The Adoption

When I was six my family signed up to adopt a child. Seven years we waited, waited, and waited. No longer was I a young only child, but thirteen, when we were informed of the news.

My mom had just come home from work when she recieved the phone call.

"Would you like a baby born Monday?"

"Born last Monday?"

"Yes, four days old, weighing 6 pounds 12 ounces."

"I will have to talk to my husband!"

"If so can you pick him up tommorrow and stop by our office to sign some paperwork?"

My mother told my father and the panic set in. I heard them talking so I knew why the househould had been thrown into chaos. We all ran around like chickens with our heads cut off preparing for our new arrival.

That night we walked through the baby aisle of Raleys for the first time. It all came together; a borrowed crib from next door, a donated car seat, a quick stop at K-mart for diapers.

In the morning my father was the first one in the car, my mother followed and I, dragged by the bumper, almost didn't make it in the car. The excitement rang, it was the ninth inning in the whole adoption business, and we were winning; we had the newborn baby in our grip and we were not letting go.

The hospital was not crowded, it was calm in Reno, there was no one at the Washoe Medical Center that day.

There he was, the newborn, in the white nursery, he looked like a old man. He was wrinkled like a prune, a cute dried plum. Little did I know that this cute plum would develop into the biggest two year old terror.

My mother held him tightly, feeding him in a rocking chair with a small bottle. I felt sorry for his real mother having to give him up.

On the way home from the hospital I fell asleep with my head rested on his car seat.

In the week that followed my new brother developed an extreme case of colic. All newborn babies sleep for hours. Ha! My little brother screamed, ranted, raved, and lifted the roof off.

Trying to tackle the problem we checked out every book in the library. The bottom line is 'C'est La Vie,' for the first three months.

After a week, eyes bloodshot and with sacs under them, I decided to spend my evenings behind a closed, locked bedroom door with headphones on.

Three months of age was going to be the perfect age to become bossom buddies with my brother.

Every child has a first birthday. For me, my brothers first birthday was better than Christmas. While he sat and watched, I examined every single toy unwrapped by me. More pictures for the picture album.

Time flies by with great leaps. I had never experienced the so-called "terrible two's," I had only heard the term. My brother was so advanced he decided to jump into the terrible two's early. It was then I discovered he was into POWER-a little Mussolini, terrorizing our household.

I, without realizing the reprecussions, taught my little brother the two forbidden words; MINE and NO!

By his second birthday he could open all his own presents. Independence reared its ugly head. I felt left out! I could only play with his toys when he allowed it. This led me into his second year and this brother biz got better.

There was a communication link bewtween us now. We were well on the way to the hero worship I wanted so badly. I had become the great "Mamie" and could do no wrong in my little brother's eyes. I had managed throughout these two years to teach my brother the fine art of football tackling, wrestling, and riding on my shoulders.

Every morning my little brother demanded a goodbye hug and a kiss as I departed to "High Cool." These moments were intertwined with time outs for your basic spitting, biting, kicking, hitting and...you get my drift.

He had progressed from the terrible twos to testing your limits. Until finally we saw the last shining glimpses of his terrible twos.

He was approaching his third birthday. He was already talking about being five, going to Kindergarten, and being like his older brother. He wanted to be with me always; at friends houses, parties, dances, and everywhere. Am I ready for this tag along stage? If I made it this far already, you bet!

I am now well into my adult years with two young children of my own. I found this tidbit of writing deep within a dusty box out in the garage. I wanted to share how I felt as a thirteen year old experiencing the arrival of an adopted baby at our home.

My brother has moved on to his own life as I am wrapped tightly in mine, but I would like to dedicate this small hub to the memory of him as an adopted newborn.

I hope that the reader is able to enjoy my young adult ramblings and maybe get something out of the memory of the experience.

To everyone who is experiencing adoption in any way, I would like to wish you luck and love and Happy Holidays.