A Family-versary, Part Two

Once the decision to adopt a child had been made, there were months of provincially-mandated classes in order to qualify, followed by a frustrating waiting period that saw the redneck heterosexual couple in our class quickly matched with a child. This, after Husband Redneck stated in one class that his approach to dealing with a child (hypothetically) traumatized by seeing his parents gunned down in the street would be to give him a rifle or first-person shooting video game to let out his frustration.

But they were white, straight, Christian, and, well, straight. So naturally they got a kid almost immediately.

 The instructor had tactfully mentioned that fostering-to-adopt might be the best option for us; Foster parents are given a large role in choosing adoptive parents, and are not bound by the non-discrimination laws governing social workers. Which explained why several  months passed without any potential children being sent our way.

So the decision was made to foster a child that was in the process of being cleared for adoption. There were no guarantees offered, though the case worker did confide that it was likely any child placed for fostering would remain with that family if the choice to adopt was made.

We set up a meeting with our own case worker for Friday morning to discuss fostering a child. She had a few kids that seemed suitable, and would bring their files. As we sat in the living room, discussing each child, it became clear that only one was suitable for our lifestyle and abilities. The others were exhibiting signs of autism and/or fetal alcohol syndrome – needs that were simply beyond our capabilities.

So we tentatively decided on Baby N, and asked if a meeting with him could be set up at some point in the near future. Well, the near future was a little nearer than initially thought. If we were amenable to fostering Baby N, he would arrive that afternoon. In three hours. With nothing more than a few clothes and a couple of toys.

Well shit.

Professor D was conflicted. He had a wicked cold and was in the midst of organizing a major work conference. This was not a good time. But Baby N’s other option was going to be what was euphemistically called ‘24 hour Daycare’ – in actuality an orphanage.

There was no way I was sending this kid to an orphanage.

So Baby N’s previous foster parents lugged over a spare crib, some formula and some baby food. They were heartsick at him leaving, but were caring for another baby whose immune system was so compromised she needed intensive care.  As they already had five older foster kids, and two of their own, Baby N needed to find another home.

It was a hell of a weekend. I napped while Baby N napped, but was so sleep-deprived I lost track of the days quickly. Baby N wasn’t yet walking, but crawled around the house at astonishing speeds, getting into everything that wasn’t baby-proofed (and at that point nothing was) and leaving me an exhausted mess by the end of the day.

After a week of this, it became clear that I wasn’t able to juggle parenting and work and life in general. Professor D had helped where he could, but I was largely left on my own during the long days. We made the gut-wrenching decision to tell Baby N’s social worker that this was beyond us. We had no help, no family, and no friends stepping forward to offer aid, and the future seemed untenable. But then something miraculous happened. Something so magical, so wonderful, that everything changed.

Daycare.

 There are no words to express the absolute rapture that daycare brought into my life. Suddenly I could bathe, nap, cook and get some work done, just like a regular human being! It was an epiphany! And as the days grew, and life settled into a routine, it became clear that this was going to be manageable for all of us. We waited a further week to be sure, before contacting the social worker and asking her to place Baby N with us permanently.

By this point, we had fallen utterly in love with the child. It had only taken two weeks to feel he was inextricably a part of our family, and I couldn’t imagine life without him. His sunny disposition, his curiosity, his bouts of crying, everything about him made my heart full.

What followed was eight months of anxiety, as we waited for the adoption process to proceed. There were plenty of hurdles to overcome, and the outcome wasn’t sure until the moment a judge signed the adoption certificate. It’s only now that I realize how terrified I was that it would all fall apart, and that our son might be taken from us.

Three years later, we are a family. We argue, we laugh, we play, we sulk, we watch videos, we dance to music, we sing songs and we eat ice cream. It’s a beautiful life, and I’m deeply thankful for it. I’ve never felt loved by anyone like I am by my son, and I’ve never loved anything so protectively, so fiercely, so wholly, as I do him.

Is it perfect?  Well, yes it is. It’s perfect in that it’s complicated, and wonderful, and challenging, and joyous, and shitty and all of the things that make up a life. 

Are we treated differently as a queer adoptive family? Yep, absolutely. We had to get through it on our own, without baby showers, family babysitting, doting relatives and all the things that straight, natural birth couples are given in due course.  But by being largely self-sufficient, we've also been mercifully free of the meddling, criticism and all-around hassle that so many other families have to deal with when it comes to attentive relations.  So I’m definitely not complaining.

And now, in an age where we LGBT folks don’t need to play ‘special uncle’ or ‘honorary aunt’ to other kids, we can have our own families, secure in the knowledge that we’re not just some politically-correct accessory to discard in favour of ‘real family.’

So no matter how marginalized we get, or how many times we turn on the TV and hear how we’re ruining our children’s lives, or destined to burn in hell, we still have the family we've made for ourselves.  We still have each other. And that’s something to celebrate. 

A Familyversary, Part One

In some ways it’s hard to believe that three years have passed since Pre-Schooler N came into our lives. That day still seems very fresh in my mind: three women and one squalling 13-month-old entering the house, and my once-placid surroundings forever changed.  My first impression of (then) Baby N was of this wide-eyed, crying infant, dressed in too-small clothes and smelling a bit like McDonald’s french fries.

I asked to hold him, and was relieved how quickly he relaxed in my arms. Fortunately for all of us, his previous foster parents had a large family and extended support system, so Baby N was accustomed to being cared for by several people. He kept up the intermittent crying spells, but seemed curious if a little anxious at his new surroundings. My heart went out to him, not in small part because I knew that his residency in our house was still somewhat in question: Professor D was sick with a cold, and swamped at work, and we’d had no time to prepare for a baby’s arrival – no crib, no food, no nothing. Unless this kid was prepared to survive on low-fat granola and Thai curry, he was going to be awfully hungry.

It had been a long route to get to this point. We’d once toyed with the idea of adopting a child, but I had concerns that my own childhood,  fraught with abuse and homophobia, would possibly manifest if I took on the role of parent. That thought terrified me. But then Baby E came into our lives, and everything changed.

Baby E was the child of two friends who were struggling as their marriage collapsed. Both were in turmoil, so Baby E spent a lot of time at our house sleeping, eating and playing. It was a revelation. I felt such love for this child, and was floored at how his unconditional love of us made me feel… healed somehow, I suppose… from my own childhood.

After the couple’s separation, Baby E and his mother moved in with us, and we all came together as an alternative family, co-parenting this wonderful child in our home. And it was great, really great, for a few months. But then it became clear that Baby E’s mom was an addict, and struggling with her own emotional issues. What started as a caring, involved family unit had evolved to us trapped in our bedroom on the third floor, listening to this woman screech at her weeping baby for hours on end.  

It was a nightmare.

In some ways, our banishment within our own home was understandable:  Baby E preferred being with us to his unstable mother, which only added to her mania and addiction. So she asked us to stay in our room while he was awake, and we complied. One day, now-Toddler E asked me why I didn't play with him anymore, and if I was still his friend. I was at a loss for words. I told him I loved him forever, and hugged him.

That night I talked to his mother about it, expressing my concern that he was feeling rejected, and that we were feeling like prisoners in our own home. She went manic, saying she would move out if it was going to be a problem. Much to her shock, I think, we agreed. She moved out a month later, and we saw Toddler E only once after that. She excised him from our life utterly –  a story all too common with other queer families and individuals who are brought into a child’s life only to be discarded without rights or recourse.  

As traumatized as this experience left us, we knew that we wanted to be parents. And now we knew that we could do it without turning into the frothing maniac we had lived with for two years. So we went to Social Services and started the long process of becoming parents. 

(End of Part One)