My Prescott

My husband and I arrived at the courthouse in the late morning to witness a formal adoption event — a meeting with a judge to sign papers and transfer custody from the child’s caregiver to the family who’d chosen to adopt him. The atmosphere was friendly. Judge Brutinel was kindly. The two-year-old boy stood silent, holding the hands of his new parents and staring at the imposing wood-paneled courtroom. Within minutes he was legally moved from foster care to a permanent home in Prescott Valley.

The new parents, a gay couple in their thirties, looked eager and pleased. The two men seemed hardly able to keep from shouting, or singing, as the proceedings adjourned and we headed for the stairs that led away from ceremony into sunshine, tall trees, and a new life.

I had warned the eager parents that adoption wasn’t easy, that a two-year-old would come already imprinted with experiences of rejection, with times of confusing change, with attachments to other caregivers. He could be angry, ill or unable to control himself or learn. I’d cautioned against their decision, and the two men ignored my warnings.

That adoption went forward successfully, with parents who could manage any rejection and disobedience in a child they loved. They sometimes had doubts and anger, but I saw in them the strength and courage they needed to go the distance. Time has passed, and I see now an adult son who loves his parents. I’m still amazed.

My lack of confidence in the success of this adoption came from my own experience as an adoptive parent. My husband and I had adopted a baby boy, and I believed the child’s compliant nature was due to our wonderful parenting, but I had much to learn.

When our son turned two, we took him along to the adoption agency to meet his sister, an infant waiting for a new family. She was a cuddly baby with a lot of beautiful brown hair. We were thrilled with her—until the problems started. She couldn’t digest milk; she cried continually; and she didn’t seem to ever sleep. Because I was a teacher, given to searching for answers, I took her to doctors, read articles and consulted my friends. Nothing helped, except her father’s quiet singing as he paced the floor with her in his arms. I remember being brought to tears at the failures of my efforts.

Our baby girl grew into a terrible toddler who ate only waffles and refused to play nicely with others. Her temper never abated. She disliked games and toys and didn’t enjoy books. Her passion was our swimming pool. She could swim and play endlessly in the water. That’s where she laughed. That’s where she enjoyed friends. She seemed to belong there, to be a water-baby.

We investigated our baby’s heritage and learned that our daughter was partly Native American, and I believed her to be from a tribe near water. Maybe her love of animals came from her Native background too, because she could spend peaceful time with our spaniel and her puppies. Still, our investigations didn’t make living with her any easier. She hated school. She had a fierce temper. She bullied her brother. It was as if we were forcing this little girl to live in a place where she didn’t belong. She fought back, leaving us confused and discouraged.

I wish the adoption agency had been more helpful. They never told us of our children’s backgrounds. We were handed newborns as if the infants came as a blank page for us to imprint. I learned later that adopted children come with a genetic history that is far from blank. And my guess is that some of those youngsters have a deeper connection to their ancestral heritage than do others. Attention must be paid, I think, to the family history of adopted children.

Fortunately, adoption agencies do things differently now. Birth parents can remain in the child’s life, and the youngster has access to a background story, often in a scrapbook of pictures and notes. That seems to me a sensible solution to the trauma of a new placement. The small, silent boy in that Prescott courtroom received help to meet his birth mother and a brother as he was growing up. He acquired a sense of identity that I think made him feel complete.

My daughter left us early to be on her own. With my help she located her birth family, and now — with information and a new understanding — she has returned to my life. In fact, she’s become an amazing woman. Her insights are uncanny. I’m pleased that our connection is solid. As you might have guessed, she lives in a place with animals nearby and a river outside her door.

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