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Once, my mother recounted the tale of Mrs. Smith, the wife of one of my father’s fishing companions, who arrived at a ladies’ gathering with what appeared to be a pillow strapped to her midsection. She wore it for several months, and then one day, she was seen without it, cradling a child who was more of a toddler than a newborn.
The Smiths must have yearned for a child so deeply that they would have tried just about anything to have one of their own. They likely had a complete transformation regarding their approach to conception, and their turkey baster was certainly no longer just for holiday meals. Mrs. Smith probably sought advice from mothers, grandmothers, aunts, and great-aunts alike. I wouldn’t be shocked if she had fertility remedies concocted from wild ingredients like possum fat and fire ants applied to her abdomen or elsewhere regularly. When all else failed, they might have turned to adoption.
Fast forward 70 years, and the Smiths’ roundabout journey feels like a relic of the past, akin to rotary phones or VHS tapes. At least, I wish it were. The disappointing reality is that a segment of today’s society still views adoption as a last resort and even something to be ashamed of.
When we chose to adopt, I would have worn a faux pregnancy belly proudly, signaling that my first son was on his way—though not literally nestled in my womb. I would have donned a sandwich board and used a bullhorn to announce our impending arrival to everyone around. The only things stopping me were my more reserved husband’s nature and a slight fear that the adoption agency might reconsider our application due to my exuberance.
Ultimately, we opted for a more conventional route to share our joy. We sent out hundreds of baby announcements and posted on social media more times than I could count. I may have even overshadowed a few retirement parties and funerals with our news.
The response was often filled with genuine congratulations, but many friends offered ridiculous fertility tips, assuming we were struggling to conceive. (We weren’t.) They couldn’t hide their pity for what they assumed were my reproductive woes and my husband’s lesser sperm count. Their “better luck next time” attitude was perplexing yet amusing.
On the other hand, the more cynical voices, typically older family friends, didn’t celebrate with cigars. They found our public happiness distasteful and whispered that adoption was selfish and an embarrassment to our family. I imagine they longed for the days when unwed mothers were hidden away until they could return home with a baby in tow. They probably expected me to conceal my flat belly until I could finally present a child that was “biologically mine.”
I didn’t understand their perspective at the time, but looking back, it doesn’t surprise me. These individuals were likely from an era where societal pressures were immense. While their reactions aren’t justifiable, I comprehend their origins. It’s a bit like mayonnaise—I recognize its existence and that some find it palatable, but I personally do not have to like it.
In the end, the opinions of others are irrelevant. For those of us who share this understanding, we know there are numerous ways to build a family, and the ability to love and nurture a child is what truly matters. The significant difference lies in this: parents who conceive naturally get to witness the miraculous process of childbirth, complete with videos of the labor experience. Our journey, however, culminated in holding our swaddled baby in my arms at the airport, dusted with the scent of baby powder.
No matter how you look at it, I believe we came out on top.
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