Reflections of a single parent a year after a journey to adopt a daughter:
Now that I’ve got a year of parenting under my belt, I can understand the apprehension in my father’s voice when he put me on the plane to Moscow.
“I know you’ve got good judgment,” he said, dutifully parroting words I had spoken so many times. “But if things don’t feel right when you get there, don’t do it. Don’t worry about what people will think.”
The truth is, I couldn’t care less what people think. That is precisely why–although I didn’t tell him this–I was positive that I would go through with it.
I was going to Russia to adopt a girl.
Deciding to become a single parent–not to mention becoming mother to an orphan I had never met–was long and agonizing. But it was complete. By the time I handed over my boarding pass, I was finished soul-searching.
Still, I knew as I stepped on the plane that the journey was less a round trip than a metamorphosis.
When you become a parent through paperwork, it’s impossible to get a fix on the “due date.” Suddenly, I found myself trying to cram the mental preparation that normally takes nine months into a 16-hour plane trip.
It’s a poor analogy, but it needs to be said: The trip was the emotional equivalent of pregnancy and childbirth. It was a venture into the unknown, a test of my limits and forbearance. I could no more turn back than could a pregnant woman being wheeled into the delivery room.
When you’re married, the desire to parent is understood. When you’re single, the world often wants an explanation. Parenthood, I soon understood, is not easily defended rationally.
For me, the decision to become a parent, even a single parent, was inevitable. I couldn’t tolerate the idea of not doing it. I found historical antecedents in my family. My maternal grandmother spent most of her early years in a Chicago orphanage after her mother died.
My father’s parents had immigrated from Eastern Europe to escape the anti-Semitism that engulfed those who stayed behind. To me, their oft-told stories were a cautionary tale and a reminder that we sometimes have to look elsewhere, even to another continent, for our lives. They looked to America. Now, I was looking back.
In time, the notion of finding my daughter in a Russian orphanage took root. All that was left was to complete the paperwork and prepare for the trip.
I didn’t know my daughter’s exact size or whether she was still taking a bottle. Nor did I know how long we would be in Russia. The adoption folks said it could be up to three weeks. That’s how you wind up lugging around 80 disposable diapers.
I had taken videos and scanty medical information on several kids to three Dallas doctors. One physician said any of them seemed healthy enough to adopt. Another nixed all the children. I went to a specialist to talk about a potential medical problem. I checked my insurance coverage. I went back to the specialist.
It was, for me, the very toughest part of a difficult process. I hated the language, the vocabulary for what I was doing. You say the word “selection” to a Jew when you are talking about human life and it evokes harrowing images of the Holocaust.
I thought back to political philosophy classes in college and the use of “lifeboat” scenarios. I felt as though I could pull only one child aboard, but it was agonizing to know how many innocents would be left behind. It was excruciating to think that my whim–and wasn’t it really just that?–could decide a child’s fate.
A friend gave this advice: “Knowing you, you’ll want to take the kid who needs you most. Don’t.”
After all, I wouldn’t be able to pay for many medical problems that weren’t covered by my health insurance. And after my maternity leave, the child would have to be able to handle day care while I worked full time.
With that in mind, my heart warmed to one particular angel. In one video snippet, I thought I saw a trace of a dimple.
When we got to the orphanage, I knew immediately that my adoption agency had done a superb job of identifying the kids with the best chances. Within minutes, you can separate the hollow-eyed children from those who still have a spark.
Before the trip, I had promised myself that I wouldn’t dwell on the children who remained at the orphanage. But my eye kept going back to a little boy who lived in the same group as my daughter.
I hated the thought that the engaging boy, whose eyes were clear and smile quick, didn’t have a family. The adoption personnel noticed my interest and tried to put me at ease by saying he was about to be adopted. I hoped it was true.
Several months after we got back to Dallas, I heard of a single Dallas woman who adopted a boy from the same orphanage. We invited them over for graham crackers. It was the same boy.
