Blessed with a baby

We'd been waiting only two months when a counselor from the Portland-based Open Adoption and Family Services called to say that a 16-year-old high schooler in Medford, Oregon, had selected us from a pool of about 60 families. Mallory was seven months pregnant and wanted to meet us. Both professional writers, Eric and I had zoomed through the paperwork that some hopeful adoptive parents find daunting  -- including a "Dear Birth Parent" letter meant to read like a personal ad  -- and actually enjoyed the required home study. But we never thought we'd be chosen so quickly. In a daze, we drove the 450 miles from Seattle toward this mystery girl.

I don't exactly know what we expected, but she was all we could have hoped for: incredibly poised, funny, sensitive, cautious but clearly willing to try to form an alliance with these two nervous strangers sitting across from her in the local agency office, assaulting her with a photo album full of evidence of their lovely home and healthy lifestyle.

Mallory's mom, Kelly, was the one who really broke the ice. Like me, she's quick to fill awkward silences with a joke. She's also around my age (younger, in fact), and we share a lot of references. Plus, she's stubborn. Kelly's conviction that open adoption would provide her whole family with the best possible outcome helped her overcome her own grief at giving up daily contact with her first grandchild. Once satisfied with Eric and me, she became a rock for all of us.

As day wound into evening, we went to dinner and met Mallory's two brothers and her reluctant dad, who wasn't so sure about this openness thing. (He warmed up over the ensuing weeks, even coming to the hospital after Rebecca's birth, much to Mallory's joy.)

The next morning, standing in a pumpkin patch where we'd gone for an outing, we all agreed to "move forward," as the adoption lingo puts it. We could accept that the birth father had denied paternity and that Mallory didn't want to push the matter. She could deal with the fact that we were older than her own parents. Eric and I drove back home, a single snapshot of a very pregnant Mallory on the disposable camera I'd bought just in case things worked out well enough to deserve recording.

Over the next several weeks, we took turns making that long drive up and down Interstate 5, learning just how delicate a task it is to be truly open. Thanksgiving weekend was particularly nerve-racking. We'd come for a visit, but with less than a month to go until her due date, Mallory was unsure whether she wanted to see us. We were terrified that this meant she was reconsidering her choice, which was her right until she'd sign the adoption papers 48 hours after her daughter's birth. She also announced that she wanted a day alone with the baby after the birth, which sent us further into paroxysms of anxiety. We'll never know whether she just needed some space or whether she had real doubts about us. But we did learn that open adoption also meant dealing with doors that have to be closed.

We did finally come together that weekend. Kelly somehow persuaded Mallory to meet us at a local deli, where we had the first of a series of tearful conversations about how hard this all was. Sharing these emotions somehow released us all. We spent the rest of the afternoon poring over baby-name books at Barnes & Noble. After much chuckling and arguing, one of us (who knows who?) hit upon Rebecca: the perfect name, because in Hebrew it means "faithful," or "to unite."

Then came the birth itself. Mallory called us midday on her due date to say that she'd gone into labor. Knowing her penchant for punctuality  -- we'd already stashed our bags and a brand-new car seat in our car  -- we drove to Medford in a record seven hours. We visited Mallory in the hospital and then left her to pace the halls with Kelly and her best friend. We heard Rebecca's first cry from right outside the birthing room door.

With incredible generosity, Mallory invited us in. Each of us held our daughter (we all called her "ours" from the beginning). Then it was our turn to do the hard thing. We left for those promised 24 hours, and yes, we had a tough time not biting our nails off. Yet the moments we'd been together just beforehand, and the days and weeks we'd spent establishing a bond, made us feel a lot less panic-stricken than we might have. We went to a local jewelry store and bought Mallory a traditional open-adoption gift  -- a mother-and-child pendant with Rebecca's birthstone, blue topaz, embedded. We bought a pair of matching earrings for Kelly, too. They weren't returnable. That was part of our leap of faith.

The next morning, Mallory called and said she'd like us to come to the hospital. The word that best describes what followed: miraculous. For a day and a half we all shared in Rebecca's care and in a torrent of emotions ranging from sorrow to euphoria. Kelly showed me how to change a diaper. Eric chose CDs to fill the room with music. Mallory's friends and family came by. Flowers arrived. Then we took Rebecca into an adjoining room for our first night as her parents. We could feel Mallory and Kelly next door, mourning the imminent loss of their new baby. Knowing their determination to go through with the adoption despite the pain made Eric and me all the more committed to keeping them close within our family circle.

Rebecca's birth and the days surrounding it were definitely the most intense times of my life. I remember walking into Mallory's room after she'd signed the adoption papers but while she was still holding Rebecca, saying goodbye  -- she'd put the sheet completely over her head, creating a cocoon to protect her during this devastating transition. I also have a photo of Mallory's dad's face, full of melancholy, as he held Rebecca for the first time. But we had happiness, too: Mallory walking arm in arm with me down the hall as Eric carried Rebecca; all of us sharing a messy meal of Thai food on a hospital-sheet tablecloth; Mallory talking to Eric's parents on the phone, becoming family without ever having met.

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