Parent Permission Form Dear Parents, During The Week Of: Fill & Download for Free

This happened to my grandma, in one form or another, the other week. She’s 96 years old, house-bound and sharp as a tack. You'll see how she responded.The family living opposite me are weird; straight-up weird. We’ll call them The Joneses.The Joneses are perfect. An early-thirties, straight, white, middle-class couple with two early-teenage children; a boy and a girl. They are some denomination of Christian — we suspect one of the more evangelical sects — and have many visitors to their home.Their home, which was once a bungalow, but since moving in a couple of years ago, has been transformed into a bulging four-bed conversion. There are neat box trees lining the bay windows, and the double-glazing is decorated with lead-effect stickers to divide up the panes. The roof was redone with grey tiles, and there are three skylights. The drive is now mostly gravel. No flowers remain.We have no idea what Mr Jones does for a living, but he earns enough to buy himself a BMW and his wife a Range Rover. He leaves every morning in a suit, and returns late at night, around 8pm, crunching his car up onto the gravel and smoothing his tie as he retrieves his briefcase from the back. The rest of the time, he throws himself into ambitious home improvement projects — last week he insulated his chimney so they could have a real log-burning fire, and the smell of wood-smoke has hung over the street ever since. I sometimes call to him across the road, just to say hi. He does not say hi back.I have never seen him speak to his children.Mrs Jones is always immaculately dressed. She has a glorious collection of maxi dresses, jumpsuits and tailored blouse-trouser combos. Her hair is sleek and elegantly curled; a deep, chestnut brown. A Mulberry handbag lives in the crook of her elbow, and it accompanies her from the house to her Range Rover as she prepares to drive the children to their private school or their extra-curricular activities. She has many middle class friends — women as pristine and polite as her — and she is much more friendly than her husband. She says hello, sometimes.She can also be heard screaming at her children in the back garden. It is frenzied.The children don’t seem like the kind you need to scream at. The boy is tall and athletic, at home in football boots or dress shoes, and distinctly uncomfortable in anything else. He is a serious boy, polite but long-faced, and seems grimly resigned to his regular task of cleaning his parents’ cars. The girl enjoys gymnastics and ballet, and likes skipping around the front lawn in dresses and bows. She is all smiles until a stranger passes; I suspect she is rather shy. As far as I can tell, this little girl is the only happy member of the family.I haven’t seen the Joneses for a while now. In England, we have a new Covid-19 tradition of standing in our doorways on Thursday evenings to applaud the NHS. For the first two weeks, the Joneses were absent. Last week, they appeared in fantastic fashion; Mr Jones in a linen shirt and shorts, Mrs Jones in a stunning green jumpsuit, and the children in angelic Sunday best. My spotty, makeup-less face and sweatshorts did not really compare, but I waved to them anyway. It’s what you do, isn’t it? They hesitated, but waved back eventually.My grandma waved at them too. She can’t get outside anymore, with her exhaustion and her dizzy spells, so she stands in her window on these evenings, flapping her arthritic fingers. I don’t think the Joneses noticed her.They can no longer go to church on Sunday mornings, but they are still going out for something. They aren’t going shopping — they get four deliveries a week from Tesco, which should be impossible, seeing as the eighty-year-old lady next door to them can’t get a single delivery for the next two weeks. If we’re going to get technical about it, that’s illegal. If we’re not getting technical, that’s a dick move.Anyway.A week or so ago, Mr Jones came to our door and asked if he could park his car on my grandma’s drive for the day, because he had a plasterer coming and he needed space. My grandma lives next door to me (yes, really), and she’s hard of hearing, so it makes sense that he’d ask us for her permission, but it was a bit odd that he asked us. We’d never spoken to the man, and barely even said hello to his wife. He was closer with his neighbours either side, so why ask my dear old grandma, who he’d never even seen?But we’re a close-knit community. We help each other. We asked my grandma first, out of courtesy, but of course she agreed.Mr Jones’s car isn’t a Ferrari, but it is a sleek, black BMW. A sexy vehicle. I don’t think my grandma minded looking at it.But by that evening, it hadn’t moved. We had all kind-of assumed that he would be leaving it just for today, not all night. My grandma, who I’ll admit is a bit obsessive about these things (“it’s my drive!”), even had a little row with my parents about it. “Why did you give him permission to park there all night? I don’t want burglars thinking I have the keys to that in here!”My parents had to explain that they didn’t, they didn’t think he would leave it there either, and it was all forgiven. Seemed a bit sad that we couldn’t just do something nice for a neighbour, but it was her drive, and we could only do what she was comfortable with. We would have to ask Mr Jones to move it tomorrow.The next morning, when my mum went round to talk to him, no one answered the door. So we tried again. And again. No answer.In fact, no one answered the door until that evening. Master Jones the Younger said Mr Jones Senior was “out”, but he would let his dad know we’d popped by. Lovely to see us. Hope we’re all well. Say hello to Grandma Payton for me.All day, my grandma had been seething. My dad was also seething, a bit. This was taking the piss. We weren’t about to make a fuss, because we didn’t know what happened, and we’re not that sort. But yeah, okay, if we were honest… it was a bit weird.Mr Jones didn’t return (from wherever he went without his car, during a coronavirus lockdown) until 9pm that night. In England, this is considered an unsociable hour. A bit rude to knock on someone’s door at this time of night.But knock he did.