When I pulled up at the respite daycare for kids in crisis, I sat in the car for a moment to catch my breath. My heart was pounding. I gave myself a pep talk: This is going to be OK. You can do this. And if it feels awful, you can just say, ?This isn?t for me.? If this child throws himself kicking and screaming at you, you can say, ?I?ve totally changed my mind,? and just walk away.
But I badly wanted it to go well. I?d been longing to have a kid since I was in my twenties and married. My ex-husband hadn?t been very good at monogamy, so I left him at 30. By the time I hit 35, I started thinking single parenthood and adoption might be the way to go. I was raised in a two-parent family until my mother passed away when I was 11?I knew having one good parent wasn?t the same as having two, but it was still pretty good. I felt I could fulfill the needs of a child who needed to be adopted. And I was so ready to be a mother. I didn?t want to wait years for a newborn; I was ready, I thought, for anything. My caseworker and the child?s worker led me into a room, where I set eyes on Evan, the 26-month-old boy I might foster and then possibly adopt, for the first time. He had a chubby face?such fat cheeks?and he seemed to have a lazy eye. His hair was messy and very long. The clothes the daycare had found for him were too big, and his running shoes, a little too small. The unkemptness was so endearing. I was thinking: I can get you a hat and some clothes that fit. I can get you a hair...