The 12th Day of Christmas, my Son came to me.

Nineteen years ago, on the 12th day of Christmas--January 6th--we finalized the adoption of our older son, FTD the special delivery. He came to us in the dark, early evening, during one of those snow showers that makes you glad you're inside. We heard about him 24 hours earlier. He was supposed to show up right after school. I was teaching fourth grade at St. Richard Elementary in Swanton at the time. My class had scheduled a press conference, of all things, to announce the opening of their community recycling center. I had to be there that day, to tie up loose ends, get my lesson plans in order, and explain to the kids why I'd be gone for a while.

We didn't have anything for babies in the house. CSB (the local child welfare organization) staff made it clear that there would be no healthy white babies coming through their doors. We said fine, we'll be very happy with a couple of rowdy little pre-school aged boys. So we had two twin beds, dressers, all sorts of stuff ready for toddlers. When our caseworker said the child was 4 days old, did we want him or not, all I could think was, "What's wrong?" She said, nothing and since he's healthy the hospital wants him out a.s.a.p. .

Holy cow. I've always maintained that you can never find a ranger when you want one, and I couldn't find mine. He was closing gates in the sloppy snow. When he got home, BadAmy came over, too. She was just 21, and needed more cash for college. Talk about a weird evening, college tuition and diaper pails all in the same conversation.

We decided to give it a go.

I got to school early the next morning and was greeted by a co-worker. She said, "Why are you here so early?" "I'm expecting." "That's fantastic!! When?" "Today at 3." Dead silence.

Baby didn't arrive at 3. We waited. We paced. We looked out the window at the storm. Our house was on a road with no other homes, and for city folks, it always seemed to be so far away from civilization. And yes, it is dark out here. All sorts of horrible scenarios raced through my head. The hospital changed its policy. The birth mother took the baby and ran. The agency found someone else. . . . the list went on and on. Finally, out the window, I saw two sets of headlights, slowly creeping down the road. Our caseworker came with the baby's caseworker to be sure they could find our house. The baby had spent the entire day at CSB, where there are lots of kids, but not too many 4 day-old, 6.5 oz. babies. He so enamored the staff that they didn't want him to leave. But he had to come home. He had a borrowed onesie, 2 bottles of formula, couple of diapers, and a quilt. That was it.




During that day, my sister had rounded up the troops and by the time we got home, there were bottles (I had no idea how to use 'em), diapers, clothes, car seats, high chairs, etc. etc.. (Baby crapanalia, I calls it.) We didn't have a bassinet, but like so many babies before him, he fit nicely into a dresser drawer.

The next three weeks held few memories for me. It's like a dream now. We did run into some issues later, given that he was our foster son, in a program called "legal risk adoption." We nearly ran that risk, but just under a year later, on Epiphany, he was ours. What joy.


Yep, the gifts of the 12th day of Christmas are the best.