“Hi,” he said. “My son said you called round.”My mum exchanged the usual pleasantries, and then explained, “It’s just that Joyce [that’s grandma, by the way] is a bit concerned about having your car on her drive overnight. She doesn’t mind, especially not during the day, but she’s worried about people thinking it’s hers and trying to break in.”Mr Jones nodded. “Of course, yeah. Sure. I didn't realise she used her drive.”This caught my mum off guard — he knew very well that she didn't use her drive, being 96, cataract-ridden and car-less. The only people who parked there were visiting. “She doesn't. She just wants to be safe. She worries, living on her own. You know.”“Yeah,” he mused. “Yeahhhhh. I just thought my car looked better on there than her carers’ little Fords.”My mum blinked. “Sorry?”“I thought she'd be happy with it.”“What was that about the Fords?”He smiled benevolently, as if she was slow on the uptake. “Her carers park here, don’t they? In the little cars.” He laughed. “I just thought she’d like something nicer for a change.“A pause.“No,” my mum said, in a voice I don't hear from her very often. “No, she likes her wonderful carers' poxy little Fords, thank you.”“Oh,” he said. “I'll move it tomorrow, then.”My mum frowned. “Can't you move it tonight?”“Oh, well.” He made a doubtful face, looking over at the BMW. “The plasterer will be back tomorrow…”My mum isn't one for confrontation, and her instinct is always to help out a neighbour. Even an asshole one. “She won't want it there another night,” she said, “so it has to be gone tomorrow. I'm sorry.”“Of course, yeah,” he agreed, and said a delightful farewell, as if nothing had happened.So, the car would stay for another night. Mum delivered the news to my grandma, who hit the roof, but there was nothing we could do. We'd already agreed.Twenty minutes later, we saw the car shift off the drive.We had no idea what had happened, but it was wonderfully serendipitous. We couldn't wait to tell my grandma - she'd be thrilled to see it gone.When we got to my grandma, she was standing in her hallway, arms trembling on her walking frame, grinning. I've not seen her smile like that for years.It turns out it was not luck at all. His was a tactical retreat. Grandma explained what happened.After hearing the terrible news, grandma had hobbled out into the cold, to the end of her drive — the furthest she had walked independently in three years. From there, she had spent valuable energy yelling into the street until someone came to the door of the Joneses' house. Then, she made a speech that put Maggie Thatcher to shame.Her tirade touched on his snooty manner; ignoring her granddaughter (criminal), judging their neighbours and not clapping for the NHS. She reminded him that he had never offered help or friendship to anyone in the road, yet had the nerve to ask for favours from strangers. She yelled about the frequent grocery deliveries, using up slots that should be kept free for the elderly and vulnerable, and their illegal trips outside. They were abusing their privilege of being young, healthy and wealthy.And then to insult her carers, the people who kept her alive and well each day, who were risking their lives to look after others during the lockdown — to insult them, just because their cars were smaller… Well, a big car won't get you into heaven, sir, and it won't get you on my drive either.She said that going to church didn't make them Christian, and abandoning the community was the sign of the truly ungodly.Or words to that effect.I cannot emphasise enough how dodgy my grandma’s heart is, and how close that righteous rage took her to death. She thinks it was worth it. From the sounds of it, if anything’s worth dying for, it’s to see the look on that handsome bastard’s face when she collapses on his BMW.I think if she’d had the strength, she would have caused some damage with that walker. Maybe she tried — I wouldn’t put it past her.Either way, his car was gone.

The term “Helicopter Parenting” didn’t even exist when I was a girl. I looked it up just to be sure I understood it properly. I found an interesting article that explained it thoroughly.[1]My own mother was pretty balanced and left us a reasonable amount of leeway in exploring childhood boundaries and resolving our own problems. Unfortunately, she developed a drinking problem and passed away when I was 11 and my sister only 9 years old. Mostly during the last years of her life, I just remember her passed out on the couch. We spent about 4 years largely on our own, as our dad worked long hours and didn’t get home until about 6:30–7pm.The earlier answer from Chole Doe about her sister should certainly win any contest for worst case scenario. I’m not sure that what happened to my sister and I after our dad remarried even qualifies for much beyond physical and mental abuse with a lot of OCD and control freak thrown in.Once married, our stepmother Joan revealed her real personality. I was the main target for her insanity, although my sister definitely had a worse situation in the long run. Right