Before I was pregnant with my daughter, I was drawing pictures of a child. They were simple line drawings (I am not a visual artist), but they captured a sweet face. When I was pregnant, I knew the little girl I drew was the child I was carrying.
In her early years, there were many adjustments to make. We moved to Tennessee after she was born early while we were visiting friends there. A year later, we moved back to our hometown of Buffalo, NY.
Once settled, with the support of family, I went back to study and completed the certification to teach in NYS.
My relationship with her father shifted as well; we grew apart. He moved back to NYC where we had lived before Tennessee and I stayed in Buffalo with our young daughter. I started teaching in the same school our daughter would attend.
The school was walking distance from our apartment. I was attracted to its homelike buildings and outdoor playground. When I got my first teaching job there, I felt I was being carried by forces greater than me. There was a sense of ease and flow in spite of the many transitions.
When I met my second husband through a parent in that school, I knew my destiny was unfolding. We shared dreams and a lifestyle. We married and created a family. Due to what I now understand as trauma, we did not conceive another child.
Nonethless, I began imagining our child: his height (kitchen table high), his wavy brown hair, and his sweet face. I looked for him in books listing children available for adoption in NYS.
Every photo of a little boy about the height I imagined, with brown hair, and beautiful eyes, I considered, “Is he our son?”
A friend who knew of our search for a child invited us to dinner one night, along with another couple who had adopted sons from an orphanage in Bogota, Colombia. Soon afterwards, we applied to adopt a child from the same orphanage. The only parameter was that our then seven-year-old daughter would remain the oldest child.
It was February and wintry in Buffalo when we sent our application. In early April with spring in the air, we received a call about a child at the orphanage. He was a three-year-old boy (about the height of our kitchen table), with brown hair and a beautiful round face.
Sight unseen (except in my mind’s eye), in response to the information, I said yes and thank you, and I’d better tell my husband!
At that time, his architectural office was on the second floor in our home. I sprang up the stairs and burst in to tell him, “We found our son!” My husband had not seen the image in my mind’s eye (how could he), so he was delighted when a fax arrived with a photo, so he too could see him. Together we celebrated finding our child!
Things moved as fast as possible within the parameters of Colombian law. It is important to place older children as quickly as possible to limit a child’s time in the orphanage, but not too fast on behalf of the mothers’ rights.
My husband, daughter and I travelled to Bogota in June to meet our new family member.
He looked just like I imagined, spoke baby Spanish, and bonded immediately with his family – especially his big sister. We had a lovely two weeks together. But every evening, when we had to bring him back to the orphanage at dinner time, it was utterly confounding for him and heart-wrenching for us.
When we returned to Buffalo, we left him with a book of family photos. About ten days later, with the paperwork on both ends finished, I flew down to Bogota to handle all the details necessary to bring our child home.
When I got off the plane, I went straight to the orphanage to pick him up. Along with a small bag of clothes and his tattered little photobook, we went to the residence where we would stay together until we flew home to Buffalo.
Our son, although part Spanish and part Indigenous has light skin and looks like the rest of us, his adoptive family. Based on her words, I understand his birth mother wanted him to have opportunities she could not provide for him. She surrendered him to a better life – the most selfless act of mothering I have ever known!
And coming to Buffalo to live with his American family gave him opportunities for health care, education, and a quality of life he would not have known in Bogota.
Today, as I reflect on our son’s story, I am grateful that he has used those privileges to make positive contributions to the world he lives in. He is a good and loyal friend, employee, and fan of his hometown teams. He has a unique way of seeing the world – it’s informed by research, critical thinking skills, and a warm heart.
Today is his birthday. His coming home day is in July, the day before his father’s birthday. This time of year, his story is on my mind, when on this holiday weekend, we celebrate the day he was born.
My thoughts are full of gratitude for his mother’s selfless gesture. My heart goes out to all mothers who are raising children without the basic needs of safety, health care, and education.
Mothering is challenging even when those needs are met. And in the face of adversity, mothers are known to have a fierce kind of love; one that knows no bounds.
When he was a young child, I would tell our son that we searched the world over for him. And we are so grateful that we found and recognized him as our dear son! That’s his birthday story.
Familes come together in many different ways. I am convinced that there are special powers in the universe reserved for bringing children together with families.
Our son is a naturalized citizen, as is his German born and raised father. That means in my immediate family, we have two first generation immigrants, two American born members, one biological and one adopted child.
Mothering my family has provided a wide range of experiences, opportunities, and ways of understanding individuals and family systems. I have become more open, accepting, and resolute in the importance of caring for our children.
I look back on my life with gratitude. There is nothing in the whole wide world more valuable to me than my unique, blended, and beautiful family!
Happy Birthday dear Jason! I am so glad you were born.
