Before Big Papa and I became an item I spent a few years in the land of internet dating. Clicking on a profile is the first step down fantasy lane. You see a picture or two and read a bit about the person. Sometimes they answer standard questions, like “Would you rather be at the beach or in the mountains?” or “Given the choice would you prefer beer/wine/ martini/milk?” Typically there’s also free-form essay where your prospective date tells their story. A few minutes later, you feel as though you’re beginning to develop a sense of someone.
Then you exchange a few emails before deciding to get together. When the moment of truth arrives, “great on paper” might not translate in real life. Outdated photos promise youthful physiques and many profiles showcase creative marketing, where “I’m ‘intellectual” means “I read the Sunday New York Times.”
In the online phase, it’s easy to let your mind run amok. I’ve heard more than one tale where china patterns have been chosen before a potential paramour is even within spitting distance. Creating faux relationships is tempting. “He likes to hike,” I muse as my mind wanders to a sunlit September afternoon and the feel of the dappled light as we laugh and meander up the trail. The conversation flows easily like the alpine stream running beside us and…WAKE UP…oh-yeah-right, we haven’t met yet.
International adoption is a bit like online dating. You get a few photos and maybe a video or two. Accompanying the visuals is a ‘fact sheet’ that might include height, weight and head circumference and a random assortment of medical details.
Emotions surge as you imagine the first time you hold your child or the first time they jump in the autumn leaves. You conjure up imaginary memories of the day you put a Band-Aid on a skinned knee or made popcorn before snuggling on the couch for a movie. You create a virtual bond in the corners of your mind. I would even venture to say doing so is a survival technique of sorts to make it through the painstaking process of adoption, where months pass without a shred of information and time feels like it’s standing still.
‘Love at first sight’ adoption stories are plentiful. “I knew he was ‘our child’ the moment they sent me our referral photo.” “She was born in April and my mother’s name is April, so it was meant to be.” Revisionist history or not, it is easy to fall in love with a dream. You invest so much of yourself into making it happen, and so much of your soul into wanting it to be true. For some of us the stakes are high, with adoption our only option for parenthood.
The trouble is, at this stage, the relationship is one-sided and only exists in the safety of one’s mind. You haven’t met this child and this child hasn’t met you. While I feel the heart has infinite capacity to love, I also believe depth of connection comes from the flesh. You rise at 3:00 a.m. to change a diaper or soothe a nightmare. You plan for a morning feeding and anticipate an afternoon nap. One is not born a mom, but becomes a mom by meeting the most basic needs in life which, in my opinion, is how love grows and lasting bonds are formed.
At one time or another, every adopted mom will hear the question, “Who’s his real mom?” Adoptive parents will tell you that being a “real” parent has little to do with the biology of birthing and everything to do with the moments that exist from birth and beyond.
I remind myself of this as I look back on the past six months and reflect upon what happened during our recent visit to Armenia. While I feel tremendous loss about what is not to be, I also feel incredible hope for what will be, when we find the child who is the right match for us.
The baby lust I experienced prior to our September trip was powerful stuff. I spent half a year imagining and hoping, only to discover that this little boy had some serious issues we didn’t feel prepared to take on. As heartbreaking as our decision was, I know it was the right decision for us. When we say ‘yes’ to a child it has to feel right and be backed by reality; we parent in the world of flesh and blood, not fantasy.
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