Final!
On Thursday, our attorney called me to report that S's bio mother had finally signed the open communication document--but with a scribbled-in addition that expressed how angry she was at the "harassment" she's faced and how she wanted her criminal record expunged. Although her note most likely wouldn't stand up in court, I had to respond. I wrote an addendum saying that I agreed with her other additions, but not this one. I noted that she had abused my daughter, and the scars are indelible, permanent--she did not deserve to have her record expunged, and she had not been harassed by anyone. I faxed the addendum to the attorney, then called her to make sure she'd received the fax.
"Is this going to delay the adoption again?" I asked our attorney.
"Do you want to adopt S?" she asked me.
"Yes, more than anything."
"Does she wanted to be adopted?"
"Yes, more than anything."
"Then we'll make it happen," she said. I didn't realize until after I'd hung up that she hadn't really answered my question, but her confidence made me feel better.
On Friday morning, I got another call. I was in the middle of conferencing with a student, but I took it anyway, walked down the hall into the faculty lounge where I'd taken another call a few months earlier--the call telling me I had been chosen as S's family and would be able, finally, to talk to her. It is an ordinary room, an old-fashioned refrigerator, a sink, a microwave, a round table with stacks of student newspapers. It seems strange to think how much of the drama of this adoption has taken place in such a nondescript space.
"Are you ready for the next update in our little drama?" the attorney asked me.
My heart sank. She sounded frustrated. "Yes, I guess so," I said.
"S's bio mom's attorney has had a signed copy of the document all this time, without any of her insane additions. So that's the one we're going to file in court." There were about two seconds when I was angry at her attorney for not turning over this document earlier--but then, I realized what this meant.
"So we're really finalizing today?" I asked.
"Do you want..." she began again, but I stopped her.
"I need to know. Is this really going to happen?"
She sighed. "I think so. I just...with all that's happened, I can't be sure. I'm going to do everything I can."
A few hours later, our attorney and social worker sat down before a judge and presented our case. We were more than 2,000 miles away; S. totally unaware of what was happening, me trying to focus on a series of student conferences and listening for my phone.
He could have simply seen this case as a routine matter, or, worse, asked questions about the open communication agreement or the reasons S. had been taken from her home, whether placing her with a single, lesbian mother in another state was the best choice. Instead, he walked into the courtroom with flowers (he thought we were going to be there). He spoke about how inspiring our new family was, how glad he felt to be a part of the process, and how sorry he was that it had taken so long.
I got the call in my office and immediately posted an update on my facebook page. I haven't checked since, but I am sure the word has gotten out. Then I called the people who are closest to S. and/or to me. Everyone was ecstatic.
That night, we had an impromptu celebration at the local burger joint. K, her horse teacher, picked her up from school and stalled until I could pick up a Dairy Queen cake and get a few people together. When K brought her to the burger joint, using an excuse that I'd asked her to meet me there because I didn't feel like cooking, she scanned the table--but didn't get it. "Oh, lots of people are here," she commented, giving everybody hugs (and picking up S, the smallest of her college buddies whom she can lift several feet in the air). She sat down next to me and took off the new bright pink hat she'd made in home ec to show me. I told her I loved it, then put the adoption decree in front of her (I had asked to get a faxed copy immediately, needing to see it for myself).
"Do you know what this is?" I asked her.
"No," she said, scanning the front page. I turned to the last page, where her new name--her original first and middle name, my mother's name, and our shared last name--was typed in ordinary script. She stared for a couple minutes, then a smile began to creep across her face.
"It happened today," I whispered. I was, of course, crying. She grabbed my hand and kissed it.
Then, she looked up at everyone and announced, "I want a mushroom swiss burger."
It took awhile for the news to really sink in. After a few minutes, she walked happily around the table, kissing everyone. She smiled for the cameras. We went back home, and she stared, a distant smile on her face, at the "Happy Adoption" message. Still...I could tell she felt a little like I did, as if this couldn't possibly be real.
That night, S. wanted to sleep with me. We had taken the animals to the kennel because, the next morning, we would leave to make the long drive to Ohio to see my father to be with him during his cancer treatments. (I wasn't supposed to take S. out of the state until the adoption was final, so I was planning to sneak her out, tired of waiting, because my father needed me. The homework assignments and clothes were all packed; we were leaving no matter what). Anyway, S. claimed she didn't want to sleep in her room alone without the animals. I wasn't thrilled by the idea--I wanted a good night's sleep--but I let her. Luckily, we were both so exhausted we fell asleep immediately; I had forgotten she was in my bed until my alarm went off the next morning.
And here's how I know she REALLY gets it: as I reached out to press snooze, she opened her eyes and sighed. The first thing out of her mouth was, "I never thought this was going to happen."
"What?" I asked, sleepy, confused.
"I never thought I'd REALLY get adopted, not until I saw the papers," she said. "I didn't think anybody would ever love me as much as you do."
"I love you so much," I said.
"I know," she answered. "Greek kisses, right now!" she shouted then, and proceeded to pull me up so that I was sitting up in bed and to kiss my cheeks over and over until they were practically sore.
"We need to get ready to drive to Ohio," I said, playfully pushing her away and turning off the alarm.
"I know," she answered, and she rolled out of bed and stumbled toward the bathroom.
---
S. and I have a little song we sing back and forth in a made-up melody, and here's how it goes:
"Do you really love me?"
"Yes I really do."
"Are you really my mother?"
"Yes I really am."
