I’ve been hesitant to write about this stuff (I’ve been quiet lately but I have some saved up) because I know that it’s a touchy subject and because I’m terrified to jinx myself. I’m going to write anyway because I started this blog in order to write and vent and document my journey.
A friend (yes you) described it as “riding two roller coasters”. We’re waiting to adopt but haven’t given up “trying”.
I wrote about it before, but I’ll explain it again. The only way to find out what’s been going wrong with my pregnancies, is to, under the supervision of a clinic, get pregnant. Even though I’m technically “trying to get pregnant”, I feel more like I’m just “trying for a diagnosis”.
The doctor is sticking with the “immature eggs” theory. The goal is to make sure I’ve got nice plump mature eggs before I “fertilize” them. Pumping up those eggs means daily trips to the clinic for probes and pokes. I’ve been stabbing myself in the belly and torturing myself during the dreaded two-week wait.
The trying feels different this time. Maybe I’m bitter and jaded. Maybe I’m realistic. Instead of feeling like we’re trying to “make a baby”, I feel like I just need to get this part “over with”. I feel like this is for closure. I feel like I need to know I tried and that I have my answer. If we wait for the adoption to go through before going through these experiments I’ll be old enough that age would be the predominant factor in why things are going wrong. Besides, by the time the adoption goes through I’m going to want to spend my days with the squirt, not with a doctor!
If we get any word about the adoption we’re obviously walking away from the clinic, but for now, seatbelts fastened, two roller coasters it is! (and I’m going to write about it)
Maybe I’m just sensitive but….
This story is doing the social media rounds and it’s driving me crazy! I need to get this out of my system.
I’m not calling total “B.S.” on the story. I’m not questioning its authenticity, maybe just it’s up-to-datedness. I do think it’s spreading a false message about how adoption and children’s aid societies really work.
For the last 48 hours my Facebook page has been riddled with links to this article connected to comments like, “Oooh so cute!”, “I like babies, I want to find a baby too!”
It’s just not that easy! I have read the story a few times now and I still find the circumstances so bizarre. I understand this happened in Manhattan; maybe the rules are different there. I understand this happened twelve years ago, maybe things have changed that much in just a short time.
Here’s how this story would have gone down here (in Ontario) and now. I assume this would be the same for many other places.
A baby is found and someone calls 9-1-1. The child would then be placed immediately into foster care. To become a foster parent, one has to do home studies, trainings (in many places, P.R.I.D.E training) and be approved by the ministry. Once the child is placed in foster care, an extensive search for the parents would take place. Assuming the parents are found, charged and classified as unfit to parent, or signed away their rights, the child would become “ward of the crown”. The child (probably no longer an infant) would then be put on an “adoptable” list. Waiting parents who have gone through the same home studies and trainings, as the foster parents are now eligible to apply to adopt the child. Children’s Aid in Ontario would make and effort to match a child of “light brown skin” with a couple of the same race, this is their policy.
A perfect parallel to this story is the story of baby Angelica-Leslie, found in a North Toronto stairwell on a cold day.
I’m happy that the couple in the NYT story have their happy ending. It really is a dream come true. I just don’t like the way the story has contributed to adoption myth and fantasy. I don’t like the way it trivializes the long, painful wait and process. Yes, I’m just sensitive. I like babies. I want to find a baby too.
I came up with a new term today – the “baby bomb”.
Definition: An unexpected baby appearance that triggers an emotional breakdown.
Use: I got “baby bombed” at a staff pot-luck lunch today.
All of those colleagues who shared my due date month are obviously off on maternity leave right now. This has made going to work the last couple of months much easier for me.
Today one of my co-workers had organized a pot-luck lunch. It was meant to be something fun to do to relieve some of the stress that we’ve all been under. It was a great idea. I even baked corn bread (see banana bread entry to know that is a BIG deal that I baked).
I went up to the lunchroom and was just about to fill up my plate with nice yummy fattening goodies when the bomb hit.
I heard my colleagues cooing, I heard some high pitch squeals and I turned to find the little visitor and his mom. This mom is the same woman who had thought I would find it humorous when she kept going on about how she didn’t even want to get pregnant, it was her husband’s idea. She told me she would jump up and down after “trying” in order to get it out. Ha ha…guess what – people that have lost babies and are trying everything in their power to have one don’t find this funny. I’m sooo sorry that you got pregnant despite all of your efforts not to.
I thought I would be ok. I thought I could just get my goodies, sit at another table and get on with my day. I was wrong. My friends know me too well. One look at my face instigated the dreaded “Are you ok?”
Ka-pow! Bomb exploded.
Tears started flowing down my cheeks. I had to leave. I was in a full blubber by the time I got out of the room. So much for the stress-free fun lunch. (Thanks to this friend for bringing me a plate later on).
I was baby bombed. I didn’t see it coming. It hit and it hurt.