As we set out making our own family profile, Ward was not as taken with the homespun, laminated bookmark route as I had been. Using standard white 8½ by 11-inch paper, Ward wrote our family profile, adding a few photos of us. Our introductory paragraph was basically our elevator speech: “We are looking to share our forever home with a 3-to-7(ish) boy of any race or nationality whose parental rights have been terminated. We have never been parents but we are very happy, excited, and committed about changing that situation.”
Let’s break down some of that description.
•“our forever home”—That’s the terminology used in adoption and genuinely what we were offering, but it also sounded a little like Grimm’s Fairy Tales.
•“a 3-to-7(ish)”—7(ish)? It sounds like an invitation for drinks at the Algonquin Hotel with Dorothy Parker, but the recommendation from class had been not to limit our options with regard to age.
•“whose parental rights have been terminated”—This meant the child was legally free for adoption.
After our graduation from class, we were sent out to find a foster care worker. We emailed our family profile to workers in all the counties of Maine, and a few leads came from those mailings. We were invited to a Foster Care Meet-and-Greet Mixer. This antiquated term should have been updated to Speed Adoption because it was an attempt to pair foster kids with potential adoptive parents in a short amount of time.
The event took place on a Saturday at an elementary school about an hour away. All prospective parents were gathered ahead of time in a conference room on the first floor. It became clear why we were all meeting beforehand: they didn’t want any of us to screw up.
Ginger, who was one of the foster care workers, stood before us, clipboard in hand. “We have a group of kids in foster care here between the ages of seven and fifteen . . .”
A guy jumped in, “We’re looking for a baby or a toddler at the oldest.”
“Then you should probably leave now,” said Ginger.
He and his wife quietly left.
“You can play basketball or make arts and crafts with the kids,” she told us.
Ginger set her clipboard down. Her voice turned hard. “Do not spend too much time with any one child. It will give false hope. And do not tell any kid you are going to adopt him or her.”
The last one got a chuckle from most of us, but not from Ginger.
“That’s happened more than once. It seems like a no-brainer. Someone gets caught up in the moment, and a kid gets their heart broken.”
It was then I realized this day wasn’t just about us and what we wanted. As we filed out to go to the gym, I turned to Ward and said, “Maybe we should leave.”
He continued walking. “No. What if our son is here?”
The kids were waiting when we walked in the gym. Some were looking at the floor, others seemed distracted by something on the wall, and a few looked directly at us. One of the dads in our group got the ball rolling.
“Who wants to shoot hoops?”
Ward went to play basketball, and I headed to the art table. Almost immediately, a boy about eleven or twelve years old sat next to me.
“How many kids do you have?”
“We don’t have any,” I said.
“I got a brother,” he said motioning to where they were playing ball. “He’s nine. We want to be in the same home. We’re in different foster homes now but we want to be adopted together.”
I wanted to continue staring at my hands but instead turned to look at him.
“Of course you do. That would be the best. . . . Don’t you want to hang out with him?”
“Not today.”
Of course not. Today, he was auditioning for the role of a lifetime. Ward and I had already decided we were not equipped to parent more than one child. As quickly and respectfully as possible, I moved to the other table. I found myself sitting next to an adorable girl who looked about seven. She was personable and funny, and I wondered how I could convince Ward we wanted her. My emotions were all over the place: stricken with heartbreak by the boy’s story and then filled with excitement at the thought I may have met my daughter.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
The girl turned toward me.
“Emily. My mom is Ginger,” motioning to the caseworker at center court. “Our babysitter is sick today.”
Well, there was no way I could disappoint Emily or get her hopes up, I thought.
I stayed with her and made a sock puppet. When Ward joined us, I again suggested we leave, and this time he agreed.
On the way to the car I said, “I can’t do it this way. It’s somehow too personal. That’s a funny way to think of it but . . .”
“No, I get it. I feel the same way.”
The months that followed could best be classified as excruciatingly close calls and near misses of other children we had heard were available for adoption but turned out not to be. In each instance, the caseworker we talked to would offer some tidbit regarding the child: he kicked a puppy; he’s emotional; he shouldn’t be in a home with other children; or he’s been in three other foster homes.
The most painful situation happened over the course of a few days via phone conversations with a caseworker in another city. On a Wednesday, she told us about a six-year-old boy named Ryan. On Friday, we agreed to take him into our home the following Tuesday, which isn’t as outlandish as it sounds—we had friends who got a call at 2:30 P.M. and by 4:30 that day a four-year-old girl was living with them. So we called family and friends to share the exciting news.
On Monday, the day before he was to arrive at our home, we received a call. A terrible mistake had been made. Another caseworker, who had seniority, had
