The Finalization of One Adoption, A Personal Story and Quiet Celebration

A Finalization Story

Today (January 19) is a kind of special anniversary for me; and oddly, perhaps, it's one I generally keep to myself and say little about to anyone. Today is the 30th anniversary of the day I first officially became a mother. I say "officially" because my little son had been placed with us, as his adoptive parents, long before the finalization of the adoption took place. I guess sometimes the adoption process can be kind of like the process of becoming a citizen: People can live in a place a long time before actually becoming a citizen. It can be kind of the same with some adoptions, and that's how it was with ours.

In any case, the road from the day when I first met my son in his infancy to Finalization Day was a long and scary one; because things like love and the bonding that take place between a baby and the person who's apparently destined to become his mother don't always wait for long legal processes to be finished. So, there these aspects of my relationship with my son went - taking root, growing, blossoming, and making us a mother/son "team" long before the Commonwealth of Massachusetts made it official. Oh - I had the Commonwealth's "OK" to go ahead and let the mother/child bonding take place. After all, once a child is placed with his family the plan is that the finalization is kind of a matter of rubber-stamping the adoption. Some adoptions are more complicated than others, of course; but the biggest moment, I think, for an adoptive mother (other than the day she first meets her child) is the day she's told the child will, in fact, be placed in her home. Finalization can be pretty anti-climactic, but it's also an extremely important moment because until finalization has taken place there can always be that back-of-the-mind worry that something will go wrong. Maybe that's one reason I've never really talked a whole lot about Finalization Day: maybe I haven't (even now) been able to kind of reconcile its being both seemingly insignificant and anti-climactic while also being truly momentous.

There's another reason I've never made much of a big deal about Finalization Day, and that's because I didn't want the fact that my son is adopted to overshadow all the things of childhood (person-hood, really) that "everyone else" has. I wanted the fact of adoption to be more of a "take-for-granted" kind of thing - not a "make-a-big-deal-out-of-it" thing. My son, like every other child/person in the world, has a birthday. That's the day he came into the world. Maybe I wasn't there, but it's the day that a little 5 lb , 21-inch-long, baby boy came into this world, destined to change my life. No, maybe I wasn't there, but every year (as I do with the birthdays of my two children I delivered myself), as my son's birth month approaches I start to think about his birthday coming up. Part of that, of course, has always been because there's always thinking about birthday plans. As the day gets closer, however, it's no longer just about planning a cake, gifts, or get together. It's more that awareness that the anniversary of a child's coming into the world is getting closer and closer; and, I guess, the anticipation of that day (the birthday) when a mother just kind of sees that day as the biggest thing that has ever happened in her life (and with each child, there is yet one more of those "biggest thing that's happened" days).

Now, the day I was told we'd passed all the screening stuff and "placement" (with us) would take place - now THAT was a big day. The social worker involved didn't treat it like it was a big day. We had an appointment in her drab little office, and she said whatever she had to say to us. Then - as if she was about to tell us she was planning to have her lunch at McDonalds (or whatever) - she just went on to say, "...so we've decided to place him." She was so nonchalant about it I didn't even really react because I wasn't even sure that's what she was really saying. "What?" I thought, "Isn't there some big, official, congratulations or something? Did she really say what I think she just said; and if she did, why didn't she say it with the enthusiasm and excitement such news should have been offered?" "Place him." I knew what it meant in "adoption-ese"; but I'm not an adoption worker. I deal in plain, old, English; and I deal in the emotions of motherhood when it comes to my children (and when it came to one who would become mine).

"Place him." I "place" my coffee cup on tables. I "place" my books on shelves. I even "place" my pocketbook on the edge of sinks in public rest rooms. Somehow, to me, if it's a child we're talking about "place" just isn't a big enough and important enough word. Maybe I was in too much of a fog, but I don't recall her smiling. I don't know... 30 years later I think back and think how it wouldn't have killed her to stand up, shake our hands, and maybe even hug us. Instead, she sat at her desk, showing no signs of much of anything, and leaving us with little to do but say, "thank you" and leave the little, gray, office. I'd always imagined that I would shed tears of relief if I were told this big news; but I was so afraid I'd misunderstood this under-stated and said-only-once piece of information there were no tears of relief. I wasn't all that relieved.

