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)
No comments:
Post a Comment