We have started the dance of conception again. Thursday we go back to our wonderful doctor—Dr. Southern Comfort. We have already spent nearly six hours with him in the last six weeks, mostly talking about our fears and worries. He assures us that a cerclage will cure what ails us, that the placental abruption was caused by the negligence of our other doctor, and that we will have a healthy baby born a few weeks early. Every other doctor we have consulted has concurred and has green lighted us to try again.
We are thinking that this month or next will be perfect—conceive, heave through my easy spring semester course load, get a cerclage, maybe teach a maymester class—a film course at that!, and then spend the rest of the summer off my feet, reading, and playing queen. [My breezy summary hides my horror and unbelievable fear of having CVS, two amnios, a cerclage, and a c-section at 36.5 weeks in order to have another child. I regularly throw up in the shower from the fear.] Most days I am thrilled to think about having another baby. But in-between bouts of terror and joy—really it’s a roller coaster of emotions—I feel guilty about wanting to conceive again
CNN reported today that nearly 100,000 children are awaiting adoption in the US. The article stated that many of these children are older, have siblings, have suffered severe abuse, and/or are African American. Many of these children will languish in social services as they are shuffled from one foster home to the next, and as they await the termination of parental rights. For years, we thought about opening our home to a child from a similar background. And now that we have the chance, we find ourselves turning away from the possibility.
After we lost the baby, we looked into adoption. We would be happy to take in a toddler somewhere between 1-4 of either sex and of any racial background whose parent/s can no longer take of them. But we found that finding a child who hasn’t suffered some form of sexual or physical abuse to be nearly impossible. Hours spent scrolling through on-line adoption books have left us sad and horrified.
“Johnny should be the youngest child as he does not get along with younger children.”
“Sam is a kind a hearted child. But he can not be left alone with young female children.”
“Sarah needs to be an only child in a two-parent household. She has trust issues after suffering years of sexual abuse.”
The stories go on and on. These children not only deserve but desperately need good homes and loving parents. We should be one of those families. But we are not. We can’t expose Bug to abuse and sadly we find that as a family we fall short of what is needed to care for one of these children—a large and warm extended family. After our little Monkey died, we realized that our family was the three of us—the husband, myself, and the Bug. I simply don’t have any extended family and my husband’s brothers and parents were awful to us after Monkey died. What they did and said is my husband’s story to tell, but let it suffice that they are hateful people.
So we will go on, and hopefully our little scheme of happiness will work out, and late next summer we will have another Rooster in the house. But what of those 100,000 children waiting for their little plan of happiness to work out?
