A Family Meant to Be
The Jewish people are a superstitious bunch. We spit three times at good news or bad, to ward off the Evil Eye. We close books that have been left open. We don’t have baby showers or decorate nurseries prior to birth because it is considered bad luck. And we believe that things and situations are fated, meant to be, “b’sheret.”
After a long and tedious home-study process, my husband and I were finally approved to be a waiting adoptive family. I now look back at the pre-process version of myself and laugh. At our initial consultation, I naively exclaimed that we would never take the average 6-7 months to complete the many hoop-jumping tasks of the home study. Surely, we’d set a record and check off every box in 2 months flat. Flash forward almost a year, to a little place I like to call reality, and at last all our boxes were checked. It was December 23rd when our profile went live, two days before we were to leave on a Mexican cruise.
“What if we get called for a match while we’re away?” I worrisomely asked my husband. He reminded me that the average wait time for a baby was fourteen months, and we should enjoy the much-needed break. Besides, we joked, it’s not like Santa was going to bring us nice little Jews a baby for Christmas.
Before we left for our trip, my mother-in-law gave my husband a gift she’d been hanging onto for quite some time. It was a ring that his father use to wear before he passed away. Now that we were a waiting family, she hoped it might bring him good luck – a ring from his father, for the hopefully soon-to-be father. He proudly slid it on his finger, a star of sapphire shining brightly in the center.
The cruise was wonderful. While I couldn’t help but wonder who might be reading our online adoption profile while we sailed, I tried not to stress about it as we dined on delicious dinners, soaked up plenty of sunshine and went on boating and off-roading excursions. Aboard the ship, we attended several art auctions, to sip on champagne and peruse the paintings. One piece in particular caught my eye – something that normally wouldn’t be my style, but that spoke to me just the same. It was funky, almost like graphic street art, featuring a family of colorful owls. My husband wound up bidding on it for me, and before I knew it we had purchased the piece. After the auction, we went up to get a closer look at our new art, and I noticed a hand-written message beneath the branch the small owls perched on. It read “As if it was always meant to be.” My heart skipped a beat and my eyes welled up, surely this was a sign.
We returned home the day before New Year’s Eve, tan and tired. The very next day we received a call from our adoption counselor. It was the first time we’d heard from her since being listed, and when her number showed up on the caller ID a lump formed in my throat. Surely there couldn’t be a baby this soon, it hadn’t even been 14 days since we were listed, let alone 14 months. My husband could see the wheels start spinning in my head, and quickly answered before I exploded. He spoke calmly to our counselor, my eyes glued to him the entire time, waiting impatiently to learn of her end of the conversation.
“What did she say?” I asked intensely, before the phone had even left his ear. He laughed at my impatience, but proceeded to tell me about a little preemie girl who’d been born at the end of September, and was now leaving the NICU for a Safe Family home. He went on to give me more details, the medical concerns, the birth parent situation…I listened as impartially as I could, but it was too late. I was already in love with her, the mere idea of her. This tiny little baby girl, who I had no other worldly connection to other than just learning of her existence. I knew right then, this was my daughter.
My husband attempted to keep me grounded, the rational half of our yin-yang, reminding me that we were not the only people who might be presented. We also needed to talk to a pediatrician to learn more about the possible complications from her prematurity. And most likely we’d need to have a match meeting with the birth mother. There were still many hoops to jump through. I nodded in understanding, but in my mind, I was already decorating the nursery.
We did our due-diligence, got medical advice, considered the possibilities, and ultimately decided to go for it. What followed was the most nerve-wracking couple of weeks of my life. We knew that other prospective families were given the option of being presented to the birth mother. We had no idea how many others opted to do so, or how long it might take the birth mother to evaluate her choices. All we could do was wait…and worry. What if she didn’t like that I was diabetic, or slightly overweight, or that we were Jewish? What if she wanted a family with other children, or with pets for the baby to play with? I felt so helpless, the ball was certainly in this stranger’s court – either she’d pass us the baby for a win, or hand her off to a completely different team.
I got the call on a Tuesday morning as I was walking up the stairs to my office. I stopped at the landing half way up and leaned against the wall with a deep breath.
“You’re matched.” My counselor said with simple satisfaction as I answered the phone.
“Shut up.” I mustered in shocked eloquence. The rest of the conversation is a blur to me now…I remember the warm tears of joy flowing down my enflamed cheeks. I slid down the wall to the floor, literally grounding myself. My heart was beating a million times a minute as I called my husband with the news. She picked us, it was happening, we were getting our baby.
At our match meeting the birth mother told us that she could have looked at a hundred profiles, and she still would have picked us. We were the family she wished for the baby. She chose not to name the little girl, wanting to leave that honor for her parents, but in the meantime, had taken to calling her Angel – because she was one. We loved that. It is a Jewish custom to name a child after loved ones we’ve lost. In our case, we chose to name for my husband’s father, whose Hebrew name was Abraham. So, for our daughter’s Hebrew name we chose Ariella which translates to “Angel of God.” Birth Mom loved that.
We were beyond lucky to get matched so quickly, to find the right situation for us and the birth mother, and most of all to be joined with a baby so clearly meant to be with us. I don’t mean to say the journey of adoption was without it’s bumps in the road, but no matter what it took to get to where we are now, it was all well worthwhile.
I look at my husband play with our beautiful daughter, now a healthy, happy toddler. He still wears his father’s ring every day. The sapphire it adorns just happens to be our sweet Angel’s birthstone. The painting from our cruise of the owls and their “As if it was always meant to be” message hangs in the nursery. Call me superstitious, but I can’t help but feel this was all b’sheret.
Originally posted on chicagonow.com.
Beth Alexander 