Something I Wrote

A few out-of-area friends asked to read this when it was published (in our local newsletter). So here it is:


Bonds of Love

Sometimes, while tucking my son, X-Man, into bed at night, I describe to him the bond that connects us. I tell him that it’s a cord of love that goes from my heart to his. Nothing can break it. It can stretch around the world if it needs to. It is invisible, elastic and our love for each other flows through it. And it was formed the day I held him for the first time.

That moment—having my son in my arms for the first time—is also the moment that I became a mother. It remains one of the single most powerful, profound experiences in my life, something I still can’t speak of without tears welling in my eyes.

It was a long, hard road to get to motherhood at all. Despite good health and relative youth on our side, my husband and I found ourselves not knee-deep in diapers but up to our ears in infertility treatments. But, when modern medicine didn’t work, we were extraordinarily lucky because both of us were open to adoption as a way to build our family.

I realize that for some people, the idea of bonding with a child who is not "their own" is a tough thing to wrap their brains and hearts around. Intellectually I understand that—but in my heart there was never a question that whether biologically connected to me, or adopted, my child would be mine. The trick was for us to find each other.

Suffice it to say that no one "just adopts." I tell people who are starting the adoption journey to imagine they are entering a giant building called "Adoption." And when you first get to "Adoption," you think you want the shortest line possible, the line that says, "Fastest Route to a Baby" or "First Available Baby." But there is no such line. The line you’re looking for, the one to get in, is the one that says "Your Baby." It might be the longest line in the building. Or you might get in one line first—thinking it’s the right one—only to get up to the front and discover you need to change lines. But eventually, by some amazing sort of kismet, you’ll find the line you need and you’ll find your child.

I know because that’s exactly what happened to us. My husband and I were taking a newborn care class geared toward adoptive parents. Mid-way through the morning my husband’s pager went off and he left the room to make a phone call. I assumed it was something about his work that was keeping him away so long. Then he came back in and started frantically writing notes to me—there was a woman who wanted to meet us. She was due any day and the baby would be premature—probably 32 weeks. Were we interested? When a break in the seminar came, the first thing we did was to call my big sister—a NICU nurse for the past twenty plus years. She told us 32 weeks would be very manageable and we should check it out.

On Mother’s Day we met our son’s birth mother for the first time. For the sake of our children’s privacy, we keep most of the details about their birth families under wraps—the stories are theirs to tell when they are ready. But I will say that there was an audible "click" in the room when we all met. Within minutes of saying hello we were truly laughing together—some of that laughter, I’m sure was brought about by what is, even under ideal circumstances, an unusual and awkward situation. But some of it came from a sort of connection, a sense that this was meant to work out. And that same laughter and slightly twisted sense of humor that was evident between all of us in the hospital is very present in our son. He’s got a devilish glint in his eye and a remarkably sophisticated comic sense. It’s one of the qualities that make us feel we all belong together. And it’s a reminder of his birth mother’s great laugh and big heart.

Three days later our son was born and two days after that I was able to hold him for the first time. He was a little over three pounds, about sixteen inches long. He had a breathing tube down his throat, wires attached to his tiny body and he was in an incubator to keep his temperature constant. He was absolutely the most beautiful baby I had ever seen. When it came time to hold him the nurse carefully detached his breathing tube, lifted him from his incubator, placed him in my arms and reattached his tube. Discreetly, he sat a box of Kleenex next to me and moved across the room. And then the most amazing thing of all—my son opened his eyes wide and looked straight into me. And the bond—that incredible, flexible bond that connects us—was forged in that moment.

He is four now, no longer a helpless preemie relying on me for everything. And there are moments—days sometimes—when I would swear four is a more trying age than two and I can feel the gray hairs sprouting. But the love and connection we have is a constant—through time outs, scraped knees, potty training, all of it. There are ways in which he is remarkably like my husband—in his laser-like focus when he’s truly engaged in an activity, his impatience when he’s asked to slow down and explain something. And there are certainly qualities and quirks he shares with me. Some of them seem strangely hard-wired and feel like fate; others that I’m sure are learned from all our togetherness. And of course—like any child, adopted or otherwise—there are the ways in which he is uniquely himself.

Once our son turned three, we felt we were ready to adopt again. It was an easier process for us the second time around, primarily because we knew first-hand that it works. We had complete faith that our next child would find us.
Each adoption is unique, and the experience of meeting my daughter, Miss Z, for the first time was completely different from that of meeting my son. I traveled all day to reach her. Arriving minutes before her birth, I was able to hold her for the first time seconds after she was born. In all frankness, it felt strange to hold a full-term baby and not a preemie. She was big and blooming, not a helpless underdog. The bond I have with her developed over the course of days and weeks—it wasn’t the instantaneous lightning bolt I experienced with X. It started slowly, with those first feedings in the hospital, her snuffly little sucking noises. I remember rocking her and singing The Mamas and The Papas—"Do You Wanna Dance?" wove itself in and out of our early days and became a guaranteed way to soothe her. All those little moments add up over time and, like strands weaving together, create the tie that binds. Like her brother, she bears a striking physical resemblance to my husband—I’m the sole blonde in a family of brown-eyed brunettes. But she is also very different from X—outgoing where he is reserved, jumping in with both feet while he deliberates his next move. She is lively, independent, and very decided in her opinions (and anyone who knows me would probably say that would describe me as well). I’m not sure who I expected to have show up this time around—my only reference point as a parent was the X-Man. It is a surprise and delight to realize how unique every child is, how little control we have over who they are—and how fierce our love for each of them can be.

None of this would be possible, of course, without our children’s birth mothers. They created these beautiful kids and had the courage and selflessness to choose adoption for them. My children share a connection with them too—not one built out of late night snuggles, kissed owies or shared laughter, but a strong bond as well. And in us, they saw something that led them to believe we could be the parents for these children. They are the mothers who made me a mom.

So here we are, six years, two kids and numerous gray hairs after starting on the road to parenthood—and I wouldn’t change a thing. Sometimes people will ask, "do you have children of your own?" Or they say "did you try to have your own before you adopted?" I know what they mean—they are really asking about biological children. But it’s a strange question to me, because I can’t imagine any children that are more mine than these two.