Read Online What I Thought I Knew: A Memoir by Alice Eve Cohen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alice Eve Cohen
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tour. The side door was originally the entrance for pregnant women and girls, hidden from view to protect them from public shame. The grand front entrance was for the adoptive parents. These days, everybody—birth mothers and adoptive parents—enters through the front door; the side door is used for UPS deliveries.
Because I am on bed rest, Sasha the social worker comes to our apartment and gives us the lay of the land. “There are open adoptions, where the birth mother maintains a relationship with the child and the adopting parents. And closed adoptions, which are confidential, with no continuing relationship between birth mother and child. If the baby is healthy, there will be many potential adoptive parents. If the baby is sick or has significant special needs, there is a much smaller pool of potential adoptive families. Many of the parents who adopt special needs children are devout Christians who dedicate their lives to raising sick and disabled children in group homes.
“Since you haven’t yet decided whether you want to give up the baby, right after the baby is born, we can arrange to have it placed with foster parents for up to a month while you decide.”
Michael sits in on the session. “I’m trying to keep this family together,” is all he says.
Sasha looks at Michael. “Legally . . .” she says, then pauses and looks at me. “Legally, the biological father has to give his approval before a baby can be placed with an adoptive family.”
Michael looks at me, actively not giving his approval.
I think adoption is the right path. Michael disagrees, but our relationship is changing so rapidly, I can’t predict what will happen. I persevere.
My sisters think this is a nutty idea. So do my friends. In this liberal, Upper West Side community, where abortion is accepted as a woman’s inalienable right, giving up a baby for adoption is inconceivable. There are many adopted children at Julia’s school, from all over the world, but it’s a one-way option, ethically. Adopted children are accepted and valued, their parents perceived as heroic. Where I live, I’d be more harshly judged for giving up my baby for adoption than for having an abortion.
As an adoptive mother I want to fight for the moral defensibility of giving a child up for adoption. I want to start by correcting the distorted and misleading language of adoption. Giving up a baby sounds like abandoning it, throwing it away. But it’s a gift. I want to give , not give up this baby, to a childless couple who will welcome her with the unambivalent devotion that eludes me.
“That’s euphemistic and self-serving,” says Michael.
“How can you say that when Julia’s adopted?”
But what would it mean to Julia, as an adopted child, if her mother gave up her little sister for adoption. Would it open up an early wound, make her fear that I might give her away to someone else? And Michael, who is ready to be this baby’s father, has never given me away or given me up while I’ve been on bed rest, hasn’t rejected me while I’ve been not-so-quietly losing my mind, has been patiently and lovingly taking care of Julia, proving what a remarkable stepfather he is to her and what a wonderful father he would be to this baby.
Michael brings me a bottle of emerald green Gatorade. He sits on the edge of the bed while I prop myself on my elbow to take a few swigs.
“My mother says she’ll adopt the baby,” says Michael.
“That won’t work.”
“Obviously.”
“I can’t believe you told her we were considering adoption.”
“ We aren’t considering it. You are.”
“What else did your mother say?”
“She told me to be patient. She’s says your emotions are out of whack because of your pregnancy hormones, and you’ll snap out of it.”
I have to get the fall issue of Play by Play to the printer. It’s not easy editing from my futon office, left cheek mashed into my pillow, facing the telephone and laptop on
Because I am on bed rest, Sasha the social worker comes to our apartment and gives us the lay of the land. “There are open adoptions, where the birth mother maintains a relationship with the child and the adopting parents. And closed adoptions, which are confidential, with no continuing relationship between birth mother and child. If the baby is healthy, there will be many potential adoptive parents. If the baby is sick or has significant special needs, there is a much smaller pool of potential adoptive families. Many of the parents who adopt special needs children are devout Christians who dedicate their lives to raising sick and disabled children in group homes.
“Since you haven’t yet decided whether you want to give up the baby, right after the baby is born, we can arrange to have it placed with foster parents for up to a month while you decide.”
Michael sits in on the session. “I’m trying to keep this family together,” is all he says.
Sasha looks at Michael. “Legally . . .” she says, then pauses and looks at me. “Legally, the biological father has to give his approval before a baby can be placed with an adoptive family.”
Michael looks at me, actively not giving his approval.
I think adoption is the right path. Michael disagrees, but our relationship is changing so rapidly, I can’t predict what will happen. I persevere.
My sisters think this is a nutty idea. So do my friends. In this liberal, Upper West Side community, where abortion is accepted as a woman’s inalienable right, giving up a baby for adoption is inconceivable. There are many adopted children at Julia’s school, from all over the world, but it’s a one-way option, ethically. Adopted children are accepted and valued, their parents perceived as heroic. Where I live, I’d be more harshly judged for giving up my baby for adoption than for having an abortion.
As an adoptive mother I want to fight for the moral defensibility of giving a child up for adoption. I want to start by correcting the distorted and misleading language of adoption. Giving up a baby sounds like abandoning it, throwing it away. But it’s a gift. I want to give , not give up this baby, to a childless couple who will welcome her with the unambivalent devotion that eludes me.
“That’s euphemistic and self-serving,” says Michael.
“How can you say that when Julia’s adopted?”
But what would it mean to Julia, as an adopted child, if her mother gave up her little sister for adoption. Would it open up an early wound, make her fear that I might give her away to someone else? And Michael, who is ready to be this baby’s father, has never given me away or given me up while I’ve been on bed rest, hasn’t rejected me while I’ve been not-so-quietly losing my mind, has been patiently and lovingly taking care of Julia, proving what a remarkable stepfather he is to her and what a wonderful father he would be to this baby.
Michael brings me a bottle of emerald green Gatorade. He sits on the edge of the bed while I prop myself on my elbow to take a few swigs.
“My mother says she’ll adopt the baby,” says Michael.
“That won’t work.”
“Obviously.”
“I can’t believe you told her we were considering adoption.”
“ We aren’t considering it. You are.”
“What else did your mother say?”
“She told me to be patient. She’s says your emotions are out of whack because of your pregnancy hormones, and you’ll snap out of it.”
I have to get the fall issue of Play by Play to the printer. It’s not easy editing from my futon office, left cheek mashed into my pillow, facing the telephone and laptop on
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