off the bat, we went from having free open range to being restricted to the house. At first, she required that we check in every 45 minutes, but eventually we weren’t allowed outside unless we had permission. I was always a bookish sort of girl, but school quickly became my only refuge.Going into 9th grade, suddenly I had an 8:30 pm bedtime! Up until then, the only rule was that if I made good grades and got to school, I could stay up as late as I wanted. The evening curfew and lights out seemed absolutely ridiculous. Even as a first grader, I stayed up until 8:30-9pm on school nights. In Summer, with the long Michigan evenings, we were at the nightly barbecue in the backyard until after dark.Early on, she manufactured some type of offense and cut me off from watching any TV. Television had been a major source of comfort as my mom retreated into her Canadian Club induced fog and eventually died. We’d been moved twice due to our dad’s job and so there was no other family nearby. The one month suspension quickly turned into being banned from television “for the rest of your life.” Even I knew that was pretty ridiculous and at the age of 13, the year of their marriage, I knew I was getting away from her as soon as I could muster it.Kendall and I were treated as slave labor. Our allowances were revoked and we spent every Saturday and a good part of Sunday cleaning everything in sight. Mealtimes were a disaster. I do not know how that woman managed to make every pot and pan in the house dirty when she cooked a casserole, but she did. We had to pack our lunches and every day it was the same: a Braunschweiger sandwich, an old apple, and a nickel for milk. She found out I loathed Braunschweiger, and that was what we had for years.[2]I couldn’t eat the stuff, I just tossed it into the garbage every day. I’m not sure how it happened, but I was offered a job selling ice cream in the high school cafeteria and earned a free lunch ticket every school day. That job really saved my life! My dad was quite well off, but we were literally starved. I can remember having nothing to eat for 3 days in a row and almost crawling to get to school for some food. My sister also got a cafeteria job; unfortunately, one Summer the lunch lady called and asked if we’d both be working the next school year. Well the Braunschweiger really hit the fan that day!We both had jobs as waitresses and there was always some excuse to take our wages and tips from us each week. Neither of us cared, we just wanted to be away from the house for any excuse we could find. So Joan actually figured out the cost of the lunches we threw away and that was the end of any money we ever made over the Summer.I remember early on she accused me, especially, and my sister of taking her birth control pills and giving us a ridiculous lecture about how they wouldn’t work. Duh! I think we were both aware of the science of birth control pills. She was really angry and believed we were having sex at the ages of 12 and 14, respectively! I never even kissed a guy until I was 18 and a half years old — I was thoroughly disgusted and very upset at the accusation. She and her daughter were the two who slept around, I remember this dentist she’d dated who sent her to Europe and bought her expensive china sets in lieu of marriage. Her daughter had at least five abortions of which I was aware as she moved from one rich boyfriend to the next. I was infuriated that a person like her, one step from being a prostitute, could even think I was sleeping with boys at my age.Another time, they forced us on a vacation up in Mancelona, where she liked to ski. We had to pay for skiing lessons, which I hated. She actually forced us to take a nap in the middle of the afternoon so we could listen to her and our dad having sex upstairs. I was shy and introverted — it was absolutely sickening.During the years of their marriage, they collected the social security money from my mom and spent it on themselves. Our mother hadn’t been able to attend college, but she saved money for both of us to go. There were Savings Bonds and everything was taken by Joan, even after both of us left home at the age of 17. We never had any new clothes, I left home with the same pants I’d had from 8th grade. Family friends were horrified to see us dressed in shirts with holes in the elbows and pants that wouldn’t even be accepted at a thrift store. We both looked like grubby homeless kids.I had a devil of a time getting out of there, but the school found me a job taking care of an elderly lady in town. We’d been beaten badly all the time and even reported it with the welts, bruises, and cuts to prove it; however, because of my dad’s position, nothing was ever done. My sister had a friend who took her in during senior year. We both signed up for the US Army Military Police and got sent to Germany and never looked back.As a result of a restrictive and overbearing situation, both of us are very independent. My husband always said that it was my stepmother who made me as strong willed as I am; however, I resisted my stepmother from the very start. Because I am similar to my mother in looks, she despised me. At one point she tied our hair up back from our faces in a severely tight pony tail, which looked stupid and felt very uncomfortable. As soon as I was away from the house, I took my hair down and put it back before getting off the bus. I covered it up with a stocking hat. She accused me of taking it down and I replied I just kept my hat on all day through school. Another time she forced us to wear raincoats and carry umbrellas for 2 weeks. I stashed mine under a bush and picked it up after school … it