our chances. Adoptions were not as prevalent as they had been in the 1940s, ’50s, and ’60s. It was now late in 1979 and the stigma for unmarried mothers had greatly diminished. More young women were keeping their babies, so not as many infants were available. And we wanted a newborn. Having had three miscarriages, I felt as though Bob and I had been cheated out of a lot. We wanted it all — to lose precious sleep at night, to change smelly diapers, to see our son or daughter take his first step, and to hear his first words spoken.
Bob and I remained hopeful. We made countless phone calls and were told by agencies we may have to wait up to two years for a baby. We filled out the necessary papers, sat through interviews, and underwent physical exams. Then we dug our heels in and prepared for the long wait. My mom was thrilled, my father not so much. Bringing in another person’s child to the family, “someone else’s mistake”, as he put it, and raising him as our own, well ... he wasn’t sold on the idea.
In January of 1980 there was a big ice storm in Portland, Oregon. Bob and I had an appointment with a case worker at the Boys and Girls Aid Society, which we canceled as driving across town was too dangerous. I changed the appointment for later that month when we met with Darren Warren, a social worker assigned to the Placement Department.
During the interview Darren told us of an instance when a couple came to him, desperate to have a child. They had filled out the paperwork, had their medical exams, and home studies, all the time lamenting how badly they yearned for a child. When finally Darren called them to say there was, indeed, a baby available, they cried with happiness. However, when they saw the newborn, the prospective parents were consumed with disappointment. The baby had red hair!
“‘No one in our family has red hair!’ they told me. ‘This will never work.’ Her husband readily agreed.”
“So what happened?” I asked Darren, mesmerized by his story. “Did they get another baby?”
“Oh, yes,” he responded. “One with blonde hair, and they were thrilled.”
There remained one drawback in this process of adoption. If and when an agency decided to do a home study on Bob and me, we would have to remove our names from all other agency lists.
Children’s Services Division was that agency. Karen Davis came to our house. She looked at our home and examined it for cleanliness, safety, and backyard space to play. She asked to see what would be the baby’s nursery, etc. I was nervous as she made her search; I hoped we’d pass. We checked out clean. There didn’t seem to be any problems.
After the home study, Karen instructed me to routinely telephone her office for any placement news. Adoptions had slowed up considerably, she admitted. She didn’t expect a baby to become available anytime soon, but we should remain in touch just the same.
Chapter 4
During the summer of 1980 Bob and I spent most of our time working in the yard: trimming, cutting, weeding, and replanting. We’d lived in our home for nearly two years now, and there was still so much to do. Changes we wanted to make ... inside and outside of our house. It was good to have projects.
The summer wore on. One afternoon we received a phone call from Bob’s sister, Arlene. She and her husband were visiting their daughter in Florida. Arlene was frantic. Her teenage son had been in an accident. An elderly driver had hit Mike on his bike as he crossed an intersection. Could we go to the hospital? she asked. Could Mike stay with us for a few days until she and Dave returned home?
So Mike lived with us for a little while. It was a look into our future, I thought. I took him to the dentist, shopping, played “mom” to him until his own mom and dad got back. It wasn’t really a look into our future, I later realized. It was much too normal for that.
I staged the nursery with a bentwood rocker, a small table, and a lamp. At least I felt like I was doing something to move the process of adoption along. Keep planning. Keep setting things up. Do something! Two years was a long time to wait.
Chapter 5
I was one who counted days. I could have done it for a living. As a child I counted the days until we left for summer vacation on the Oregon coast or a day of shopping and lunch with my mom. Later, I counted the days until Bob and I got married. Until the closing of our house. I even found myself counting the days to things I dreaded. Visits to the dentist. Days before a term paper was due. It was just something I did. It showed the passage of time. Now, however, counting the days wasn’t realistic as no one knew how many we’d have to wait. So, I did the next best thing. I planned a dinner party.
I loved to entertain and to do so on a large scale, it was best to plan outdoor parties during the summers. Though we had nearly twenty-six hundred square feet of house, the footage was dispersed on three different floors. The rooms were small, though many. There wasn’t a lot of space in any one room to accommodate many guests.
With the yard now a perfect oasis, I decided on a barbecue with a Hawaiian theme for the first weekend in August. Hawaii had always held a special place in our hearts; it was where Bob and I spent our honeymoon and thought about retiring one day.
I invited eighteen of our closest friends and told them to wear Hawaiian garb. We would provide the leis, food, and drinks. With a tropical and lengthy menu, I’d be in the kitchen for days. It was what I loved to do.
Of course, I invited our neighbors Laura and David. Days before, they’d had a huge garage sale. Bob and I had put in hours to help them. Laura was selling all of Kari’s baby things — toys, crib, changing table, high chair, baby bottles, and piles and piles of baby clothes. I wanted to purchase the entire load; however, I didn’t even know if we’d use them. What if a baby couldn’t be placed with us? Karen had made no guarantees. And to have a house filled with baby things we couldn’t use would only make matters worse. Though it pained me, I thought better not to buy anything until Bob and I received the go-ahead sign.
The week of the barbecue arrived and I was excited at the prospect of being with our friends — of cooking up a storm. I’d already done most of my grocery shopping as well as buying Hawaiian decorations from a local party store.
The Monday prior I’d telephoned CSD and spoke to our caseworker. Karen informed me to call again in three to four months. I promised I would. Now I delved into party planning. I spent most of my time in the kitchen, our dog Pumin staying close beside me in case I dropped any morsel on the floor. The menu included: Polynesian Shrimp Dip. Tahitian Fruit Cups. Teriyaki Chicken with Mandarin-Parsley Rice and Almond Green Beans. Dessert would be simple — ice cream sundaes. I was so happy, in my element, but that party never materialized.
Thursday morning as I sat browsing through a party book trying to decide if I should make place cards or not, the telephone rang. Punim ran circles around my feet, wagging her tail as I made my way to answer it. It was Karen Davis.
Chapter 6
“Are you sitting down, Harriet?” she asked.
“Yes,” I responded. I really wasn’t sitting, but I didn’t see what difference it would make. Why was she calling me? Hadn’t I just spoken to her days before?
“I just got word there’s a six-week-old baby in perfect health, who needs a home. Are you interested?”
Maybe I did need a chair, I suddenly thought. My legs grew weak and shaky. A baby.
“A boy or a girl?” It didn’t make a difference.
“A
