August 20, 2010. The day my dad was buried. The day I legally became mother to a son. Out of all the 365 days in a year, the funeral and the adoption happened on the same day.
My mom received the call about my dad's death several days prior to his funeral. It's hard to feel much emotion for someone you can't remember, but still, I felt sorrow. I was sad that he died alone. I was sad that the chance to meet him would never come. Throughout my growing up years he was always somewhere out there. I had a father; I had seen his pictures. I had not felt the desire to meet him until one point in my mid-twenties, but I never acted on it because I think deep down I was afraid. It was easier to not alter my world.
When news of his death came though, my chance was forever gone. And it made me sad. His funeral would be on the Hualapai reservation--though he was not there at the time of his death. He was full blood Native American so there would be a traditional wake lasting through the night. I wanted to go. Part of me was curious about the other half of my heritage. The other part of me just wanted to pay my respects. After all he gave me life. But it was not to be.
His service was scheduled for Friday, August 20th. There was no way I could be there because the adoption date for my little boy was set for that morning. So it was time to grieve alone and then look forward to the task of raising a boy who I prayed would become the kind of man that my father was not able to be.
Friday morning my mom, Daniel, and I drove to the courthouse with a close friend. Our pastors and some other special people from DHS would meet us there. I felt all the familiar waves of anxiety and nausea that I had felt so many times before while driving to the courthouse. My head kept telling me that this was going to be a good day. This was a happy occasion. But my body couldn't shake the memories of all the previous court hearings which had been so emotional and hard. I was still shaking from nerves when I went through the security at the entrance for the 25th (?) time.
For all of the previous court hearings, including the two jury trials, we had the same judge. He retired the month before the adoption though so a new judge took his place. Since I had ambivalent feelings for the first judge, I was kind of glad for the change. Plus I was told that the new judge loved adoptions and really tried to make them a memorable occasion.
After a while of waiting in the lobby we were finally called in. Daniel's adoption was the last one for the day so the judge was relaxed and happy. One more time of walking through those same heavy doors into the same courtroom....so many memories. The adoption was a happy occasion. The judge asked lots of questions, gave Daniel gifts, let him wear his judge's robe, we took lots of pictures... And then we said good-bye and thanked the caseworkers, the attorneys, the judge, and walked out of that courthouse for what I hoped would be the last time. That period of my life was over--and I wasn't sorry to say good-bye!
The adoption legalized a relationship that had already been established and I was suddenly overwhelmed with the big task ahead--raising a child! The real work was beginning and we were moving forward. It's been two years now; in many ways it's gone by quickly, in other ways those early years of Daniel's life seem so long ago. I'm crazy over him and love being a mom but I often find myself asking God for help, and strength, and wisdom because I need it every single day.
