FATHERHOOD PART II: Waiting for It

So after trying, testing, and getting some disappointing results that I just don’t want to talk about…

Jen and I decided that our best bet for parenthood came down to adoption. Of course we wanted the whole experience, not just to pick up some kiddos in the middle of their childhood lives and go on from that point. No, we wanted to be there from birth to as long as we all lived. Yeah—still with a bit of the selfish streak…I know. There it was though, adopting an infant or nothing at all. Of course many people have heard that, for the longest time, we thought that the option that we would have to live with was the “nothing at all” option. For nearly five years we waited on the list of LDS Family Services, hoping to hear that a birthmommy had chosen us…but no word came. As my wife came closer to 40, we thought more and more that it just wasn’t going to happen. We made up our minds that if we didn’t get a child placed with us by the time she was 40, then we would be a childless couple who traveled the globe and lives lonely lives…like Julia Child.

We were in Hawaii in August of 2009, for Jen’s 20th high school reunion, when we received a call from LDS Family Services. A special young lady, her boyfriend, and his mom were coming in to choose a couple to raise their child. For many reasons, none of them important to this story, they would not be able to keep the child. Though they didn’t really want to do it, they were faced with the choice of either giving the child up for adoption, or risk the state social services taking the baby and putting it in a foster home. They chose the option of hand-picking the baby’s parents. We were among the few from which they would choose. About a week after we returned from our vacation, we heard that they wanted to meet with us.

On our first meeting, the birth family had a tiny request to make: they wanted us to name the baby Jesse…after the birthdaddy’s brother who had recently died. We felt their plea, and appreciated the sentiment, but after years of dreaming and hoping, we already had our heart set on a name. This was a name that no one had taken from us for their own children. This was a name which we coveted because it was a) fairly common; b) not so common that he would share it with seven kids in his class at school; c) the name of all of the best football players. We wanted to pair this name with my first name, thus branding him as my firstborn son. Because of our shared Hawaii connection though, we promised to give the boy the Hawaiian equivalent of “Jesse” for his second middle name. We didn’t want the English to Hawaiian translation, because it was largely phonetic, and didn’t convey the meaning of the name. The name “Jesse” is Hebrew for “The Lord Is.” That is a name of testimony, of conviction, and of a love for God. We chose the Hawaiian name Kahaku. We decided that we had waited long, and he rated at least four names.

The birthmommy used to live in Hawaii, Jen grew up in Hawaii, I loved Hawaii…it was a match made in some island paradise. By they time we left that happy meeting, we knew that she chose us to parent her coming soon baby boy.

Yes, we were pretty certain that the baby would come out with boy parts. Were we 100% certain? No…but who is? We moved forward with the idea that all of the doctor’s data pointed to a baby boy, and we bought blue things. We prepared the baby’s room with planets, stars, a crib, a changing table, a book shelf with his own copy of Where the Wild Things Are, and The Very Hungry Caterpillar (among other titles.) We had showers that provided play pens, car seats, strollers, clothes, diapers, and more clothes. I had nothing but dreams of watching him play sports, teaching him to read, taking him to the zoo, and going camping. I had embraced the idea of fatherhood, but with no practical experience. But first and foremost I had to get the boy in the house.

The birth mom called us a couple of weeks shy of her due date and told us that her water had broke. By “a couple of weeks” I mean to say five weeks. That was the beginning of the adventure. We hoofed it down to the hospital (coincidentally, the same one where my mother had birthed me back in the day), and sat down to wait. We listened to his heartbeat on the monitor, and listened to the doctors while they read a litany of complications which they expected: underdeveloped lungs, downs syndrome, complications brought on by the birthmommy’s epilepsy, birth stress taking its toll on the baby’s tiny, underdeveloped body…

The list went on and only caused my anxiety to grow. So…this was parenthood. I knew that every moment wouldn’t have glamour and joy…but I had hoped for a little glamour and joy before nausea set in for the long haul. The baby’s heartbeat monitor, though never strong, had strong moments before slowing down and fading…only to come up strong again to start a new cycle. For eight hours I sat worrying that neither baby, nor birthmommy, would survive the day. Finally, after having the poor girl labor on her hands and knees for hours (to relieve the stress on the baby)…after the sun had given up and went down…after most of the night had passed into memory…the doctors decided to go in and take the baby before he sustained more damage.

