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After our first baby was born in March, 1966, I created a “memory box,” a simple cardboard box that would stand the test of time. During the next seven years, the arrival of three baby brothers for our daughter added to its weight. Treasures within included hospital bands that clamped around my wrist recording the date, time, baby’s weight and name of the doctor for each birth. Beside them, and equally significant, was a folder containing documents related to our prospective adoption of an older child. In our minds, our family would then be complete.
Our application involved social workers, psychologists, meetings, meetings and more meetings. Helen, a Children’s Aid Society social worker, initially came to our home, getting acquainted while exploring pertinent issues. Our preferences – age, ethnicity, religion, mental capacity and health issues – were addressed.
Biweekly meetings with a psychologist, social worker and other prospective adoptive parents followed. Finally, in the fall of 1974, Helen came to present our prospective daughter to us verbally. It was now late winter and snowing outside. The silent whiteness of the neighbourhood echoed the hush in our living room.
Helen began: She is four, almost five, bright, happy, pretty with brown eyes. Her natural mother is Ojibwa and her father a Canadian of Irish ancestry. She has lived with her loving foster family for the past year and a half. Helen’s words were music to my ears. Later, my husband and I talked into the night.
I was the first to meet her. That particular morning, I was nervous. This child seemed like a prospective employer. What would I say to her, what would she think of me?
She and Helen sat opposite me in a restaurant. During initial greetings, this four-year-old, in a check dress with a large white collar, looked at me furtively. After chitchatting, she downed her chocolate milk, slid from her seat, allowing her black patent shoes to hit the floor. She wandered close by. Soon it was time to go home. Later, during our family dinner, I imparted my news. Questions followed. A pensive, expectant atmosphere lingered in the kitchen.
Activity soon escalated when home visits began including half days, full days and an overnight. Things shifted and changed without and within us all. Her foster mother hovered in the shadows of my mind. I had encountered her only through words written on five lined pages headed: Assessment of Older Children 3-12 years old. She had filled in the spaces under subheadings: eating, sleeping, toilet, bath, clothes, play, toys, activities, religion, school, money, time and behaviour. She had done so meticulously and with obvious devotion.
May 28, 1975, was the move-in date. The trial period began on a beautiful spring day. She arrived with Helen mid-morning. The children were at school. Together, we unpacked bags and filled dresser drawers as she chattered away. Suddenly, she gave me cause to pause abruptly. With eyes fixed on me, she asked, “Is my foster mummy still crying?” I catch my breath. Her question repeated itself again and again. Helen’s subsequent requests for the girl to have one last visit with her foster mother were rejected. My heart ached as I pondered the task ahead.
Sunday nights were family nights. After fun and games, we shared our responses to a question we had chosen together. When her turn came, she held up an 11x14 page. No matter how positive or different the question, weekly we stared incredulously at a round face with large sad eyes drawn in crayon. I longed for the day it would not be so.
Sept. 20, 1976, was the official culmination of the adoption process. As a family, we set out expectantly that morning. Ceremony completed, an envelope was presented to me. I opened it carefully, removing the beige vellum notepaper within. The letterhead bearing an embossed seal caught my eye. Then the address in red: Judges Chambers, Court House, University Avenue, Toronto. Judge E.F. Wren’s flourishing handwriting followed in deep blue ink: “On behalf of the community and administration of justice, may I commend you on this act of generosity. May she together with you and your other children grow in love, wisdom and good health.” I’m deeply moved.
That day, we were all family. I longed for some emotional response from her. She seemed oblivious to the day’s significance.
Upon arriving home later, she asked, “Can I go call on Carolyn?” Carolyn, who lived directly across the street, had become her closest friend, her home like a second home. She was barely out the door when the phone rang. I picked it up. Carolyn’s mother in an animated voice gushed out the words: “Congratulations. I didn’t know today was the day the adoption papers were signed.”
“How did you find out?” I asked.
“Oh, she ran in here breathless. She could hardly contain herself from blurting out her news: ‘Do you know I’m going to live with my mummy and daddy forever and ever?’”
I’m speechless. I can hardly hold back tears. All I can say is, “Thank you, I’m so happy you called.”
I hung up, sat slightly stunned, and let the tears flow. I remained immobile for some time, allowing the familiar ache of longing to transform itself into quiet joy. Then I got up and dialled my husband’s number.
Gobnait McAnoy lives in Toronto.
Editor's note: The move-in date was May 28, 1975. Incorrect information appeared in the original version of this story.