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Work in progress

August 13, 2010

I decided to adopt a child when I was about 22, and proceeded to do absolutely nothing about it for the next 20 years.

I just loved everything about the idea — raising a child who already existed, rather than creating one from scratch. Giving love and sustenance where there was a need. Traveling to Guatemala for annual visits to my fantasy child’s homeland.

Also, not having my vagina sliced open appealed somewhat.

So how did I end up in a doctor’s office 11 months ago, listening to her tell me that everything was in excellent working order … except for this one thing … my eggs were old. Like, seriously old. On some magic ovarian SAT, I was supposed to have a number greater than 1 and I got a 0.2. And I’ve always been such a good test-taker.

I was pissed, mostly because I have been profoundly immature throughout my life. One would think my eggs would have the courtesy to retard themselves as well.

So, back to adoption for much of last year. Which mostly took place in my imagination, since I didn’t expect anyone would approve me for adoption when I had neither home (see: electrical fire) nor job (see: economic collapse due to financial wizard malfeasance).

I have both now, and My Young Man and I seriously began discussing adoption. We quickly realized that we would never be able to adopt as a couple. Seriously, adoption sucks. How can something so marvelous cost $25,000 AND be so unbelievably difficult? My Young Man, who is so young that his eggs would probably be juicy and delicious if he had them, which I’m happy to report he does not, has a disease which has left him partially disabled. There was no way he was going to pass the many tests, hoops and limbo poles with multiple sclerosis.

Also, we aren’t married. And the sad part is, we’re not married for two reasons: 1) We had concerns about how that might affect any disability applications and 2) We knew we might not be able to adopt as a couple. Now we realized that we couldn’t get married because most adoption or foster child programs have a minimum of two years of marriage required before you can begin. If we did that, I’d be 45 by the time we got anywhere.

So we came up with a plan: My Young Man would officially move out of the house for up to two years (because you are still inspected by social workers for at least six months after you get the kid). He would have to live at his brother’s house, three hours away. There could be no evidence of our life as a couple. Amazingly, he agreed to all of this.

Until one night in late June, when he turned to me, with the saddest face, and said, “I hate the idea of a stranger telling me I’m not qualified to be a parent.” It broke my heart. And we began our current journey, one I never even considered conceivable (sorry).

We are going to use an egg donor. And in the best of all possible worlds, my vagina is going to hurt really, really bad.

2 Comments leave one →
  1. September 10, 2010 8:16 pm

    To paraphrase a semi-popular, alterna-parenting book: Hurt vaginas are worth it!

  2. Melissa Rogers permalink
    September 12, 2010 9:11 am

    Good luck on your journey. You can’t know yet how really, really big this is but when you finally have your little one and you look back it will all be more than worth it.

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