Allison's Adoption Commentary

If you were to ask my mother, she'd tell you that I haven't always wanted to be a mother. Growing up I wanted to be a big career woman and children were an afterthought. Then to find out I have a condition that would make getting pregnant close to impossible, I sort of just shrugged my shoulders and said, "well, I don't really want a child anyway."

There was just one problem: I really did want a child. I really do want to be a mother.

Infertility is a difficult thing to explain. There are the clinical terms and procedures that I could explain to you as well as any medical professional. I think there were some things about reproducing that my own mother wasn't even sure about. I would tell her about procedures and what the doctors needed my body to do and she would say, "back in my day..."

The physical part is definitely difficult. Every shred of dignity and modesty you've ever had goes out the proverbial window. You have to have internal ultrasounds on the worst days of the month. Around here, the only fertility clinic is a part of the University's "teaching hospital" and so to make things even more embarrassing, most of these lovely ultrasounds are conducted while you are lying on the table with your husband standing beside you holding your hand, there is also a nurse, a doctor, and a minimum of three students. After getting past the embarrassment of being open for the world to see, you get the frustration of the doctor never talking to you but rather to the students using medical terms you can't even spell to look up in Websters, let alone know what they mean. Often times my doctor would tell the students my next course of action and not bother to tell me.

This leads to the hardest part of the infertility journey: the emotional part. You are given drugs that make you crazy. One minutes you're Dr. Jeckle and the next you're Mrs. Hyde. I cried at the drop of a hat. I worried about everything thing I ate, drank, and did. It was miserable. I over analyzed every twinge and pain my body made. I drove myself crazy trying to read the signs my body was sending me and comparing these signs with what was "supposed" to be happening in at least five different fertility books. If from the period of August 2006 through October 2007 you were trying to find books on infertility at the Barnes & Noble in Morgantown and they were sold out, I apologize.

Then you start noticing weight gain you can't control. I wasn't thin to begin with but now I'm even bigger. You complain to the doctor and he just pats your hand and tells you this is a stressful time. Then you finally move to the big time: the injection medication.

Giving yourself a shot is damn near impossible if you're a chicken. Your husband giving you a shot is a painful experience because he's so afraid of hurting you that he doesn't realize that the slow pushing in of the needle is more painful than just jabbing it. This doesn't last long because the doctor, after not weighing you for ten months, decides you are too fat and the medication is being wasted on you.

All the while you want THIS to be the month. Your month. You become so psychotic on these medications that you convince yourself that this will be the month to the point where you go ahead and buy $200 worth of crib bedding that you will never use and end up giving to a friend because it becomes too painful to look at any longer.

I won't even go into detail about the devastating affect infertility and its treatments has on your sex life. It just becomes a means to an end. No more, no less. We're on a mission and this follicle will self-destruct in T minus 36 hours.

I finally became pregnant and experienced all of the "oh shit now what" moments that comes with realizing it finally worked. I was pregnant from October 11, 2007 until December 12, 2007. Two months. That was it. All my hopes and dreams were over in just two short months. Not even as long as a summer vacation from school. But one day prior to my 33rd birthday, I labored and passed Miller Gracen Tomasek. It would be a year before I was able to fully remember that day and recall the little hands and fingers I saw in the toilet as I miscarried. July 9th, Miller's due date, is still a special day to me.

I would go on to suffer another year of trying like no body's business to get pregnant and then it became necessary for us to make a decision regarding my future to carry a child. I suffered and suffered to the point where my husband had to step in and say, "enough is enough, I can't watch you suffer like this anymore."

On December 22, 2008 I had surgery that removed any chance I had of ever conceiving and carrying to term our child. All of our hopes and wishes, and dreams were gone. I went to sleep semi-barren and woke up totally barren. Another emotional can of worms, second guessing, and fear.

But throughout all of this deep inside my heart I still wanted to be a mother. I may have said, "do we really want kids?" but in my heart of hearts I knew we did.

The fear becomes how do we pay for adoption? Where does the money come from? How do we convince a birth mother to choose us? The "What ifs" are overwhelming and the tasks are daunting.

But through it all, I have still wanted to be a mother. I long for the days where I'm exasperated from saying "stop that" and "get over here" and "don't make me count to three." I want to wipe spaghetti sauce off little fingers and a sweet little face. I want to watch as my son or daughter crams birthday cake into his or her face.

I want to teach my child the miracles of Hanukkah and the miracles of Christmas. I want to hide Easter eggs and teach respect for the Passover traditions of the Jewish faith. I want my child to anxiously prepare for Santa Claus with as much seriousness that he or she prepares over the ten days of Awe between Rosh Hashanna and Yom Kippur. I want my child to be as happy in a Purim costume as he or she is trick or treating in the crisp autumn air.

I want to raise my child to respect the Jewish faith, the Christian faith, and the colors and creeds of all people. I want my child to know that there isn't anything that he or she can't do and that mommy will always be there supporting, loving, and cheerleading.

I want to hold that tiny little body in my arms as I deeply inhale the scent of baby. I want to give a first bath. I want to change diapers. I want to cut the cord on my child. I want to watch him or her be born of a woman so wonderful and loving that she chose us to raise her child.

This is what I want. A child whose eyes aren't from us, but see the world in a way we have taught him or her. To be compassionate and love thy neighbor. To always choose right when faced with wrong. To know the love of this mother's heart has been growing and growing since the day she met his or her father.

I want to have arguments over homework and curfews. I want to be run ragged between little league and trips to the swimming pool. But most of all, I want to stand in the doorway, with my husband behind me, watching our little one sleeping and knowing that our hopes and dreams are safely tucked in for the night. That the goodness we each have as individuals has been combined into lessons for a single, beautiful baby made and given out of love.

A crib holds more than just a child. It holds hope. It holds our future. It brings into a home the promise of a new life, a new hope and a better tomorrow.

We don't have a crib yet. But, if all goes according to plan, we will. One day, be it this year or next, Jeff and I will stand outside of little William or Lyric's room and watch him or her breathe while sleeping. And as I pray over my child the protection of a mighty and loving God, I will also pray thanksgiving to the God who brought my child and the mother who chose to give him or her to us.