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Just an ordinary family

First child ...

The early years, before kids, were filled with books, friends, papers-to-correct, long hikes, Saturday nights, and uninterrupted conversations. Dreamy when I look back on those adult-centered years before children.

But the big dream did include kids, and no thoughtful, wishful evening was without them. Finally, when it was time to get pregnant, nothing happened. A rude joke after all those years of birth control. Next came the pills, thermometers, charts, and scheduled sex. Oh, joy. A few dates with must-do-it over our heads rendered us about as impotent as we were infertile.

Adoption was an option we began to talk about occasionally. Then often. But to adopt a healthy Caucasian infant through an agency would take ten years. A private adoption took less, but the birth mother could change her mind anytime before final legalization. In an agency adoption, she signs off when the baby's released. The risk of losing our child was unbearable, so we chose an agency adoption.

Already too old (over 30) to apply for a Caucasian infant, our options included a disabled baby, a non-white baby (American or foreign born), or an older child. Before filling out the application, John and I considered ourselves prejudice-free. Confronting these choices, however, forced us to face feelings about mental and physical limitations we'd never thought much about before.

After considerable inner punching and probing, we wrote on the form, "healthy infant of any race," and submitted our application. An investigation followed, with interviews and home studies. We examined our souls again and again about becoming a racially mixed family. Yes, we could do it. The application took a year to process.

Then we waited. And we waited. It seemed like everyone else was getting or having babies, except us. Adoptive families who already had babies, got more babies, and we still had none.

Why should they get a second child, or a third, before we got our first? We couldn't understand. Not until later did we realize the agency's goal is to place a child in the best possible family for the child. Parents who already have kids, and have proven themselves able, are the safest risk. John and I had no living proof of our parental abilities. So we waited.

I had no fat tummy or ob/gyn appointments to remind us we were expecting. We didn't want baby things around, because waiting had become too painful. Two years, so far. That's a long pregnancy for any couple to sustain. We had no idea if it would be another two years, or three. Or four days. Our social worker could tell us nothing, except to be patient.

Opportunities for international adoptions were on and off at that time. Maybe we could get a child from Korea or Guatemala. Maybe not. Once, there was a hint that a California baby due the next week might be ours. I hung by the phone every day (no answering machine in 1980). The call never came. A week later, I found out the baby had been born with multiple sclerosis. It was not offered to us, because we had applied for a healthy child. I dreamed of giving birth to that baby. Then it was snatched away and offered to a more loving mother. I could not forgive myself.

Two months later, the call came. I was in my office, talking with a student. The social worker said our baby boy had been born and we could pick him up in two days. She said he was Caucasian, but offered to us because his racial background was unclear until birth. None of that mattered. He was a healthy infant, and mine.

Peter came home 48-hours later, to a house overflowing with baby things, given and lent by friends. It all arrived instantly, magically, just like our baby. And like millions of other women past, present, and future, I was finally Mom. So ordinary, and yet so extraordinary.

• • • •

 

One plus one = trouble

Our first was a beautiful baby. I was an attentive mother. Even more so, after the college granted me a leave of absence. And what a shift that was--from competent and powerful teacher, to inept mother with a first child. But like most moms, I managed to figure it out, with a lot of help.

When Peter turned one, John and I decided it was time to get in line at the agency for our second. We didn't want just one, and we figured the long wait would put three years between our kids. Perfect.

This time, we wanted a girl. One of the perks of adoption is that you can achieve that coveted gender balance. An unusual power granted to bodies that are powerless to reproduce. So we handed in our application for "a healthy female infant of any race," and forgot about it. With Peter already filling up our lives, we certainly weren't desperate.

Katy arrived two weeks, not two years, later. A reminder of how little control we really have over this family-making process. Thirteen-month spacing, the experts agreed, could be tricky. Friends suggested it might get easier after a while, like raising twins. But it was more like raising a pit bull and a hamster. Our charming little boy developed fierce protective instincts, vigilantly defending his exclusive rights to mommy and everything else in the universe. Katy accepted her humble rank in the family and learned to appreciate whatever she was given.

For the next ten years, Peter and Katy were worst enemies and best friends in continuing cycles. Because they competed for attention and love, they chose to develop opposite personas in the family circle.

One was loving, smart, and powerful, but social skills abandoned him to the nickname Horrible Peter. The other was also loving and smart, as well as compliant and cuddly, with social skills that won her the title of Sweetheart.