was bad enough looking like poor white trash, but I’d be damned if she’d make me even more ridiculous.We even taught ourselves a rudimentary form of sign language, so we could talk in the car during the frequent road trips back to Detroit. They’d dump us at our maternal grandmother’s house every weekend. I loved my grandma dearly, but it was really an imposition! They didn’t even give her any money and then began staying upstairs themselves. Can you imagine hosting your daughter’s replacement, especially when they got married so soon after her death? When my grandma protested, they told us she didn’t love us anymore and refused to allow us to go to any family functions. I stayed with my grandma and took care of her before and after my Army enlistment. I knew she did love us dearly, but wasn’t to be used as a free babysitting service.I was a top student with fantastic PSAT and ACT college assessment scores. I wanted to go to Michigan State University, but my dad tried to force me to attend Western Michigan to study teaching, which I didn’t want to do. By joining the Army, I was able to put myself through the University through the GI Bill and two part time jobs. I studied the major I chose for myself. They forced in on my graduation ceremony, to which they were not invited. All they did was complain about having to get up too early and griped about the 90 minute drive to East Lansing. My dad tried to ridicule my graduation awards. (I had earned my BA with Very High Honors along with a Phi Beta Kappa Key) This guy couldn’t even make it through a semester of community college and he had to ruin my entire day. My friends bought me a lovely piece of designer luggage and my own parents couldn’t even manage a card or to extend congratulations after not contributing a cent toward the college costs. In 4 years they never once visited, even when they were driving within two miles of my dorm, enroute to see the step sister or friends back in Detroit.I finally cut off ties with them after they were rude and insulting to my husband and I during Christmas at their home, which I hated. Realizing that helicopter parenting can often be a control issue, I’d had enough of it. I’ve never regretted my decision and my in-laws were far better parents through my adult years. They were always proud of me and even came all the way to San Antonio to watch me become an Air Force officer. (They provided loads of positive reinforcement and never once complained about having to get up early to be there.) They cheerfully came all the way down to San Antonio in south Texas from Upper Michigan, near the Canadian border. They had a wonderful trip and even my new brother and sister in law were so excited … they came over to Italy where we were first stationed, as did my mother-in-law.We all want to care for and protect our children, but it’s important for them to learn to make their own decisions. While they can’t be wrapped in bubble paper, it is important to support their interests and activities. A parent shouldn’t live out their own aspirations via their children’s lives, children need to be allowed some freedom and autonomy as they mature. We all learn a lot from our mistakes as we mature into adulthood. All my situation did was to drive me as far away as fast as I could manage it. In many cases, I think that’s what happens when parents are unreasonable in binding their children too close to the family nest.Footnotes[1] Helicopter Parenting Isn't Good for Kids, But Parental Over-involvement Has Only Gotten Worse[2] Oscar Mayer Braunschweiger Liver Sausage, 8 oz Vacuum Pack - Walmart.com

Original question: What does it feel like to give up your child for adoption?It was the hardest decision I’ve ever made.This is long, and I apologize, but every part of it is important.When I was 19, I thought I had the flu. It wouldn’t go away and the nausea was near constant. My period was late too, but it had always been irregular, and missing a couple of months wasn’t unusual. My boyfriend at the time and I were using condoms, so surely I couldn’t be pregnant.When I started noticing my pants no longer fit properly, the “flu” hadn’t gone away and my period hadn’t arrived after nearly three months, it was time to take a test. My boyfriend and I went out and bought a cheap pregnancy test, the kind that come two to a box. The first was positive. Well that was just a cheap test, so surely it wasn’t accurate. I took the second test. Also positive. Still a cheap test, let's go out and get a better one. He picked the most expensive digital test on the shelf and I took it. Pregnant. We needed a test from a doctor! Off to planned parenthood we went, and got another positive test. Based on my last period abortion wasn’t an option, I was already 12 weeks, past the limit for elective abortion in my state. We talked about adoption, I learned about open adoption, and got some referrals to adoption websites and resources for birthmothers. I got a referral for prenatal care closer to my home.The day of the first appointment, my ex went with me. He was still sure this was all a mistake, and I wasn’t *really* pregnant. I had bloodwork done and went in for the ultrasound. He sat at my head, his hands in his pockets, and when the ultrasound technician gleefully announced, “There he is, he’s looking at us!” There was a mumbled “Oh shit” from beside my head. This was real.I found out at the appointment that I was 11 weeks pregnant. I still had one week to get an abortion if I wanted one. I’d already decided against it, I didn’t have the money to pay for it, and if I chose to carry him to term it wouldn’t cause problems with my employment, I was no