A Different Kind of Adoption

I’m conflicted in my beliefs this morning.

Well, maybe not my beliefs, but the beliefs of this society.  The beliefs that African-Americans do not adopt and that we are unaware of the children in need of homes and loving families.  You see, I have a hard time with this misconception, because I’ve lived the opposition.  I firmly believe that unbeknownst to the mainstream, we are actually doing the majority of adopting.  So why isn’t it headline news?  Because it is completely unofficial.

Seven years ago today, my boyfriend of four months, mentioned during our nightly phone call that his cousin was in labor.  The very next day, I came over to visit and was introduced to a small and fragile infant, the color of chardonnay.  Two weeks later, the baby and her three year-old brother were still there, but their mother was not.  This, needless to say, put my boyfriend and his mother at a hectic place, since both were working and he was in school.

I was the oldest in my family, so I’d taken care of my share of babies.  In fact, it is still awkward for me to hear adults say they’ve never been around babies, or changed a diaper.  When I think of waking up at 4am with my baby brother and of carrying him around the grocery store in a Snugli, I’m a bit taken aback.  My job had just ended, so I offered to help out in any way I could.  The next weekend, I moved in to take care of Israel.

There were some in both of our families who questioned my willingness to jump into pseudo-motherhood for a man I’d only been with for four months.  My own mother was completely shocked and told me as much as I was packing my suitcase.  There were some in his family who questioned my motives.  But I didn’t hear any of that at the time.  All I could see was that precious premature little girl who was without a mom.  I couldn’t stand the thought of her being pushed off on daycares and strangers when I was available.  I didn’t know when or if her mother would be back, but I knew that for what it was worth, I had the time and ability to stand in the gap, so I did.

For those months that I took care of Israel,  I did not consider my own ability to have children at all.  I was not even aware of what would one day be my issue with infertility.  All I could think of, was this amazing little girl and her brother. That was more important to me than my own fertility, or the circumstances that had caused their mother to leave.  I asked for nothing in return, which was also unheard of to some friends at the time.  But they couldn’t see what I saw.  They didn’t see the joy I got from knowing that I was helping this family stay together.  In the evenings, my boyfriend and I would pack her in the stroller, and take she and her brother for a walk around the block.  It was the only payment I received.

When I think of the day her mother came “back”, it still stings a little.  I was warming a bottle when the doorbell rang.  My “boyfriend” opened the door and let them in.  I was in the middle of changing Israel’s diaper when her mother walked into the room and said, “Oh, Regina, thank you, I’ll do it.”  I remember backing away with a slight smile.  More out of discomfort than anything.  Immediately I felt like a stand-in for Jessica Lange in Losing Isaiah.  It was very quickly that she had fully dressed the baby, grabbed her bag, took the warm bottle from my hands and was out of the door.

I sat on the bed and just let the tears fall.  That experience, is what scares me about adoption, to this very day.  I NEVER want to feel that way again.  I kept thinking to myself, she doesn’t know that her favorite snack is Cheerios.  She doesn’t know that I sing “Izzy the Pooh” to her to calm her down.

It was hard.

Today, Israel turns seven.  Her brother, Na’kif, is ten.   Today, that boyfriend is my husband.  There has never been a formal adoption, but both children are still living with their great-aunt, my mother-in-law.  Though their mother is better and back in the picture, she has not taken them into her own home.  Though now, I’m sure that if she did, it would tear my mother-in-law apart.   The children go and visit their mother and new baby sister.  My husband is Godfather/Uncle/Dad-figure.  I’m Gommy (God-mommy).

Situations such as this are more common than believed in minority communities, which is why I believe that the idea of us not adopting is a myth.  We may not officially adopt as often as other races, but we are extremely familiar with the concept.  Many of us have cousins and uncles who we later find were of no relation at all.  Some of us find that our own grandparents are not who they have appeared to be for all our life.  We do adopt,…just differently.

Today, Israel is seven years old.  Today marks seven years of drying her tears.  Seven years of dressing her body and hair.  Seven years of giggles and bedtime stories.  Seven years of loving this little girl in ways that her mother was simply incapable of doing for whatever reason.  Today, I am GRATEFUL to her mother for giving me this little person who has enriched my life, loved me unconditionally, and shown me to my boyfriend in a light that led him to make me his wife.  I thank her for my amazing, smart, and BEAUTIFUL little girl.

This afternoon, I am going to take my goddaughter to the library for her birthday.  A boring gift to some, but it was the exact thing she asked me for.  What kind of mom would I be, to deny her?

Happy Birthday to my Izzy the Pooh!  Gommy LOVES You!!!