When I adopted my youngest child as an infant in 2001, I was in my 40s, and my older kids were heading off to college. I couldn’t wait to tell everyone about our expanding family. But the reaction wasn’t what I’d anticipated.
The first time I was expecting a baby, I was 29 and married. My parents were ecstatic, and Mom handed the phone to my usually stoic dad. He laughed and peppered me with questions like, “Have you picked out names?” Mom retold the story of her long labor and hoped I’d have an easier time.
My best friend Christine had just found out she was pregnant, and we joked our newborns would be raised like twins. Shopping for maternity clothes, the saleswoman patted my belly. “What is your due date?” she whispered.
So, when I broke the news almost two decades later that an adoption agency had matched me with a newborn girl, I waited for “Congratulations!” Instead, I got, “Haven’t you been through all that already?”
Adopting at my age seemed like a taboo
Hitting the reset button on motherhood, it seemed, was taboo. Especially for a 47-year-old single mom of two teens.
At a party, a guest I barely knew pulled me aside. Gayle, in her 60s, had a worried look. “Let me ask you something,” she said. “What made you do this?”
Do this? You’d think I’d been arrested. Did I even owe an explanation?
I had always wanted another baby
I’d always longed for a third child, yet by the time my youngest was off to kindergarten, my marriage was unraveling. The thought of being on my own was scary enough with two children.
But the divorce and carpooling years didn’t quell my yearning to clasp another tiny hand, cuddle with a picture book, and go to swim lessons and the zoo. “Is this just a phase?” I asked an older coworker.
“Listen to your heart,” she confided. “I wanted a third child, but my husband didn’t. I still regret it.”
Soon after, my friend Kevin and his wife were showing pictures of the little girl waiting for them in Guatemala. My heart melted.
“I’d love to adopt,” I sighed. “But I wouldn’t be eligible.”
“Why not?” he said, giving me his agency’s number.
Kevin’s caseworker, a soft-spoken mother of two adopted from Korea, laid out options: domestic vs. international and requirements from age to religion.
It was finally the right time for me to adopt
By now, I’d changed fields and gone into mortgage banking. I had a higher income, which made it easier to handle the extra expenses that came with a child without a partner, and my older ones were excited to welcome a sibling; the chance to hold another baby in my arms seemed within reach.
Soon after, on the grocery checkout line, I saw a magazine commemorating 25 years since the war had ended in Vietnam, one of the countries recommended by the agency. I saw this as a sign of hope. When all the paperwork was complete and a nurse put Isabella in my arms in Hanoi in 2001, I knew I’d made the right choice to “start over” with this bundle of love.
Today, Isabella is a happy 23-year-old grad student. She plays varsity tennis and is studying for the law school admissions test. She shares her off-campus apartment with a cat and a labradoodle. We love hikes through state parks, and she asks my advice on work, clothes, and dating. Besides her birthday, we celebrate her adoption date with a cake and candles.
When friends and strangers remark how lucky she was to be adopted, I reply, “No, you mean what a lucky mom I am. I’m blessed to have had a second chance at motherhood.”
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