough, whether talking about how we spend our time or our goofy photos are appealing enough to help someone decide to make the huge decision to entrust us with her child.

I keep trying to remind myself of the principles of niche marketing. After all, we don't need to attract all prospective birthparents. In fact, we just need to attract one, the right one.