In my mind, I went over and over what she'd said. Yes. I was sure that's what she'd said. Hours later, away from the gray, Boston, office building and rush-hour commuter traffic; I allowed myself to believe what I'd heard and shed those tears of relief when I was alone enough to be able to talk myself into digesting why such big and exciting news was shared with us in such an understated and far-from-excited way.

Finalization Day, on the other hand, was a rubber-stamp day. Still, it was one of the most frightening days of my life because until that "rubber stamping" takes place there's always the chance something could happen to stop everything. Besides, I'd never been through an adoption before. I didn't really know how the whole finalization thing was going to work.

The night before the big day I couldn't really sleep. That's one thing I learned about adoption finalization days - you don't sleep well the night before. We had to leave earlier than we otherwise would have because we had to find the court, but also because it had recently snowed and left the highways a mess.

My little son didn't, of course, have a clue about where we were going. Before going on (and in view of this anniversary for me), could I just tell you about my son when he was little? Yes? OK - Well, first... he was absolutely, absolutely, beautiful! Everyone said that about him. He had delicate features, so he was prettier than one might think a little boy would be. His hair was strikingly pretty - golden curls, but not ringlets - more looser curls than ringlets. His gray-blue eyes were beautiful too.

He was the sweetest, sweetest, baby and little boy. Oh - such a treasured and precious little boy.

Anyway, on Finalization Day we got up early. My son had his breakfast. I had a couple of cups of tea. I'd saved a special "dressy" sweater for him to wear that day. He also wore an adorable little dress coat/leggings/hat that was "wool looking" and camel's-hair colored. (So adorable!)

We had to make our way to Boston on Route 93, which seemed to be half-covered in "brown sugar snow" and muddy slush, with the cars in front of us kicking it all back on the windshield and making the window dirtier and dirtier. (I'm not sure if, in my whole life, I've ever experienced such a filthy and uncontrollably splashed-upon windshield.) We were driving into the sun, as it was just getting higher in the morning sky; so we were pretty much unable to see as we headed down the highway. It would have been so much better if our ride to court could have involved less stress and "frazzlement", because by the time we got off Route 93 I pretty much felt like I'd been through the mill. Between not being able to see and nobody else being able to see, the traffic had been a little slowed down. We didn't get off the exit quite as early as we'd thought we would.
That was OK, though. We still had enough time, although not a lot of extra.

We parked and half-ran/half walked to the court. My husband picked up our son and carried him through the cold, windy, morning. We got inside the court, and I was asked to "place" my pocketbook to be run through the metal detector. It struck me as odd (30 years ago) that we'd be going through the metal detector, and an officer noticed us with our son and asked what we were doing there. We told him. He told us we were in the wrong building. We were where criminal hearings were done - hence, the metal detectors. He told us how to get the correct building. Let's just say it was no "hop, skip, and jump" away.

By this time, we were perilously close to the time we needed to be in (the correct) court. My husband scooped up our son again, and we were pretty much running through the Cambridge streets by then. I kept looking at my son's face to see if he seemed bothered by the wind, which was made worse with our running with him. To this day I can still his his eyes kind of squinting and his eyelashes kind of blowing a little in the wind.

We got to the correct court building (where there was no metal detector to go through because it was Probate Court). "Whew!", I thought (and my husband and I both said). We made it. Soon, we met the social worker who had been handling this part of the adoption. My husband, son, and I found a bench to sit on and get a little collected. The social worker sat down next to me, and she said, "Now, don't panic, but something has come up. Someone is seeing a judge about it now. It isn't necessarily anything to worry about. Chances are everything will be fine."

Without really having much of a chance to rest after our run through the streets, and without many details about this new "thing" that had "come up", I was told it was time to head upstairs to see the judge. This new "thing" wasn't a minor one, as far as I could guess; and I wasn't at all sure I could believe the social worker that it was "technical matter" and "nothing to be panic over".

