Today’s Up Close: Adoption feature comes to us from Tamlynn Clyde. She lives in California with her husband and two children. She has a BA in visual art but is better at copying than originality. She sabotages most of her free time by taking on too many projects. She blogs at Jack of All Trades, Master of None. (Names have been changed in this story).
“Congratulations,
you’re a mother!” I heard from the other end of the phone. I thought it was a joke. I couldn’t speak. “Please get a pen and paper and write this down,” the patient, yet amused voice instructed. “It’s a little girl, born on May 26. She weighed 6 lbs. 4 oz. and was 19 inches long. She’s been using Enfamil with iron. You’ll need to bring a car seat, but don’t buy anything else just in case. Plan to arrive on Wednesday at 10:30 a.m. to start signing papers. You should bring flowers and don’t forget your camera.”
The day was Monday, June 8. I had just been informed that in approximately 48 hours everything I had been hoping and praying and working for would be granted. I called my husband at work. He answered the phone, “Hello?” and I replied, “It’s a girl!” The only words he could come up with then were, “What?” and “Oh!” which he repeated over and over. He told his boss he was having a baby and came home. We spent the next few hours calling everyone we knew. Then we had some shopping to do.
We respected our social worker’s instructions and only bought a car seat. The one that comes with matching stroller, so that doesn’t really count as an extra item. Then we hit Home Depot to look for paint. The “someday nursery” next to our bedroom was going to become a real live nursery in 48 hours. Besides, what else were we going to do all day Tuesday? Painting was the perfect thing to keep us busy. A light yellow paint chip providentially named “Newborn” made the decision making easy.
By Tuesday night, we were ready for a baby. We had a car seat, a box of baby clothes (boy and girl clothes of various sizes) my mom had excitedly sewn three years earlier during my first unsuccessful pregnancy, and a three-year-old crib (no mattress) still in its original box. We had also chosen a beautiful name honoring both sides of our family. And that’s all we had. No diapers, no bottles, no blankets or burp cloths. No swing, no bouncer, no Diaper Genie.
On Wednesday morning, we woke up early (did we actually sleep?) and drove to the temple. In the early morning session we excitedly told anyone who would listen that we were going to pick up our baby in a few hours. We bought flowers. We drove to the LDS Family Services office.
In a small room decorated in pink and teal, we met Christy and John. They were young adults, college aged. They were the people responsible. Responsible for creating a beautiful baby girl. Responsible for prayerfully considering their daughter’s needs and weighing those needs against their own abilities and desires. Responsible for choosing us and changing our lives forever.
We chatted for only a few minutes. Christy expressed to us her desire that we tell our baby how much she loves her and wants what is best for her. John just wanted to see us and make sure we looked like good people. We told them the name we had chosen. It was the same name that Christy’s mother had suggested for the baby. Christy gave us a hospital-issued diaper bag with a few outfits, diapers and bottles. We embraced, our tears flowing freely.
My husband and I were taken to an empty room. In a few minutes, a social worker brought our baby in. Our baby was tiny, wrapped in a bulky, handmade quilt. She was sleeping. The social worker placed her in my arms. She woke up, looked at me with big blue eyes, sighed, and went back to sleep.
One night, eleven blissful months later, the phone rang. On the other end of the phone my friend says, “My cousin just found out she is pregnant. Are you interested in adopting the baby?” I tell her I’ll have to call her back after I talk to my husband. He and I kneel in prayer. We look up at each other and I say, “It’s a boy.” Then I reach for the phone.
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