To Sing Frogs Chapter 3b

Having grown up in Utah, I was amazed at the high-end farming in Michigan with articulating tractors that could pull multiple rigs at 50 miles per hour though fields that seemed never-ending. These farmers are harvesting cucumbers used for pickles.

Mindy’s Texas-based agency was happy to add us to their list of clients after we had read and agreed to the terms of their contract. A line in the document said something about them hiring another agency to do the training and home studies, whatever that meant. The biggest worry was the estimated cost of this adoption. I wasn’t going to let Amy think I was concerned. She was willing to be patient with thinking “I told you so” (though of course my wife would never say such a thing). The financial topic was left un-discussed. That wasn’t a brilliant move on my end because once we signed the contract we were on the hook to the tune of thirty grand whether we could afford it or not.

Within days Amy had been contacted by Adoption Associates Adoption Agency, a nonprofit organization with an office in Michigan. Perhaps it’s splitting hairs to call them non-profit at 30k for an adoption. To be honest, their take would only be a portion. Still, they fell within the legal description of a “non-profit organization,” like so many others that cause any reasonable person to pause and raise a skeptical eyebrow.

Adoption Associates had been contracted by Little Miracles to do our training and home studies. I forget what Little Miracles (another non-profit) was doing for their take.

Unnecessary levels in multilayered tiers of anything are usually in place simply to allow the bottom party to be ravished. In the end, other participants are left to split the spoils. Our place in the financial structure was obvious to me. I didn’t bother mentioning it to my wife.

Amy didn’t delay. Less than a week later we were making the forty-five minute drive to the adoption agency in Lansing.

“How long do you think it will take before we get our little girl?” Amy asked me.

“You said they told you six months to a year—closer to a year.”

“I know. How long do you think it will take?”

Does it matter what I think? “Hmmm, six months to a year. Probably closer to a year.” I looked out over the fertile emerald farmlands of Central Michigan. Who knew how long, really? Quantum physics says you can know the location of something or its velocity but not both. The agency would be the best at approximating the two. Who was I to argue?

“You’re just being mean,” Amy replied.

Right. Amy didn’t want me to guess about when we would get our daughter. She wanted to talk. I had to keep reminding myself that most of her conversation was tied to kids. “Intelligent conversation” happened with me, long after my own day had provided too much of it. Once, after a slew of one-word answers to her inquiries, Amy told me that if she didn’t get some adult conversation quick, she was going to lose her mind. After my response she scowled like a judge staring down a felon. Then she slugged me in the bicep. Hard. I guess she didn’t really want “adult” conversation either. “Sorry. I don’t know. I guess there are a lot of variables. It’ll depend on where we end up adopting from… how old the child is… I don’t know.”

“Where do you think she is?”

She wants to talk, John! Don’t go there! “I don’t know, maybe some country with a ‘stan’ in its name. Maybe Russia. Where do you think she is?”

I wasn’t listening much as my wife thought out loud, imagining all of the details about a little girl who, sadly, still belonged to no one. I was able to retreat back to single word responses for the remainder of the drive.

The business complex was unassuming. It made me wonder if it had been used for residential apartments in a former life. The office, with short-plain carpet, warehouse-store chairs, and small-laminate-covered tables in meeting rooms was generic. Had we not already known, it would have been difficult to divine whether the space was leased by a title company or an adoption agency.

The front counter was the exception. One end was stacked with clear-plastic brochure holders containing pamphlets. International Adoption. Adopting the Older Child. Forever Families. Colorblind, a Guide to Interracial Adoption. Special Needs Adoption. So You Want to Adopt, Where to Start. Then there was a flyer-box filled with color copies of available children in several foreign countries.

I was immediately uncomfortable. The presentation reminded me of used cars on a lot, polished, tweaked, and displayed in their best light. There they sat, ready and waiting for another chance at life.