At five a.m., on October 4, 2009, Troy Robert Kahaku Justus came into the world. My first impression was beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy. The birth family chose us for multiple reasons, but I feel that the baby made his choice before he came into this world. He chose his birthparents, and he chose us to be his parents to raise him, care for him, teach him, and nurture him. In one moment I ditched the last vestiges of my anti-parenthood sentiments. I looked at him, stared at him, wondered at him…I knew that I would never be complete if he were not my son.

So began the last part of my journey from wanting to be a parent, to waiting for fatherhood, to becoming his father for time and all eternity.

FATHERHOOD PART I: Wishing for It

Growing up I probably felt the intense responsibility of fatherhood, and therefore never looked for it in my life. In fact, I had always planned on not being a father. That would mean PTA meetings, Boy Scout camp newspaper drives, signing parent permission slips, and really more stuff in my life that didn’t have to do with taking care of myself. Ok, admittedly I displayed definite selfish, if not narcissistic, tendencies. As I moved through my 20’s I maybe found a little more time to look outside of myself. I also always said that I was not the type of man to take a wife…and took her I did. Still, fatherhood seemed like more than I wanted to bear.

I had nephews and nieces that came along and lit up my life. I treated them as an uncle should whenever I saw them: I sugared them up and sent them home. My friends had kids, and they all told me that “it was like nothing that I have ever felt” to be a father. Sure, changing diapers and wiping strained peas off of a kid had to bring about many a tender moment. Somewhere along the line, though, I developed the urge to be a dad. I can pinpoint three such times when I nearly ditched my anti-daddy position and jumped over to the dark side: on my mission, working in the nursery, and standing in the middle of Walmart one day.

God has a sense of humor, and He here is a little joke which He liked to play on me: every time I found myself sent to a new area of work, the Branch Presidents (missionaries all of them) assigned me to the Primary orginazation. Yes, I had the assignment in developing branches of the church in the south west part of the Dominican Republic to look after the Primary. For those that don’t know, the Primary organization is basically Sunday School for kids from age 3 to 12. I always thought that God had me work this area because I am really just an overgrown 10-year-old, and I fit in quite nicely. I suspect now that He had it in His all-powerful mind to break down my wall. On Sundays I went to the room with the kids and we sang together about trees that grew popcorn, musically gifted waterways, and how Jesus wanted us to become sunbeams. We talked of Christ, we learned of his divine mission, and we all came to love him for what he did for us. When people grow their testimonies together, they come to love one another, and every time I received the call to move on to another town, it was with a heavy heart. I left little friends behind from Las Matas de Farfán to Santo Dominigo. Now those kids are all grown up, and they may not remember me from any other gringo that wore the black name tag in their towns, but I remember all of them.

Upon coming home and getting married, God continued His assault on my anti-parenthood stance: He kept calling me to work in the nurseries of every new ward that I attended. I got to share goldfish crackers, talk about being grateful for Jesus, and read The Very Hungry Caterpillar to many a little 1 1/2 to 3 year old child. I remember one such Sunday, at the end of the meetings when all but one parent had come to retrieve their child, I sat with little Sidney Barton reading about the caterpillar. Her daddy came in to get her, and she jumped up and ran to him. I sat on the floor, in the middle of the big story telling blanket and watched them leave. Then, she turned, ran back to me, and gave me a hug before leaving with her dad. I always called it the best calling ever…and I always will.

But the final assault, the attack that successfully breached my defenses, came quite unexpectedly in my mid 30’s. I was in the Walmart, moving from the food section to the electronics to browsePS2 games. I passed by the baby center and stopped to look at a dress for an infant girl. For some reason that moment struck me hard. I wanted to buy that dress for my daughter. I had no daughter to wear that dress. What had I done in squandering my youth away on myself, when deep down I had the makings of a family man? Was it too late to make up for lost time?

Wishing for fatherhood does not make it happen. Even though my wife and I had not taken measures beyond the first year of our marriage to keep from having children...no children had come to us. I did not worry overly much, but now the worry gene had activated. I had migrated from anti-fatherhood, to enjoying being around kids, to wishing for the blessing of daddy ship to come upon me. Hopefully it had not completely passed me by.