Infant adoption

AddToAny

Share

Open hearts, open wounds

Source: 
Focus on Adoption magazine

My daughter Libby was born as I held her birth mother Carla’s hand, breathing with her through the agony of labour. When her daughter drew her first breath, Carla looked at me and said, “Congratulations on your new baby.” Then she asked me to cut the umbilical cord.

Everyone has a story: Meet the Milners

Source: 
Focus on Adoption magazine

As the eldest daughter in a family with 13 children, Rosaleen Milner knew all about life with many siblings. She also knew she wanted something different for her own future, something bold and adventurous. She wasn’t going to get married, and she definitely wasn’t having kids. That all changed when she met a handsome engineering student named Roger at Bible camp the summer she turned 15. A new vision started to take shape, one that would lead her on an overseas adventure, yes—but as that engineer’s wife, and the mother of their six children.

Adopted voice: Whose son, whose daughter

Source: 
Focus on Adoption magazine

The question of a lifetime

The complexity of my adoption story makes it a challenge to tell, but telling it is, I think, essential. It’s a way to preserve memories of the living and dead, to lend their lives some meaning, and to give thanks for the good fortune of having been raised by loving parents. Here are the bare bones, which will give some context for the poem that follows.

Thanks to adoption, house becomes home for new dad

Source: 
Focus on Adoption magazine

Just as I was getting a handle on my whole sleep deprivation thing, I seem to be right back to square one and find myself nodding off morning, noon, and night.

You see, I've solved my sleep apnea problem; but, what has left me desperate for a decent night's sleep these days is a battle with a serious case of jet lag and our beautiful daughter, Charlotte.

Adopted voice: Looking homeward

Source: 
Focus on Adoption magazine

I remember the noise the most. Car engines idled noxious gasses into the air; heavy footsteps snapped across well-worn concrete. The delicious yet unfamiliar smells of Asian street food filled my nostrils. I stood close to my parents, at the edge of a street corner. Together, we gazed across the road to a building. Above its doorway was a sign filled with undecipherable Chinese lettering. Despite the language barrier, we all knew it what it said. Hospital.

Pages

Subscribe to RSS - Infant adoption