Reading through my last post, it was pretty clear that we
had a very bad match. Whether she was ripping me off and had no intent of
placing her baby wasn’t even the point. I didn’t respect her. I wanted the
relationship solely for the baby and cringed at the baggage from her DNA. Yep,
I am a snob living a completely different life and happy for it. I hoped
nurture would be enough. And a precious newborn in my arms to make up for the
roller coaster his birth mother put us through.
Thankfully a higher power stepped in. On Sunday the 16th,
the eve of Rosh Hashanah, I texted her asking how things were going. This came
after her dropping calls with the doctor when the caseworker was on the line to
finally get the due date. We were five days away from flying to Arizona. And
finally, she replied. A brief text message that I accidently deleted after one
reading. The only part I remember was “Thanks for everything bye”. She was
keeping him. Relief washed over me but yet again, my arms were empty. Once
again, we got bad news.
I finally understood the appeal of donor eggs. The thought
of another adoption, another birth mother, thousands more dollars only to be in
this place again was too much. Donor. I could be pregnant again. The baby could
share DS and DH’s DNA. No one would ever have to know. Before I talked to Mark
on Monday, I scheduled an appointment with Dr. Rosen for Friday.
And then things started to get weird. On Tuesday, I got a
call from Meredith at Adopt Help. A white baby boy was about to be born in
Roseville – just 90 minutes away. Were we interested? Three frantic hours,
poring through the birth mothers file, talking to OBs, pediatricians and each
other. We canceled the Rosh Hoshanah dinner scheduled at our house, finished a
bottle of wine, packed our bags, pulled the car seat down from the attic and waited
for traffic to clear.
Two days later, we brought home our new son and my son’s
little brother. An 8 lb, blond hair, blue eyed bruiser who we had yet to name
and took away our sleep-filled nights. It was as so many people have said was
meant to be. Everything from the birthmother to the location to him – our perfect
boy – felt right, just as some higher power had planned it.
The following Tuesday, a week after we first learned of the
baby, my parents arrived along with one of my four brothers for our son’s bris.
DH said it best when we described his name, “We are just so happy to be able to
talk about names, to choose a name.” Indeed.