The walk up the wide staircase in the Cambridge court felt like a long, long, walk. Here we were again, carrying our son yet more steps just beyond where we needed to be. The huge window over the landing between the lower and upper parts of the staircase looked as dirty as our windshield had. The sun was showing in through the dirt, and I could see specks and tiny strings of dust floating in the air as we climbed the stairs in the old building. I've walked whole miles that have a felt a lot shorter than this particular walk up those stairs. All I could think of was, "What if something happens and it doesn't go through?" I knew that if it didn't go through there was the chance our (by that time) three-year-old son could be "placed" with someone else. I thought of what it would do to him to be separated from us (the same thing it would do to any three-year-old to be separated from the only people he knew); and I even had time to consider whether I'd be willing to risk becoming a criminal by taking our son to Canada if something happened; and if, for some reason, this finalization were not to go through. (Yes, that was nuts of me to think of, but only someone who considered being separated from a child she'd been with since infancy would understand why an otherwise reasonable and sane person would even think of this.) My mind raced, as we headed up that big staircase with the obnoxious dustiness and sun making me feel as if I had headache.

I don't recall actually getting to the floor we'd been headed to. I do recall walking down the hall after leaving the stairs. The social worker showed us a closed door and said that was the judge's chambers. We'd have to wait outside, of course. She'd let us know when we could go in. I told my son, "We have to wait here for a minute." He seemed fine with that idea. So, in the silent wait, in the silent hall, I kept looking at my son's face and praying that all would go OK. I fought back the overwhelming fear and urge to cry. After all, I was feet away and minutes away from "officially" becoming a mother. This was a happy day for all of us. I know the need to fight off tears was the result of feeling as if our journey to this moment (and to that door - just feet away) had just been so long and so full of stress, worries, and fears. The highway ride with zero visibility, and the double-phased run through the streets of Cambridge in heels, and on Winter sidewalks, hadn't. In any case, I couldn't cry there (minutes before I had to go into that room and impress this particular judge), so I fought it off. (I guess one of the first things we mothers learn is how to fight off tears when the time or place isn't right.)

How long we waited in that hall is something I don't know (but it was quite awhile, believe me). Finally, the door opened, and we were led into the office where the judge sat behind his desk. He was introduced to us, and we to him. He was a white-haired, friendly, man; and after quick and initial "hello's" exchanged between the adults in the room he got straight to the business of meeting the little gentleman who was about to officially become our son.

My son, who was at that time standing next to us, was invited to come over to the judge's desk. When he got to the desk the judge lifted him and sat him on the desk. The judge asked my son what his name is, and my son answered. The next question by the judge to my son was, "Do you ever watch TV?" My son said he did. The judge asked, "What's your favorite TV show?" My son said, "Sesame Street". The judge said, "Do you have a favorite character on Sesame Street?" My son said, "Yes. Big Bird." The judge said, "That's it. You're done." He lifted my son down from his desk and told my husband and me that the paperwork was being sent downstairs to be processed. We could pick it up on our way out.

By about noon time my husband, son, and I were back home, with a get-together, guests, gifts, and goodies. My head remained foggy, and it seemed I was suddenly coming out down with a cold. Still, it was a nice get together. I'd had a small plaque made for my son, with the date engraved on it. This was a little gift I'd tuck in his top drawer, just so it would be there for him one day when he was old enough to understand what this day had been. He received other gifts that he could enjoy immediately, but I'd wanted something that had the date written on it.

And so, in the happy company of close family and friends we celebrated Finalization Day - not a day we'd ever celebrate with anyone else again; because, after all, it had been anti-climactic and pretty much a "non-event" as far as courts and events go. Once I'd seen that our guests seemed settled in with their coffee and tea and food, I finally had the chance to take off those heels I'd been running around in, as well as steal away to the bathroom, where I had the first chance to be alone that day. As I stood, leaning my happy-but-aching head on the closed bathroom door, listening to the distant and muffled chatter and laughter from the dining room; I whispered to myself, "We made it." And that's when all those stifled tears began to fall. After all we'd been through, we'd made it.

Thoughts on the Personal Aspects of Finalization and the Road to Becoming a Mother Via the Adoption Process (or More Conventional Routes, For That Matter)

I'd had my son in my life for close to all of his three years. For close to all of that time there had been the adoption matter looming large, complete with its long screening process and all the worries associated with it. Of course, he'd lived the way any baby, toddler, or young child lives - without being aware of any adoption matters going on. I, on the other hand, had lived for three years with one worry, concern, or cloud or another hanging over my head. As far as I was concerned, it was time I got to put away all those worries about the legal aspects of the adoption (and the consequences they could have on my son) and just get on with the business of living as any other mother and child gets to live.