longer in school, and he suggested we move in together if my mother decided to kick me out. I didn’t *need* one in my specific circumstances. He asked me to marry him on the way back from the doctor’s appointment. I said no. I told him just getting pregnant wasn’t a reason to go into marriage, and it was something we could do later if we stayed together and decided to.When we got back to his mother’s house, I called my mother. The phone call was simple. “Mom, I’m pregnant. I’m with Rick (not his real name) at his house, and I’ll come home after you’ve had some time to calm down.” I then hung up the phone on my screaming, crying mother. She’d told me she was too young to be a grandmother.Three days later I called her again. We were able to sit down and have a rational conversation about the process. Yes we’d been using protection. No, I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do yet, but we discussed my thoughts on the options. I was open to adoption, but wanted an open adoption because I wanted to get to know my child and the parents I’d be giving him to. I wanted to start looking at dear birthmother letters right away because I wanted to have time to get to know them before the birth. I was still considering keeping him, but hadn’t decided if I’d stay with the father.Through all of this, the father made his opinion clear. He wanted me to have an abortion. If I wasn’t willing to have an abortion, he fully supported adoption since he didn’t want to be saddled with child support and it didn’t look like we’d stay together much longer.When I got home to my mother’s house, she’d gone to several of the dear birthmother sites and had selected some families for me to look through. One in particular was her favorite. “They have big dogs, and I know how much you love dogs and thought you might like the baby to grow up with some, and they’ve already got a little girl they adopted who has contact with her birthmother. You’ve just got to see her, she looks like such a little elf!”I agreed, that particular family sounded WONDERFUL. Their letter talked about their relationship with their daughter’s birthmother, just the kind of relationship I wanted with my son’s adoptive family. The main picture on their page was a family photo, mom, dad, their adopted daughter, an elderly fluffy black dog, and an absolute GIANT of a black lab. The rest of the pictures on their profile were clearly taken in a park. Mom and daughter, dad and daughter, mom, dad and daughter. Their daughter was included in every single one, which was different from the other profiles I saw which mentioned children but didn’t show any of them. I felt like I was seeing how much these people loved their adopted daughter through these pictures. I saved the letter into the “maybe” pile, and kept looking.There was a family living in Hawaii who owned a farm and detailed the animals they had and what their lives were like. They had attached stunning pictures of their farm, the beach, the mountains. They went into the Maybe pile.There was a family of a stay at home mother and police officer father. I thought of my child having to deal with the news at 5, 10, 15 years old that their father was killed in the line of duty. That family went into the “no” pile.There was an elderly couple who had decided to adopt after their adult children had all left the nest. They were old, she looked frail. I imagined what kind of health they’d be in when my child turned 10, 15, 18. That family went into the no pile.There was a lesbian couple that was absolutely lovely. I read that letter over and over, I almost put them in the maybe pile, but they lived in a conservative state that while allowing adoptions by gay couples didn’t have much else in the way of rights available. It was a hard choice, but considering the area they were from, and the hardship of a gay family fitting in, that family went into the no pile.There was a couple where the mother was a special education teacher and the father was in some sort of finance. They seemed sweet, excited at the possibility of adopting a child, and their profile made them seem lovely. They went into the maybe file.There was a couple who was clearly well off, their photos taken in their immaculate home, with their tiny teacup poodle with pink bows in its ears. I imagined what it would be like for my child to track mud onto that white carpet and the white couch. They didn’t look like the kind of people to let my child play in the mud and dirt like a normal child. They went into the no pile.This process went on for WEEKS. I constantly revisited my maybe pile, adding and removing couples, re-reading letters. Finally when I was fifteen weeks pregnant, I sent my first letters. I don’t remember the exact wording now, but I introduced myself, gave my age, and announced to the three couples I’d chosen (the ones mentioned above) that I was 15 weeks pregnant and looking for a family to adopt my child. I told them a little about myself, my education, my goals. And then I waited.Of the three couples I contacted, the family with the farm in Hawaii never responded back. They were removed from the maybe pile, leaving the other two. Both responded excitedly, telling me more about themselves and the reasons they were looking to adopt. I sent another letter, this one with a list of questions attached. I thought long and hard over these. The final, and most important question in the list was “I’m currently healthy, and the pregnancy is uncomplicated, but if something were to go wrong, would you still want to continue the adoption process?” Again, I waited.The couple with the special education teacher responded with a list of