smiling.
A son. A baby named Brian. Bob and I had chosen the names years before. Elizabeth Ann, for my grandmother and mother, if we had a girl. Brian William for my Uncle Bernie and Bob’s father, if we had a boy.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. With no morning sickness and no labor pains, I was becoming a mother! I’d paid the price in the past few years with all of that. I’d done the work. And the prize was now in sight.
Of course, we had absolutely nothing ready for the nursery. Not even a crib or diapers. My mind began to spin as a myriad of thoughts raced through my head: the Hawaiian barbecue and all its preparations just two days away, the young couple who’d turned away a newborn baby because he had red hair, all my miscarriages and dreams. They had brought me to this moment.
“Of course, we’re interested!” I exclaimed.
Karen laughed. “Nicholas is in foster care. You and Bob will need to drive to Eugene to see him. A caseworker will meet you tomorrow afternoon at one.”
I made scratchy notes on a pad, willing myself to take a deep breath. Breathe, baby, I told myself. My heart raced and my chest pounded as I tried to control my feelings.
I felt a rush of happiness as I replaced the telephone receiver. First I called Bob, then my mom, and finally, I made a mad dash to Laura’s house to tell her the incredible news.
It was a hot afternoon as I hurried across the thick, green lawn and made my way to the back door. As friendly neighbors often do, Laura and I sometimes joked about cutting a hole in the hedge our two properties shared. It would’ve been greatly appreciated at a time like this.
I called out to Laura.
“I’m downstairs!” she yelled back.
I descended the steps into the cool basement below. Laura was sorting remnants of baby items, which hadn’t sold at her recent sale. I told her about the baby, well, screamed it in fact, and we stood there hugging each other. Laughing and crying. Then Laura and I began the busy task of piling up things I’d need. An assortment of clothes. Baby bottles. Even a changing table. And the crib! It was still leaning up against the wall at the bottom of the staircase, just waiting for Brian.
Chapter 7
Friday morning Bob and I drove to Eugene, Oregon, a two hour trip south on Interstate 5. I was nervous and excited at the same time. It was a beautiful day. A day when dreams came true, I told myself.
All along our drive, Bob and I kept reassuring ourselves there could be nothing about this infant that would prevent us from taking him home. He was healthy. That was most important. It didn’t matter to us the color of his hair or anything else about him. This was the beginning of something wonderful. Brian William Perkel. Our son.
Bob and I were giddy as we sang and laughed and questioned what our baby would look like.
“But what if he has red hair!” I asked. We were attacked by another gale of laughter.
We checked into the Pepper Tree Motel and went to a nearby restaurant for lunch. Bob had always been cool and level-headed. I’d never seen his feathers get ruffled. He ordered a large burger and greasy fries, and I decided on a small green salad from which I ate two slices of cucumber and a wedge of tomato. The food stuck in my throat as it always did when I got nervous. My stomach rolled. I just couldn’t eat.
How would I feel when I first saw my baby and took him into my arms? How could anyone expect me to be calm at a time like this? Finally, after all the pain and disappointments, I was hours away from becoming a mother.
At one o’clock sharp we entered the state Human Resources Office in Eugene. We were told to sit in the nearby waiting room until the social worker and baby arrived. My nervousness had evaporated by this time, and in its place was pure joy. I looked at the lime green walls and bins of children’s toys in the playroom. The yellow child-size table and chairs on which were stacks of puzzles and dolls. I wanted to remember this room forever. Memorize it all, for this was how and where it all began. This was the beginning of life as we would know it. Parents, Bob and I.
And then they brought him to us, and I held him in my arms. I’d never forget how he smelled or how he looked. His chunky little legs. His tiny yellow and white checked sunsuit. I felt as though I already knew him and he already knew me. He and I shared a bond from the beginning. This baby was mine. And he was perfect.
Bob and I were told to take “Nicholas” to our motel room so we could have some private time together. They would let us do that? Take this baby from them when he wasn’t yet ours? With all the paperwork they had on Bob and me, I guessed they felt confident we couldn’t run off with him. We scheduled to return to the office at three-thirty that afternoon with our decision to proceed with the adoption or not. Neither Bob, nor I could imagine telling them “no”.
We laid Brian between us in the new car seat we’d purchased the night before, and buckled him securely in place. Bob drove slowly back to our motel, careful with our precious cargo.
Standing in the doorway to our motel room, I held our baby as Bob unlocked the door. We entered the cool, quiet interior about to squeal with happiness.
With tender arms, I laid Brian on the brown striped bedspread of the double bed so we could finally get our first good look at him. His beautiful blue eyes. Tiny hands and feet. Only six weeks old.
As the afternoon sun streaked across the room, I stretched out on the bed alongside Brian gathering him in my arms, pressing him against me. He gurgled with warmth and pleasure as his small sweet-smelling body wiggled against my breast. Brian looked up at me and blew a bubble against my chin, and I immediately fell in love. We snuggled, my heart feeling as though it would burst.
There was a change of clothes in his tote bag, a few baby toys, and a clean diaper. Cloth. It wasn’t long before Bob and I realized Brian needed his diaper changed. But I was only familiar with the ones that came out of a box. Land fills. Expense. These thoughts had come to mind briefly; however, I was all for convenience and ease. Like most young mothers, I knew nothing about folding and pinning cloth diapers!
The evening before, Bob and I had made the trip to the grocery store with a lengthy list of must-haves. We purchased cases of baby formula, boxes of Pampers, a bathing tub, shampoo, baby wash, diaper rash ointment, and baby powder. Things he would need right away. The rest we would get later. I imagined my parents were on a similar spree.
Bob and I now stood above this squalling baby, trying to figure out how this procedure went. Fold a cloth diaper. Which way? Safety pin. How many? What to do with the wide gaps around his legs? More safety pins. Not too tight. Careful, don’t stab him, all the while he was crying and we were giggling. It was ridiculous, this diaper changing business. If the social worker or foster mom noticed what a botched-up job I’d done, Bob and I would be driving back to Portland without our baby! How could they help but notice? Who in their right mind changed a diaper using five safety pins to pin it shut? A little duck tape would have been helpful, too. We could only hope and pray no one would hold it against us.
But the social worker laughed when we told her what we’d done. “You’ll learn,” she said.
Relieved, Bob and I signed the papers to proceed with the adoption. We received a brief history on Brian’s birth mother. She was a nurse at a hospital in Roseberg, Oregon. She was ill with kidney disease and had not received any prenatal care until she was nearly ready to deliver. She was separated from her husband and