As we began the 16 hour drive, sleepily and silently staring out the window, S. suddenly came to life, sang the first line loudly, then the second line. Unenthusiastically, I sang back. But then she added a third line:
"Is it finally legal?"
"Yes it really is!"
We've been singing this song at least once each week ever since :-).
"Is this going to delay the adoption again?" I asked our attorney.
"Do you want to adopt S?" she asked me.
"Yes, more than anything."
"Does she wanted to be adopted?"
"Yes, more than anything."
"Then we'll make it happen," she said. I didn't realize until after I'd hung up that she hadn't really answered my question, but her confidence made me feel better.
On Friday morning, I got another call. I was in the middle of conferencing with a student, but I took it anyway, walked down the hall into the faculty lounge where I'd taken another call a few months earlier--the call telling me I had been chosen as S's family and would be able, finally, to talk to her. It is an ordinary room, an old-fashioned refrigerator, a sink, a microwave, a round table with stacks of student newspapers. It seems strange to think how much of the drama of this adoption has taken place in such a nondescript space.
"Are you ready for the next update in our little drama?" the attorney asked me.
My heart sank. She sounded frustrated. "Yes, I guess so," I said.
"S's bio mom's attorney has had a signed copy of the document all this time, without any of her insane additions. So that's the one we're going to file in court." There were about two seconds when I was angry at her attorney for not turning over this document earlier--but then, I realized what this meant.
"So we're really finalizing today?" I asked.
"Do you want..." she began again, but I stopped her.
"I need to know. Is this really going to happen?"
She sighed. "I think so. I just...with all that's happened, I can't be sure. I'm going to do everything I can."
A few hours later, our attorney and social worker sat down before a judge and presented our case. We were more than 2,000 miles away; S. totally unaware of what was happening, me trying to focus on a series of student conferences and listening for my phone.
He could have simply seen this case as a routine matter, or, worse, asked questions about the open communication agreement or the reasons S. had been taken from her home, whether placing her with a single, lesbian mother in another state was the best choice. Instead, he walked into the courtroom with flowers (he thought we were going to be there). He spoke about how inspiring our new family was, how glad he felt to be a part of the process, and how sorry he was that it had taken so long.
I got the call in my office and immediately posted an update on my facebook page. I haven't checked since, but I am sure the word has gotten out. Then I called the people who are closest to S. and/or to me. Everyone was ecstatic.
That night, we had an impromptu celebration at the local burger joint. K, her horse teacher, picked her up from school and stalled until I could pick up a Dairy Queen cake and get a few people together. When K brought her to the burger joint, using an excuse that I'd asked her to meet me there because I didn't feel like cooking, she scanned the table--but didn't get it. "Oh, lots of people are here," she commented, giving everybody hugs (and picking up S, the smallest of her college buddies whom she can lift several feet in the air). She sat down next to me and took off the new bright pink hat she'd made in home ec to show me. I told her I loved it, then put the adoption decree in front of her (I had asked to get a faxed copy immediately, needing to see it for myself).
"Do you know what this is?" I asked her.
"No," she said, scanning the front page. I turned to the last page, where her new name--her original first and middle name, my mother's name, and our shared last name--was typed in ordinary script. She stared for a couple minutes, then a smile began to creep across her face.
"It happened today," I whispered. I was, of course, crying. She grabbed my hand and kissed it.
Then, she looked up at everyone and announced, "I want a mushroom swiss burger."
It took awhile for the news to really sink in. After a few minutes, she walked happily around the table, kissing everyone. She smiled for the cameras. We went back home, and she stared, a distant smile on her face, at the "Happy Adoption" message. Still...I could tell she felt a little like I did, as if this couldn't possibly be real.
That night, S. wanted to sleep with me. We had taken the animals to the kennel because, the next morning, we would leave to make the long drive to Ohio to see my father to be with him during his cancer treatments. (I wasn't supposed to take S. out of the state until the adoption was final, so I was planning to sneak her out, tired of waiting, because my father needed me. The homework assignments and clothes were all packed; we were leaving no matter what). Anyway, S. claimed she didn't want to sleep in her room alone without the animals. I wasn't thrilled by the idea--I wanted a good night's sleep--but I let her. Luckily, we were both so exhausted we fell asleep immediately; I had forgotten she was in my bed until my alarm went off the next morning.
And here's how I know she REALLY gets it: as I reached out to press snooze, she opened her eyes and sighed. The first thing out of her mouth was, "I never thought this was going to happen."
"What?" I asked, sleepy, confused.
"I never thought I'd REALLY get adopted, not until I saw the papers," she said. "I didn't think anybody would ever love me as much as you do."
"I love you so much," I said.
"I know," she answered. "Greek kisses, right now!" she shouted then, and proceeded to pull me up so that I was sitting up in bed and to kiss my cheeks over and over until they were practically sore.
"We need to get ready to drive to Ohio," I said, playfully pushing her away and turning off the alarm.
"I know," she answered, and she rolled out of bed and stumbled toward the bathroom.
---
S. and I have a little song we sing back and forth in a made-up melody, and here's how it goes:
"Do you really love me?"
"Yes I really do."
"Are you really my mother?"
"Yes I really am."
As we began the 16 hour drive, sleepily and silently staring out the window, S. suddenly came to life, sang the first line loudly, then the second line. Unenthusiastically, I sang back. But then she added a third line:
"Is it finally legal?"
"Yes it really is!"
We've been singing this song at least once each week ever since :-).
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