questions of their own. What was my favorite color? What was my favorite class in school? What kind of hobbies did I like? They were the questions one would ask a 12 year old child, not a 19 year old young woman considering giving them her child. The answer to the last question cinched it for me. “We would not continue the adoption if there was something wrong with the baby, since as a special education teacher, I work with those kinds of children all day at work, and don’t want to have to come home to another one. Besides, there are institutions for children like that.” I was absolutely horrified. The family went directly into the no pile.By this time, there was one family left. The one with the big dogs and the elfish little girl. All my hopes were hung on this family. If their answers weren’t satisfactory, I’d have to start over from scratch. The letter arrived in my email box three days later. There were questions attached for me, but they were things like “What kind of activities would you like your child to participate in?” “Is there anything about your culture or family history that you’d like your child to know?” And then the answer I was waiting for. It was long, and I don’t remember the exact wording, but I’ll paraphrase as best I can from what I remember. “When I saw this question, I originally was going to say no, that I didn’t think I could handle a situation like that. I went to bed that night and my husband and I talked it over when it hit me. If I was pregnant, and something like that happened, I would give birth to and love that child just as much regardless. The only difference between these two situations is who carries the child. Keeping that in mind, the only answer I can give is that yes, we would continue the adoption, and we would love that child just as much no matter what the circumstances.” When I read that I cried. This was the family. They were perfect. We exchanged numbers and talked on the phone for the first time later that evening.We talked over the phone, through email, and through chat for weeks after that. Paperwork started coming in from the adoption agency, explaining the process, requesting medical histories on my family and the father’s family. We’d broken up by this point but I invited him over and we spent hours sitting in my living room going over the answers to those questions while he paced back and forth nervously. He told me his mother wanted me to give the baby to her to raise. His mother and grandmother were angry with me for considering adoption. I didn’t care.A few months later, Ashley (not her real name) seemed nervous on a phone call. We’d been calling back and forth, talking for hours, but she had a concern. She didn’t want me to think I was being bullied into giving her my child. She suggested that she wouldn’t call me anymore. When I was ready, and had decided, I could call her. Until then, they would wait.I still hadn’t decided not to keep my son. It was a reasonable request. I missed our conversations, but I took the time to think it over long and hard. We knew I was having a boy by this time. I’d sent them the ultrasound photos and video. I tried to imagine what life would be like for my son with them. I imagined what it would be like with me. I thought of what opportunities he’d have with them that I couldn’t give him. Eventually, after nearly a month, I made my decision. They were getting the baby. It was nearly Christmas at this point. I thought that call would be the most wonderful Christmas present I could give them. I wanted to wait and call them on Christmas day. It was excruciating. Eventually the fear that they’d find another baby to adopt took over and I couldn’t wait. Three days before Christmas I called. They weren’t home so I left a message. “I’ve decided to give you my son. Please call me back.” More waiting. It was hours before they got home from shopping and got my message. The call finally came. We screamed with joy, we cried, we laughed. It was beautiful.Things picked up then. More paperwork. Meetings with lawyers. Meetings with the adoption representatives. Since they were out of state, there had to be two agencies involved, one in my state, and one in theirs. We made a birth plan together. I wanted them to see him born. I’d call as soon as I was in labor so they could fly out. Bags were packed.About a week before his due date, I woke up and my bed was soaking wet. There was no question in my mind, my water had broken and it was time. I got changed to go to the hospital, while my mom called his parents to let them know. We drove to the hospital, excited and ready. They were at the airport now, waiting for their flight. I was taken to the maternity ward, changed into a gown and waited. They did a test to check for amniotic fluid. It came back negative. It was explained that he must have kicked my bladder. I was sent home. We called Ashley and Dan (not his real name) to let them know. They didn’t care. They were coming anyway, and we’d wait together.They spent the next week waiting at my mother’s house every day. They met my family. They went to my prenatal appointment that week and saw him on the ultrasound. During that week we also got a call from the father’s mother. She screamed at us that she wasn’t going to allow the adoption to go through. She wouldn’t allow her son to sign anything. She accused me of “selling” the baby and threatened to call the police. She told me she’d never allow “those people” to take him. She talked to me about the appointment at the doctor’s that Ashley and Dan had gone with me to and the lunch we went out to later. We found out she’d hired a private investigator to follow me, and