Our 1880s house in Henderson Michigan about the time of our Russian adoptions.

Chapter 2

 

Banished to Far Away Lands

 

 

 

In 2003, Amy decided it was time to raise the sails again. I enthusiastically lifted anchor. It was time to go and find our first princess.

Like any expectant father I had looked forward to my first son. Now I was giddy about getting a daughter. It had been a long wait.

Adoption agencies are like any other business. There are good ones, bad ones, and in-between ones. The agency we used to adopt Jack had Satan for one of its local directors, so we concluded it might be prudent to find a different means of adding to our family. Someone once said: “Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.” When the devil you know is the actual Prince of Darkness, you have nothing to lose by drawing another card.

Knowing we would go a different route than we had gone before, we first went to the state of Michigan. They sent out a social worker to meet with us in our home. In all honesty, I can’t remember her name but I could never forget her. I didn’t expect an NFL cheerleader or a news anchor personality, so I wasn’t surprised when the social worker didn’t fit those bills. But it was as if the woman was trying to show her contempt for society by refusing to conform to even the most basic of dress or grooming standards. She wore her authority on her un-pressed shirt sleeve and it quickly became apparent that she knew she controlled something that we wanted. Submission to her would be a requirement to building our family through social services. The real problem was a battle of wills. The social worker was used to being in control. So was I.

“So, Mr. and Mrs. Simmons, you want to add to your family. That’s good. I’m here to help you to understand your options.”

“We want to adopt a girl,” I clarified.

“But you already have four children of your own.”

“We have four boys.”

“I see. So now you want a girl.”

Did I stutter? I didn’t speak the words audibly even though the sentence rang in my head. Initially, even if someone is an idiot you try not to be too sarcastic. The idea can’t be prevented from racing through a mind like mine. Fortunately, this was one of the times when I was able to filter the thought before it blasted out of my mouth. That screening didn’t happen without effort. I was chewing the inside of my cheek and squinting when Amy noticed my hesitation.

“Yes,” my wife nodded. “We’ve wanted daughters ever since we got married. We wanted boys and girls. We love the boys to death and we are so excited to get a little girl!”

“You’ll need to do foster care before you adopt.”

I glared back. “We want to promise a little girl that she will be in our family forever. We want her to know that when she moves here, that this is her home and we are her forever family. If she is good, we are her family. If she’s bad, we are still her family. If there are financial difficulties, she remains in our family. Even if the State would prefer to make a change, we are the ones in control and we will still be her family. We want our little girl to know that for better or worse, we have made a commitment to her and we will stick by it. We can’t make such a promise from a foster parent position.”

The social worker looked at me without answering.

Society clearly understands that building a family biologically is a matter of choice and private situations built on personal desires and dreams of parents. What amazes me is a truth so self-evident tends to go foggy when the public considers those who—for whatever reason—choose to build their families through the process of adoption.

At that point, for no apparent reason, it suddenly becomes acceptable for private choices and personal dreams to be dissected by outsiders. Adopting parents are measured against standards of political correctness, number of parents, marital status, racism, philanthropy, foreign policy, and every other buzzword people use to pass unworthy and condescending judgment on their neighbors. Then, if the subjects pass the scrutiny and still wish to adopt domestically, it can only happen by bowing with complete subjection to tin gods employed by the government.

In my mind, the social worker was there to help us build a family according to our personal desires, while finding a permanent home for a child. In her mind, she was there to do a job. This woman’s employment had nothing to do with our dream, or even what was necessarily best for a child. The state of Michigan, like so many others, had a shortage of foster parents. The social worker was on a mission to get more—at all costs.

She finally spoke. “There is an overabundance of people who want to adopt babies. There is also a severe shortage of foster parents in the state at this time.”

“Same as any other state at any other time.” I rolled my eyes to emphasize the mocking of her words, issued as if they were news. “Ever wonder why that might be?”