The public bought these images, and the kids perfected them. Katy cleverly disguised her misbehaviors so no one (but her parents) noticed, and when Peter did something kind, no one (but us) noticed.

I remember one time we visited grandparents back East and Peter drew a picture specifically for grandma. When he told me his plan to give it to her, his sister overheard and moved fast. "Grandma," she summoned with a dimpled smile. "I drew this picture for you. Do you like it?" Peter quietly crumpled up his picture and threw it away.

It's true that life was tough for Katy in those days. After an episode like the one at the grandparents', Peter would probably knock her over a couple of times (which everyone noticed) or threaten one of her toys. All of this would enhance his reputation as the family bully and Katy's as the innocent victim.

Over and over, John and I tried to break these stereotypes. We chose schools and teachers we thought would help Peter behave better and Katy grow stronger. At 12 and 11 years old, they finally began to grow into their own unique personalities and out of their grade-school bickers. Victim and bully behaviors began to diminish and finally left our house (almost) for good.

In adolescence, Katy began to see there were advantages to having a good-looking older brother, and Peter began to pay more attention to his sister's advice. They began consulting one another about clothes and other important stuff their out-of-it parents knew nothing about.

After a dozen years, this one-year spacing started to look pretty good. Our kids had become friends. They shared school experiences, clothes, CDs, gossip, and sometimes secrets.

One Sunday afternoon John and I looked around the living room and noticed it was free of kid toys, and even kids for a few hours. We were actually alone in the house. It was quiet.

We wondered, is it possible we can finally regain control of our lives? John and I began to imagine a future with time for ourselves and our own adult friends. John dreamed of metal sculpture, and I designed the quilts of my future. A little free time, and instantly we hungered for total liberation.

Two weeks later, I was pregnant.

• • • •

Third time around

Pregnant. Fifteen years after I was supposed to. After all those years of infertility. It was like a gift from my fairy godmother, back from extended leave. Or was it a practical joke? I was 47 years old.

When my stomach bloated, I thought it was menopause. My doctor agreed, but gave me a pregnancy test anyway. Negative. So there were further tests, including another for pregnancy. That one was positive.

My family was stunned. John brought home flowers for the first time in our married life. Our adopted adolescents reacted, too. Peter howled, "You and Daddy DID IT?" Katy wondered, "Aren't you too old?"

Maybe so, but maybe not. The truth is, John and I had wanted to make our own baby for so many years, we couldn't imagine not having it. So we went out to dinner Saturday night, by ourselves, to re-invent the rest of our lives.

That evening we did an attitude make-over. Instead of coveting the "empty nest" our peers would soon enjoy, we declared it was silly to occupy a bird house, especially an empty one. Participation in PTA took on new meaning when we realized we'd be lifers. Retirement must be postponed indefinitely, and we'd need to re-think everything in our lives from now until forever.

We realized our young teens were learning a powerful lesson in birth control through this experience&emdash;like what happens when you don't use it. John and I quit protecting ourselves years ago when we wanted a baby, and never started again when infertility proved we didn't need to. Our kids had just learned you can never be sure. They'd also get a timely reminder about how much work it is to care for a baby.

But John and I were not unmarried teens, and we had the resources to raise this child. So, we toasted coffee cups to the babe. My God, we finally did it. So what if we lost control of our future, once again? As spontaneous composers of our lives together, we were at a dramatic climax.

The pregnancy was easy. We practiced natural child-birth, and when the time came, two months early, we used deep breathing and no drugs. But because the birth was so early, there were probes and meters all over my body. It was hardly natural.

But it was glorious. Horribly painful and euphoric at the same time. I felt supremely special and yet bonded to every other woman who has ever given birth. The experience was just as exhilarating and monumental as the adoption process, but different. I am so lucky to have done both.

We brought little Anna into the family, just 13 years after the first one arrived, and 12 since the second. Three kids and two parents at home. Not exactly an empty nest. It was more like a full-house, with three aces.

 

So now, five years later, John and I have two adopted children and one bio. Three to grow like us and also different. When you adopt kids, you don't expect them to look or act like you, because their origins are different. Watching them develop is a discovery of just who they really are. When you make your own children, you can't help but look for likenesses, whether she has daddy's hair or mommy's stubborn streak.

In our family, it doesn't seem to matter if the child is from us or others. None of them look like John or me, and no one acts like anybody else. A little like your family, maybe? So normal, and yet so extraordinary.

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