After all our paperwork was finally signed, sealed and delivered, our agency told us we could expect a referral in about six months. After about four months, I found myself running to answer the phone, checking for voice messages the second I walked in the house, and listening for our case worker’s voice when I picked up the phone. I insulted more that one friend by starting my side of the conversation with, “Oh, it’s just you.” It was magic when we finally heard, “I have a baby for you to consider.”

Although we had been open to some special needs, the first baby that was referred to us had more problems than we thought we could handle. It was a heart breaking decision. Peter and I had compromised on what special needs we would accept, and this child was far outside of our agreement. In my mind, I knew we had to make the decision that was best for us as a family, but in my heart, I worried that we were giving into fear and that with enough love we could make it work. I worried that we would never get another referral or would have to wait for another six months. I was so tired of waiting, and so ready for this child. I am thankful that our agency stood by our decision and never pushed or even encouraged us to stretch to accept this child. The decision haunted me long after we were told that the baby had found a family that was up to the challenge.

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I was reviewing a recent study on sleep issues with kids adopted from China. Boy, did it bring back memories. Get any group of adoptive parents of children under five together, and I guarantee that the conversation will gravitate to sleep—or parental lack thereof. But I also talk with lots of parents who have biological children under the age of five, and they too complain about getting their kids to sleep and keeping them there. I have been there, done that, and have the scars to prove it.

One of our kids struggled with sleep and separation anxiety from the beginning. We tried every approach imaginable, including rocking him to sleep, letting him cry, sitting in his room until he fell asleep, sleeping on the floor of his room– to name just a few. What worked best was letting him share a room with a sibling. By the time that his brother wanted his own room, our sleep-troubled boy was more or less ready to sleep alone—some of the time. On most nights he would start out in his own bed, but he often moved in the middle of the night to be closer to us. We kept a sleeping bag in his room for that purpose. He seemed to go through stages: he would go weeks moving every night, then a few days sleeping in his own bed. He progressed over the years from settling down on the floor beside our bed, to the hall outside our bedroom, and finally to a room near our bedroom.

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My then sixth grade daughter was invited to a sleep-over party at a hotel with an indoor pool. The divorced dad who was flying in for the occasion was giving the party. My daughter and I were both new to middle school. I didn’t know the child or the parents; I couldn’t get good information about how many adults would stay the night and how the adult and kids rooms would be situated. I yearned for the familiarity of elementary school where I knew most of the families of my child’s friends, or knew someone who did. My daughter was not the most social of kids, so I didn’t take saying no lightly. In the end, I decided to compromise (another word for displeasing everyone equally): she could stay until 10:00, when the pool closed, but then I would pick her up.

I knew my daughter had a volatile nature and struggled with transitions under the best of circumstances, and leaving mid-party was close to the worst of circumstances. We talked before hand about how hard it might be to leave, and I clearly stated my expectations for her behavior-no begging, no renegotiating, and no tantrums. The evening, as you would imagine, went the way of other famous best-laid plans.

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I was talking with a couple the other day who was trying to decide whether to go through another round of IVF, this time using donor eggs, or move to adoption. It was an agonizing decision for them. And although this wasn’t the major sticking point, she kept coming back to “all the paper work involved with trying to adopt”. They hadn’t decided between domestic or international adoption, but they knew enough to know that all forms of adoption require paper pushing.

I started to go into my rah-rah mode: gets organized, focus on one step at a time…the whole long journeys begin with a single step routine. But all I said, was, “Yea, the paper chase stinks, but is more doable than you think right now.”

I feel for them and their decision, and wished I had the perfect answer. I know that her focus on the paperwork was probably not the whole picture, but was the easiest fear to talk about– the tip of her anxiety iceberg that she was willing to share.

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