About mid-1979, I made a monumental decision that would forever change my life. I decided to adopt a child. Having worked as an adoption case worker for the past 7 years, I knew there were hundreds of kids out there who needed forever families. There were even "catalogs" of kids needing homes with pictures and a little bit of biographical information about each child. After a lot of soul searching, I decided to apply for a school-age girl. I knew that healthy white infants were only placed with couples and although I would have loved to have a baby, I knew better.
My home study was completed (I had a home suitable for a child) and I made enough money to provide for one. My references were checked and finally my home study was approved for a "special needs child". "Special needs" is defined as any child over the age of 6, any sibling group of three or more, or any African American child, or biracial child. Now I could "flip through the catalog" and choose a child to submit my home study for. I had a rude awakening as far as trying to adopt as a single parent. It seems that most foster care workers would rather see one of "their" kids stay in a two parent foster home (where they could be removed at any time) rather than place them with a single parent "forever home". Time and time again my home study was sent out only to be returned marked "waiting for a two parent home". I wonder how many of those kids ever found their forever family? I began to loose hope. Shame on me. Each night in the shower (and I do some of my most fervernt prayers while in the shower) (some great singing too!) I would ask God to entrust a child to me - that I know I could be a good parent. I wasn't asking for a "perfect child" just a child who needed me as much as I needed that child. Then Mom died, and I sort of "forgot" about my home study. My life had changed so much.
My aunt had taken my grandmother to live with her while we were in Minnesota and now my grandmother wanted to move back home with me - have me quit my job and me take care of her. I just couldn't do it. She was my grandmother, but she was forgetful, often leaving pots on the stove until they melted and I was scared to death she would burn the farm down while I was at work. when my uncles decided that I would HAVE to take care of her if I remained in the house, I elected to leave.
In October, 1981, following a heart-breaking argument with my two uncles regarding ownership of the farm, I was faced with having to move - leave my home - sell my horses - leave everything that I held dear. I had just found a little cabin to move into when I got a call from my adoption worker, Anne. I'll never forget her words..."Jayne - I have a baby for you". How old? "Six weeks". Boy or girl? "Boy". Is he okay? "Well...he's got some problems." That was putting it mildly.
Two days later I was in Anne office to "meet" my son. She came in...and laid in my arms.....the ugliest, most pitiful little baby I had ever seen. Instead of the rush of mother love I expected to feel - all I felt was pity for him. He was scrawny, scrawny...arms and legs like toothpicks, hugh head, bulging eyes, no hair, and he was screaming.
Anne told me he had been born to a drug addicted mother. His prognosis was poor. He had already been offered to three COUPLES, but they refused him. I didn't blame them. The "specialists" said he would never sit up, crawl or walk and was severely retarded. They weren't sure he could hear or see. I ask Anne - if I don't take him - what will happen to him? "He'll be released to state custody and be placed at Greene Valley" (a residential program for severely handicapped individuals).
I held that baby and he turned toward my face and stopped crying. And I knew - he was mine. He was God's gift to me - how could I refuse to take a gift from God? I couldn't.
Next entry: The early years.
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