When we do something like imagine possibly being separated forever from a child we've loved for just about all of his three years; and worse, when we imagine a child we love being separated from the only family he knows, such fears and worries are things others may share; but within the context of a mother/child relationship, such fears and worries are also felt in ways that are overwhelmingly private and personal. Also, I guess, when the mother/child bond is involved, it's just kind of natural for mothers to view the process by which they became mothers as something very personal and something that can't really be shared with anyone else. That's why, I suppose, just as I've always viewed most of the pregnancy, labor, and delivery aspects (both physical and emotional) of having my younger two children as something that can't ever be shared by anyone; I have similar feelings about the adoption that resulted in my "officially" becoming a mother. Apparently (and from what I seem to have discovered), it takes some process, one way or another, to become a mother. You just don't wake up one day, a mother. There's a road, a journey.

When you find yourself a mother, as opposed to never-having-been-a-mother, there are a whole lot of changes in your thinking, your being, your aims, and your motivations that need processing. You're also launched into some kind of growth process that's a part of your relationship with your child. Without a whole, big, "book" about the change from not being a mother to being a mother; the main point is that once you're a mother, life and you are changed in complicated and big ways. I suppose, because we mothers find ourselves as different as we often do once we have our children, that's one reason we look upon whatever road and journey we took, to get to where we are, as such a personal one.

I suppose I've generally always seen Finalization Day as "our day". Maybe I don't want to be so self-centered as to allow myself to even think of it as "my personal day". Still, 30 years later, I get that same feeling I've always gotten as I privately consider this day and its meaning to me. In a way, this day means very little to me. It was, as I said, a "rubber-stamp" kind of day. Rubber stamps and court seals don't necessarily turn a person into a mother, do they. Neither, for that matter, does delivering one's baby oneself. No, the road to becoming and being a real mother is longer and more winding than that.

Some party hats and balloons at the court that day may have been nice. In reality, though, my son, husband, and I had been living our lives as usual; had taken a few hours out of day-to-day life in order to go to court; and would return to life-as-usual as soon as our close family and friends had left as our get-together wound down. It's just kind of difficult to reconcile rubber-stamp days and celebrations and "official" declarations of motherhood. That's why, I guess, Finalization Day has always been something I think of but don't do anything about. It's always just kind of been my private thing - something I say nothing to most people about, and something I may only remind someone close about as it rolls around again each year.

The date isn't a secret in my circle of family and friends. I'm not sure how many of them remember it, though. Those who were close to us at the time knew how anticlimactic the day was. Nobody else was in court with us, so there wasn't the impact of observing some big event in court. My husband shared the day with me, of course, but he isn't a mother. As far as my son is concerned, he doesn't seem to give this particular date any thought. (I don't even know if he remembers it at this point.) My two younger kids weren't born at the time, so I think for them this is one of those "ancient-history" days that doesn't mean much.

One of my first "official" acts after "officially" becoming a mother was to steal away behind the bathroom door in order to have a moment of solitude and claim my right to think of this event as "mine" and as something very personal. In the 30-plus years since I've been a mother, and two more children later than the one who officially became my forever son (no more questions asked, no more worries about something going wrong); I've learned that while those things that mothers get to see as "just mine" (as well as those private, "just-mine", moments) are usually made up of what is most treasured and rare, there is something very enduring and special about those things we get to feel belong just to us.

Today is the anniversary of the rubber-stamp day that gave my husband and me the right to change our son's last name to his father's, and that gave me the right to give my son my father's name as his middle name. Today is a special day for me, and for the first time in 30 years I finally feel as if it's time I share it in a very public way.

To GW, My Son

GW, so glad you called me a half hour or so ago, the way you so often do. I've been thinking about you all day, the way I do each January 19 (whether or not I've ever talked about it or not). The anniversary I think of today may not be one you've ever been very tuned in to, but today's date is, indeed, a very special date for me.