Picking at an Old Scab

I guess enough time has elapsed that I can share a somewhat painful story from our most recent adoption process and have it be cathartic rather than hurtful.  Please know that there’s still some pain in this remembrance, like an old scab, but you can feel free to smile and laugh along too.

After going through three adoption processes in three countries, you’d think we had seen it all.  Alas, Nancy, the person who did all of our home studies for Jada, Aaron, and Asher told us as we were starting the process for #4 that her agency was no longer in the home study business, and she gave us a list of other providers in the region.  If you don’t know how adoptions work, home studies take place both before and after the adoption, and involve a battery of questions and assessments to make sure the home an adopted child is entering into is safe for them.  So Nancy had been in our house probably 10+ times over the past decade plus, and over those years and visits had become a cherished part of how we made our family. 

So we lamented her not being able to participate in this fourth and final adoption, but we quickly moved on and called the first agency on her list.  Soon enough, we scheduled the home study, with a representative who we’ll call Mary. 

The bad experience started literally at the front door.  Amy used to observe that when we first bought our house, her mom (who lived in the suburbs) was unable to contain her disdain for our neighborhood and house whenever we had them over.  Sure enough, Mary gave us the same face when we opened the door to let her in.  Given that if it were Nancy, she would’ve broken out in a big smile and we would have hugged her profusely, this was a different start, to say the least.

Clinically, she pulled out her clipboard and started surveying our house.  She pointed out a number of places where we had not toddler-proofed, and even though we said that we only toddler-proof the places where our kids play and have never let them roam free when they were that young, she made some notes with a disapproving look. 

She took a shine to Jada and asked if, given that she was from China, we had kept a “look book” for her.  Not familiar with the term, I asked, and she described it as a sort of scrapbook of information and pictures so she could learn about her earliest days when she was older.  I brightened up and said, “ah yes, I keep a blog, and have vigilantly documented such things since before we got her.”  Mary looked at me with a blank face and then asked again, “but do you keep a look book.”  To which I replied, “yes, on my blog.”   “But do you keep a look book,” she replied, and made a gesture as if turning the pages of a physical book.  Realizing this conversation wasn’t going anywhere, I said, “no, not a physical book.”  Again, note-taking and disapproving looks.  I looked at Amy quizzically.

Mercifully, the home study ended, and Mary left, with a somewhat stiff statement about how she would write everything up and get back to us.  Compared to the cheery and personal service we had gotten from Nancy, this was upsetting to us, especially as we were embarking upon a journey we knew would be joyful but also fraught with a roller-coaster of emotions.  But we agreed to stay calm and simply await word.

I got a voicemail from Mary’s supervisor later that month, explaining that they could not continue with the process and could I call her.  Panicking, I returned the call, and the supervisor revisited some of the greatest hits from Mary’s home study visit.  She also said that even though ours was a domestic adoption, they hold all home studies to the same standard as international ones, and there was a medication on our list that is fine for domestic adoptions but not allowed for international ones.  Graciously, she offered to cease the home study and refund the money, rather than mark ours as a “failed home study,” which we would have to disclose and which often imperils adoption processes.  Still, by this point in the conversation I was reeling.

In closing, she lowered her voice to make one more point.  “Studies show,” and I braced myself.  “Studies show that adopted children in homes where the mom works don’t do as well.”  With every ounce of self-restraint I could summon, I bit my tongue and said “have a nice day” rather than lighting into her, figuring that we were done with this agency so why waste my breath.

In short, the whole process left us exhausted, enraged, and no closer to the finish line.  We eventually did move on to the next agency on Nancy’s list, that home study went fine, and we were able to check all the boxes.  (Of course, you may know that we ended up never getting matched, despite some really heart-breaking close calls, and eventually gave up trying.)

I think a big part of what we were feeling in all of this was judged.  As adoptive parents, we are no different in our love for our kids, no different in the joys and challenges of parenthood.  But, unlike biological parents, somebody does have to come into our house and provide independent verification that we are fit to parent.  Having already adopted and parented three kids at that point, we felt this was self-evident, so to have been treated so negatively was a real blow to us, one that as noted above is still somewhat of a sore subject. 

All parents go through self-doubt, beat themselves up, and live with regrets big and small.  We are no different.  This episode, though, was so wounding, because even though we were turned down on a technicality, it’s hard to hear that somebody came into your house to check on you and was unable to come back with an enthusiastic confirmation that you’ll be a good parent.  I tell you, the adoption process is such an emotional roller-coaster.  We are grateful for the three precious faces that brighten our every day, and that we are done with all of the administrivia associated with bringing them into our family.  Along the way, we have encountered some bumps and bruises, but time and love have a way of healing things over.