At some point over the next month or so, a new small person will be coming into my family.
Well, sort of.
A new small person will be coming into my babies‘ family, how about that? They’ll have a new baby sibling. And since that child will be related to my children, won’t he also be related to me? And to my biological child?
These things are very confusing. I have no good answers. Oh wait, I do have one answer: Although this child might be a part of my family, he’ll not be living with my family. My mother would like for me to swear with my hand over my heart that he won’t come here to live. I don’t feel the need for theatrics, but I can assure her that he will not come here to live. Or even to stay for a while. ‘Cause that’s how I ended up with my last baby.
Around the time that last baby’s adoption was being finalized, all of us leaned heavily on his mother, encouraging her in the strongest possible terms not to become pregnant again. We talked. We listened. We talked to her paramour. I personally almost begged her paramour to use protection with her.
After we went to court for the final adoption hearing, we all ended up back at my house for a meal. My family was here, and the children’s mother, and all the various social workers who’d seen us through a second adoption in not even a year and a half.
After we’d eaten, the children ran randomly through the house, fueled by good spirits and cake. My family and some of the peripheral case workers chatted in the living room. The core case workers ended up in the kitchen with the children’s mother and me.
“This is your time now,” one of them told her. “Now is the time for you to go to school, get your own place, go to work, and have fun.”
The other case worker chimed in, “You’ve spent the better part of the past three years either pregnant or parenting. Now it’s time for you to enjoy being young. Figure out who you are and what you want.”
I had my arm around her; she had her head wedged into my neck. “Honey, please use protection with him. Every time. I know you don’t want to go through the pain of placing another baby.” She shook her head vigorously against my shoulder. “And you’re not ready to raise a baby yourself.” More vigorous head-shaking. “Then you know what you have to do. Don’t take the chance.”
“But he’s getting too old to have kids,” she protested. “He wants to have a baby before it’s too late!”
We exchanged exasperated glances over her head. We’d all heard this argument from her (and him) before. In case you are wondering, this man (extra-large child?) is not yet 30. Not yet 30! And worried about it being too late for him to father children!
I think we all knew, standing there in the kitchen with this super-fertile and super-stubborn young woman, that she’d be expecting again within months. Unfortunately, we were right. She’d made her decision and we wasted our breath trying to dissuade her.
So now, within the next month or so, a new small person will be joining the family. And we’ll all, I suppose, have to figure out how to relate to him.
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