This is part two of a series of posts marking the one year anniversary of the rapid fire adoption story of our twins. You can read part one here.
I didn’t waste any time on the drive to the airport that afternoon, but I don’t think I broke the speed limit either. The year before, on the way to Family Court to finalize our first adoption (another baby girl, Zoe), I’d been pulled over for speeding. The officer was not impressed with our destination and for a minute, I thought we’d be late for court. I didn’t want to miss a plane today.
Standing in line to board, my phone rang. It was our friend, Dwayne. He’d heard through the grapevine that we were running off to adopt twin girls and called to confirm it.
“Yes, we’re trying to….” I told him.
“That’s great! What race are they?” He asked.
Dead silence on my end. I had to admit that I had no idea. They could have been just about any color of the rainbow. It had never occurred to us to ask…not that it would have mattered.
Before boarding, I reached for my Blackberry to fire off a message.
Looking back on that tweet, I notice that I couldn’t even bring myself to say ‘our twin girls…’. I think a natural defense mechanism was in place. Once I called them mine…it upped the ante considerably. Still, we were doing what I’d heard. Go get them.
We were too excited to sleep on the flight – even knowing that if all went well, we wouldn’t be sleeping through the night any time soon. We had a brief layover in Dallas, where we worked the phones, talking with friends, the hospital, the birth mom’s brother in law and sister, and our lawyer, who assured us that there would be a stack of paperwork for us at the hotel when we arrived. Shortly, we were aboard another flight for New Orleans.
The twins and their birth mom were not in New Orleans. They were in Pensacola, Florida…but when you decided on the spur of the moment to fly out of Kansas City, Missouri, you often have to agree to go where ever the plane will take you. New Orleans was as close as we could get that late in the afternoon.
Landing at 10pm, we rushed to our waiting rental car and pointed it east. We took turns driving the 200 miles, too exhausted to be alert and too jazzed to sleep. No late night road trip would be complete without road food. I twittered the details…
One of us would drive while the other would exchange emails with the birth mom’s sister who lived on the east coast. Slowly, a picture began to form.
- The girls were in fact, of mixed race. The birth mom was half Japanese, half Thai. If I remember right, the sister was not sure of the father’s race.
- The birth mom had a troubled life. She’d given birth to a son the year before and also placed him up for adoption. He was with a military family on the west coast.
- We should expect that she might be a little erratic. She was very smart but very, very troubled.
Those tidbits made up more than we knew when we left Kansas City, so with our new information, we dragged into a Pensacola, Florida hotel about 3am. As promised, we found a stack of paperwork two inches thick waiting for us at the front desk, and a desk clerk wondering who in the heck we really were. Who checks into a hotel at 3am to a stack of paper that would choke a fax machine, looking as if they’d just completed some sort of bizarre triathlon consisting of legal maneuvering, two plane rides and a late night road race?
We found our room, flipped through the paperwork, set an alarm for four hours later and collapsed on the bed, just over twenty hours into this adventure.
At 8am, we would meet the birth mother of the twins and she would decide if she felt right about this. The last thing I remember before drifting off to sleep was thinking that somewhere in this town, twin girls lay in a hospital nursery, and we had a shot at changing their life.
I prayed they would sleep as well as I was going to.
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