In early 2006, after discovering I have a rare genetic defect, after a third and final unsuccessful attempt at IVF, and after gazing into the yawning crater that had once been our bank account, we resigned ourselves to either never having children, or perhaps, maybe talking about adoption.
We had always liked the idea of adoption – but knew nothing at all about it – how it happened, who you talked to, where you went to find out more. We knew nothing.
The internet of course stepped in, and rapidly solved the who, where and when of it all.
We visited the local council offices a few weeks later for an introductory session on the adoption process – an open “this is how the journey works” forum presented by a group of senior social workers. When the floor was opened for questions I remember being shocked by several couples who asked for accurate statistics on their chances of adopting a baby. What I didn’t appreciate at the time was that the meeting was the first of many attempts to weed out those that might not be appropriate adoptive parents.
We never saw the couples looking for babies again.
Over time, minds immesurably superior to our own – that no doubt pick up the pieces of broken families on a regular basis – planned everything we would see, remembered everything they asked, and dug incredibly deeply into who you were, what we thought about things, where we came from, and where we thought we were going.
None of that happened immediately though.
Several months later we had a week off work and attended an “Adoption Preparation Group” – along with several other couples (many of which became close friends). At the time we imagined we were being tested on our answers to questions, or the part we took in group discussions. Looking back, it was an acid test.
Each day we were confronted with stories of neglect and abuse, horrific case studies, and invited to confront our own prejudices, fears, and biases. By the midpoint of the week, I remember being physically and mentally exhausted.
We learned that there really are two sides to every story, and that “blame” isn’t really a term you can apply to many people when a child ends up in care.
What followed was months of interviews at home – some with both of us together, some with each of us individually, and some with our friends and close family. Every stone was lifted. Every dark corner poked with a stick. Relationships were examined, childhood memories recounted, views and opinions expounded and pulled to pieces.
The interviews contributed to an official report that was given to the “Adoption Review Panel” – where a room full of strangers would read about the minutiae of our life, and make an informed decision on not only our suitability to adopt children, but how many, what ages, and (possibly) which sexes.
Although you were not required to attend the review panel, we were glad we did – because we knew our presence would afford the members of the panel the opportunity to ask questions, and again assess our responses. One thing we hadn’t anticipated was the number of people in the room. Policemen, councillors, psychologists, social workers, teachers, sociologists, doctors, healthcare workers…
My one abiding memory is the chairwoman of the meeting jovially remarking that we all have bad days when we don’t want to get our of bed and go to work and then asking me how having a family might impact that.
“I would like to think my family will become the reason I get out of bed each day” I remember seeing the psychologist smile through his beard, and begin writing something. Ten minutes later, while sat on couches out in the corridor nervously drinking horrific tea from a machine, the chairwoman walked in smiling and informed us;
“We are more than pleased to approve you for the adoption of up to three children”. Relief. Total and utter relief. I can still remember the couch, the taste of the tea, and walking back through the building holding hands.
Having become well aware of the next step of our journey, we anticipated a lengthy wait – perhaps months – while we were potentially “matched” with children.
We didn’t wait months though.
While stood in the foyer of the council offices putting our coats on, and wrapping up warm for the walk back to the car, we asked our social worker what happens next.
She didn’t look at us. She had been looking through the window for the last few moments.
“There are these three girls”
That was eighteen years ago. Eighteen years that have passed in the blink of an eye.
What was it John Lennon said? “Life is what happens while you’re making other plans”. He was right.