The first thing I see is her hair. Who knew a newborn could have so much of it? As I look through the window into the operating room, I see the doctor hand over to a nurse a wailing, ruddy baby with a head full of dark hair.
I cry.
Will she be my daughter? Will I get to be her mommy?
Her mother has decided to let my husband and I adopt her baby, but this is before the birth. She might change her mind.
I tell myself to stop crying. I may not get to be this baby’s mommy after all.
A nurse sees me looking in and flashes a smile and give me a thumbs up as the baby is placed on a table. She tells me to come on in and meet my daughter.
How could something so tiny wail so loudly?
“Look, tears!” one nurse says. “You don’t see that very often with newborns.”
Sure enough, a fat tear slides down my maybe baby’s cheek.
The umbilical cord needs to be trimmed. The nurse asks me to do the honors. Of course I want to, even though I don’t think I should. Cutting the cord is an intimate act, usually reserved for fathers. This baby’s father isn’t at the hospital. He isn’t involved in her birth.
I take the scissors and cut. The cord is thick, and the blood that splatters out is a deep, rich red.
Next to the baby’s table is the woman who gave birth to her, still under anesthesia. I hear the nurses counting sponges to make sure they got them all. They are about to close her up after performing a Cesarean and—at her insistence—tying her tubes.
Three-Year Journey for a Baby
Seven months earlier, my husband, Jason, and I start down this rocky road of domestic adoption. A year before that—after two years of negative pregnancy tests and inconclusive infertility testing—we gathered up stacks of documents required to adopt a baby from China.
But that process slowed, and we ache to be parents. So we hire an attorney. We attend domestic adoption seminars. We make up a booklet about our life together.
Then, we start talking to pregnant women thinking about adoption. The first is Katie, in her twenties. She loves dogs, just like us! Jason is sure we nailed the interview. She chooses another couple.
Next, “Gia.” She is eight months along, and she rubs her belly as she tells us she is determined to do right by her baby.
In her midthirties, Gia is educated and resourceful, but she picks the wrong men. She and I cry. I tell her we are honored to be in the running, and she taps her fingers on our booklet and says, “Oh, believe me, you’re more than in the running.”
The next night we have dinner in the suburbs with Christine, in her early twenties. Tall and striking, she is only five months along and wears her black hair in a chic bob. I have frizzy, unmanageable hair, and can’t imagine my child having such fantastic hair.
We tell Christine about having to interview with pregnant women and hoping to get picked. “Now auditioning for the role of Mother and Father … Jason and Patti … ” We laugh at the surreal nature of the process. Christine offers to pay her share when the check comes, a classy touch, though Jason doesn’t let her.
On the ride home, Jason tells me Gia picked another couple. He hadn’t told me earlier because he didn’t want my disappointment to show during our dinner with Christine.
For the next few weeks, nothing happens. Jason calls our lawyer daily, but she is out of leads, and Christine needs more time. I decide our booklet doesn’t present a strong enough case that as a white couple, we are capable of providing a good home to a bi-racial child. I rework it, including pictures of my friend Rochelle, who is black, and my cousin, Isaac, who is black and was adopted ten years ago. I’ve never met Isaac. He lives three thousand miles away. I include his photo anyway.