us.Still the process moved on, and still we waited. Finally, I woke up cranky and uncomfortable on Sunday morning. My mother, grandmother and Ashley discussed in hushed tones that it was clear he’d dropped. We went shopping to walk. For hours I wandered around stores, leaning on the shopping cart, just walking. Finally we went out for dinner to a buffet. I’d been craving ice cream all day and was finally going to get it. After the meal, I went up to the soft serve machines and got my ice cream with sprinkles and caramel sauce. As soon as I walked back to the table and set it down, I felt it. *SPLOOSH*.The concern was instant. Was I okay? What happened? Was it a contraction? Did the baby kick? Did my water break? Was it time?! Since I’d been leaking fluid since the first time my water broke, there wasn’t a lot, and I assumed he’d just kicked my bladder. I wasn’t feeling contractions either. I headed off to the bathroom and sat for a while. It didn’t seem like urine, and it was still coming, but I couldn’t hold it back. I was sure at this point my water had broken. I took a quarter from my purse, bought one of those insanely thick and obnoxious pads from the dispenser in the bathroom, and returned to the table where I assured everyone it was nothing and proceeded to eat my ice cream.After dinner, we got into the car to drive back to my mother’s house. I mentioned that I actually did believe my water broke, and I wanted to go change clothes because mine were wet. It was near pandemonium. Ashley and my mother were screaming in the back, Dan panicked and had to pull over before he got us all in a wreck. We went to my mother’s house, I changed clothes, and it was off to the hospital.Once in the delivery room, it was confirmed that my water had broken and I was in labor, but contractions weren’t as strong as the doctor was comfortable with, and to be fair, I wasn’t feeling them at all. To move things along, they started pitocin. I had pain relief and an epidural and slept through most of my labor for the next five hours. When it came time to push, it was relatively quick for a first pregnancy. He was out in under half an hour. Ashley cut the cord, though there was some confusion in the room. Who were they supposed to hand him to? While it was decided, they cleaned him up and checked him over, and then finally when the decision was made, the most beautiful bundle was set on my chest. It was beautiful. He was passed around the delivery room, Dan was allowed back in, we all had our moment with him.When I was moved to a room to recover, I chose to have him stay in the room with me. I knew he was going to be leaving, and I wanted every moment I could possibly have with him. I was sitting on the hospital bed, holding him in my arms when a call came to the phone in my room. It was the father’s mother. She’d been calling the hospital every morning for the last week, asking to be transferred to my room, and since I hadn’t asked them not to tell anyone I was there, the call was put through once I was settled in. She again threatened to call the police and report that I was “selling” the baby. She told me she’d be at the hospital later that afternoon to take him from the nursery. I hung up on her, but by then I was panicking. I called the nurse and told her about the call. Hospital security was brought in, and since there was a threat made to remove him from the hospital, extra security was kept on the maternity ward while we were there in case she tried to follow through with her threat. It was stressful.The next call that came in was from the father’s grandmother. She told me she’d had a talk with her daughter, and no one was coming to take the baby, but she wanted to make sure that his adoptive parents knew about all the medical problems that ran in his family. Heart problems, diabetes, mental health issues, she rattled off a list in a sickly sweet voice. I knew what she was trying to do. I answered cheerily, “Oh, they already know all that, Rick came over and filled out the medical forms for the adoption months ago. They’ve got the full family history.” Ashley got on the phone as well at one point, and after being told the same information, answered as well. “Yes, we know all about that. Thank you for telling us, but no, it’s not necessary for you to take him. We’re going to deal with whatever medical problems he has.”The next day, it was time to sign the paperwork. Everyone was there. The lawyer arrived, my mother was there, Ashley and Dan were there. We were waiting on the representative from the adoption agency to arrive when it was determined that even though my mother was a notary, we had to bring in someone else to notarize the documents. My mother called in a family friend to do it. Then it was just a matter of waiting for the agency representative and the father. The father actually arrived with a friend, though we hadn’t been expecting him to show up. He met Ashley and Dan, even held my son and posed for pictures, but decided to go “down to the cafeteria to grab something to drink”. By the time the representative from the adoption agency arrived, we knew he’d left. When she came into the room, I was crying, afraid that the adoption wouldn’t be able to proceed without his signature. I just looked up at her and said, “We have a problem.” The lawyer had already told her what happened, and she simply smiled and shook her head. “No, we have a situation.”Ashley and Dan sat down and signed the paperwork first as it was read off to them before they were sent out into the hallway to wait. It was my turn. My mother offered to hold my son, but I refused. I sat cross legged on the hospital bed, my son