Dylan Stafford

We mailed in a check to our adoption agency yesterday. Does this mean we are pregnant?

When Marisa got pregnant with Jackson, our first child, there were the definite, biological markers to celebrate: being pregnant, first trimester, second-, third-, and his healthy, safe birth. What are the markers when we adopt? When is it appropriate to celebrate, to feel accomplishment?

After losing our whole stack of adoption paperwork four weeks ago–we still don’t know if we shredded or recycled or just plain lost our paperwork–we started over and began filling out all the forms a second time: doctors’ physicals, credit checks, birth and marriage certificates, driving records, agreements about discipline, financial information, the kitchen sink. I tell people that there are more forms to adopt than to get a mortgage. We re-completed forms, made copies and put them all in an overnight envelope along with a non-refundable check.

In adoption-ease, I think that means we are pregnant!

This Saturday, we’ll spend eight hours in a “Pre-Adoption Workshop” which I’ve been jokingly referring to as a “How to be a Parent” class. It’s going to be held over at USC, so we’ve arranged all day babysitting for Jackson, I’ve moved around my Saturday work obligations, and we’ll check-off another box on our long list of pre-adoption qualification.

Yesterday, driving home, I called both my cousin Joel and my Aggie amigo Jeff. Joel and Jeff are my two closest role-models about adoption. Joel’s two sons are both adopted through Holy Family Services, the same adoption agency we are using. Jeff went the international route and both of his kids were adopted from Russia.

“Jeffy, you got a minute?” I asked, calling from my California time-zone-blue-tooth-enabled commute home down the 405.

“Yeah man. Just walking in the door here. Had to work late getting out a proposal bid,” Jeff replied, walking into his home in north Dallas.

“Well, I won’t take too long, I just wanted to tell you that Marisa and I mailed in our adoption check today. Non-refundable. I think this means we are officially launched.”

“Congratulations Dylan. That’s a big deal. I know how you feel. Pam and I used to joke that two teenagers can jump in the back of a car on any given weekend and get a baby started, but you take two grown adults–income earning, fully participating in society–who want to adopt, and you gotta jump through all those hoops,” Jeff said.

“Better be careful Jeff. If you give me any good advice, you know I’ll probably go and write another book about it and quote you.”

Jeff laughed, “Well I’d be honored… again. We’re going to be thinking about you guys, and keeping you in our prayers.”

<<And less than 12 hours later, I’m writing, again, about my appreciation of Jeff.>>

After Jeff and I wrapped up our call and I also reached Joel, all the way in up-state New York.

“Oh Dylan. That’s so great. We’re so happy for you guys!” Joel and I talked and again I was empowered by knowing, very personally, about adoption from both a best friend and a best cousin.

Jackson was watching “Franklin” on his DVD in the backseat on the drive home. We switched from his toddler car seat to a booster seat this past weekend. He’s a big four-and-a-half-year old, sitting in his new booster seat with armrests and the adult seatbelt holding him in place. This Franklin episode was the case of “Turtle Foot,” and between calls to Jeff and Joel, I was explaining that people can’t get turtle foot.

“People get athlete’s foot. That’s why Daddy’s always asking you to wear socks with your Batman shoes. If you don’t wear socks, your feet will get owies on them.”

“Oh…” Jackson was back to watching his DVD, and I made more calls, leaving a message for Humberto, my other Aggie amigo who has two eleven-month-old twins, and for my father and sister.

We got home and Marisa was in the kitchen, wearing a bathrobe over of her corporate-consultant pantsuit, happily creating a “modge-podge” dinner out of leftovers.

“Hey love,” I said, kissing her cheek and bringing in my bags. “Jackson’s behind me. He was finishing his Franklin episode.”

Marisa had been in an extremely good mood both times we’d phoned today. Her mood was still bouyant, as our evening began.

We ate dinner together. We sang our family blessing, the “Johnny Appleseed” song, that we substitute a word into each night. We’re working on having Jackson sing grace without going into silly mode; he’s starting to sing the song without all the theatrics. Tonight, we substituted “sandwiches” into the lyrics.

Oh, the Lord is good to me. And so I thank the Lord, for giving me, the things I need, the sun and the rain and the <<sandwiches>>  appleseed. The Lord is good to me. Amen.

It had been a big day. I’d also sold my 50cc Honda Ruckus scooter, before work, to a guy I found on Craig’s List who drove all the way down from Santa Clarita and got to our house about 7:50AM and agreed and bought the scooter. Selling a scooter and mailing in the adoption paperwork, all in one day.

After dinner, I went to my Men’s Meeting and saw some of my friends.

“My wife’s acting like she swallowed a bottle of Viagra. She’s been in the best mood ever today. I sold a motorcycle and we mailed in our adoption papers with a check. Maybe that is an aphrodisiac?” I was joking, but I was also deeply grateful. I get to be married. I get to be Jackson’s father. I get to go to work at UCLA.

This is life on life’s terms. We’re adding a new child into our family. It’s a big deal. Somewhere in the universe, there’s a little life growing, and someday, we’ll be the Mommy and Daddy for that little person. We’re already connected and yet we’ve never met.