sleeping in my lap while I signed the papers. I *needed* to hold him while I did it. He was only mine for a little while, and I was soaking up every second I had with him.After the paperwork was signed, I had one more day with him. It was calmer. Most of the visitors had come by already, the paperwork was finished and taken care of, and the situation with his father was being handled. He was going to be served, and the lawyer had been able to get in touch with him and let him know that if he didn’t want to sign the paperwork due to the family situation, the paperwork he was being served with would give him the opportunity to contest the adoption. If it wound up in the trash or otherwise didn’t arrive back at the courthouse in the designated time period, the adoption would go through without him having to go against his mother’s wishes.I spent that last day in the hospital holding my son from the time I woke up until it was nearly time to be discharged. Before we left, my mother had arranged something with the nurses. We took my son down to the hospital chapel for an official “handing off”. He was dressed in a tiny gown my grandmother had hand made for him to leave the hospital in and booties and a hat crocheted by my aunt. I don’t remember what was said as I handed him to his mother, but I remember we all cried and hugged. When we returned to the room, the discharge papers were ready and it was time to say goodbye. They packed him into his carseat and left for the hotel they were staying at and I left the hospital with my mother. It was when I was wheeled through the doors and moved to get into the car that it struck me how strange it was to walk into the hospital pregnant, and then leave three days later without a baby.That night was possibly the worst night of my life. He was gone, and there was a good chance I’d never see him again. I laid in my mother’s bed and sobbed, crying myself to sleep. I woke up during the night and cried myself to sleep again and again. There was grief like I’d never felt. My heart was breaking into pieces. I knew I’d made the best choice, but it didn’t take the pain and the loss away.The next morning, my mother let me sleep in. While I was sleeping, she got a phone call. Ashley and Dan had to stay another week while the adoption was filed in both states, waiting for permission to take him home. They wanted to know if they could bring him over to our house to wait together. Of course we said yes! That week was an unexpected gift. I changed diapers, I fed him, I held him. Like in the hospital, I almost never put him down. I treasured every moment spent with him. They took pictures when I fell asleep in a recliner with him sleeping on my chest. We laughed together when my milk came in unexpectedly and soaked my shirt when he cried. When they said he’d kept them up the night before, we laughed and made jokes about “No refunds no returns” (something we still say today 19 years later). We got five beautiful days with him, all of us together sharing his existence together one last time, and I got to say goodbye. We cried again when the call came in from that the lawyer that everything was completed and they could take him home. The night they left there weren’t tears. I’d had the time I needed and was completely at peace with the decision.When they returned home, they proved to be everything I hoped they’d be. We talked on the phone at least once a month, but usually more often than that. We got pictures emailed every week, then every month, then once a year as everyone got busy. They emailed family snapshots of birthdays, Christmases, camping trips. When he got old enough to be interested in talking on the phone, I called him more often than I called his mother, but we always talk as well. When I became pregnant with my daughters, I called and told Ashley before I even told my own mother. We became part of their family and they became part of ours.Fourteen years after his adoption he came for a visit. The first time they’d been back since they took him home. They spent three days visiting with my grandfather and my mother, going to all the old family places, then came to my mother’s house for another half a week to spend time with the rest of the family. He’d grown into an amazing young man, but I already knew that from the pictures and phone calls. Getting to hug him again was the most amazing thing I never thought would happen that first night I left the hospital. I got to see my three children together finally. My girls got to be carried around piggieback by the big brother they’d talked to on the phone and over the internet, but never met. I gave him the guitar I got for my birthday the year I got pregnant with him but never learned to play. Dan had taught him, so I’d been saving it for him. I’ve got pictures of my three children cuddling together on my mother’s couch, the girls dogpiling him in the yard. I got time to just sit and talk to him face to face.He’s 19 now and in college. We don’t talk as much as we used to, but we still chat online and text back and forth. He texts, video calls and chats on the phone with his sisters almost every day. My older daughter is 13 now, and he’s her confidant, the go to for all her teenage angst. He laughs at my 11 year old daughter’s jokes and they talk about her favorite youtubers. They have the kind of relationship I always hoped they would.What it feels like to give your child for adoption is bittersweet. There have been terrible moments of grief and worry and fear, and beautiful moments of pure love and joy. It was the hardest, most heartbreaking decision I’ve ever made, but has worked out in the most wonderful way.