Just Breathe. Honey Perkel

ourselves there could be nothing about this infant that would prevent us from taking him home. He was healthy. That was most important. It didn’t matter to us the color of his hair or anything else about him. This was the beginning of something wonderful. Brian William Perkel. Our son.

      Bob and I were giddy as we sang and laughed and questioned what our baby would look like.

      “But what if he has red hair!” I asked. We were attacked by another gale of laughter.

      We checked into the Pepper Tree Motel and went to a nearby restaurant for lunch. Bob had always been cool and level-headed. I’d never seen his feathers get ruffled. He ordered a large burger and greasy fries, and I decided on a small green salad from which I ate two slices of cucumber and a wedge of tomato. The food stuck in my throat as it always did when I got nervous. My stomach rolled. I just couldn’t eat.

      How would I feel when I first saw my baby and took him into my arms? How could anyone expect me to be calm at a time like this? Finally, after all the pain and disappointments, I was hours away from becoming a mother.

      At one o’clock sharp we entered the state Human Resources Office in Eugene. We were told to sit in the nearby waiting room until the social worker and baby arrived. My nervousness had evaporated by this time, and in its place was pure joy. I looked at the lime green walls and bins of children’s toys in the playroom. The yellow child-size table and chairs on which were stacks of puzzles and dolls. I wanted to remember this room forever. Memorize it all, for this was how and where it all began. This was the beginning of life as we would know it. Parents, Bob and I.

      And then they brought him to us, and I held him in my arms. I’d never forget how he smelled or how he looked. His chunky little legs. His tiny yellow and white checked sunsuit. I felt as though I already knew him and he already knew me. He and I shared a bond from the beginning. This baby was mine. And he was perfect.

      Bob and I were told to take “Nicholas” to our motel room so we could have some private time together. They would let us do that? Take this baby from them when he wasn’t yet ours? With all the paperwork they had on Bob and me, I guessed they felt confident we couldn’t run off with him. We scheduled to return to the office at three-thirty that afternoon with our decision to proceed with the adoption or not. Neither Bob, nor I could imagine telling them “no”.

      We laid Brian between us in the new car seat we’d purchased the night before, and buckled him securely in place. Bob drove slowly back to our motel, careful with our precious cargo.

      Standing in the doorway to our motel room, I held our baby as Bob unlocked the door. We entered the cool, quiet interior about to squeal with happiness.

      With tender arms, I laid Brian on the brown striped bedspread of the double bed so we could finally get our first good look at him. His beautiful blue eyes. Tiny hands and feet. Only six weeks old.

      As the afternoon sun streaked across the room, I stretched out on the bed alongside Brian gathering him in my arms, pressing him against me. He gurgled with warmth and pleasure as his small sweet-smelling body wiggled against my breast. Brian looked up at me and blew a bubble against my chin, and I immediately fell in love. We snuggled, my heart feeling as though it would burst.

      There was a change of clothes in his tote bag, a few baby toys, and a clean diaper. Cloth. It wasn’t long before Bob and I realized Brian needed his diaper changed. But I was only familiar with the ones that came out of a box. Land fills. Expense. These thoughts had come to mind briefly; however, I was all for convenience and ease. Like most young mothers, I knew nothing about folding and pinning cloth diapers!

      The evening before, Bob and I had made the trip to the grocery store with a lengthy list of must-haves. We purchased cases of baby formula, boxes of Pampers, a bathing tub, shampoo, baby wash, diaper rash ointment, and baby powder. Things he would need right away. The rest we would get later. I imagined my parents were on a similar spree.

      Bob and I now stood above this squalling baby, trying to figure out how this procedure went. Fold a cloth diaper. Which way? Safety pin. How many? What to do with the wide gaps around his legs? More safety pins. Not too tight. Careful, don’t stab him, all the while he was crying and we were giggling. It was ridiculous, this diaper changing business. If the social worker or foster mom noticed what a botched-up job I’d done, Bob and I would be driving back to Portland without our baby! How could they help but notice? Who in their right mind changed a diaper using five safety pins to pin it shut? A little duck tape would have been helpful, too. We could only hope and pray no one would hold it against us.

      But the social worker laughed when we told her what we’d done. “You’ll learn,” she said.

      Relieved, Bob and I signed the papers to proceed with the adoption. We received a brief history on Brian’s birth mother. She was a nurse at a hospital in Roseberg, Oregon. She was ill with kidney disease and had not received any prenatal care until she was nearly ready to deliver. She was separated from her husband and had a one night stand with a man from Morocco. We were even given her name and the fact that Brian had two half sisters.

      We brought Brian home August ninth, exactly one and two years after my first and second miscarriages. My parents had lunch waiting for us when we returned to Portland late the next morning. Also waiting were baby clothes and toys, including a huge stuffed Snoopy Dog more than twice the size of Brian. We were all ecstatic. Even my father greeted us with a big smile. I hoped he and my son would have the kind of relationship he and I never had. I hoped he and my son would learn to talk to one another.

      Chapter 8

      Laura and Kari met us at our house with a long banner that stretched out across the porch. Welcome Home, Brian, it read. Laura had made dinner for us: a macaroni and cheese casserole, salad, and peach cobbler. And she informed me she was planning a baby shower for later that month.

      During those first few weeks our house was over-run with the comings and goings of family and friends. Aunts. Uncles. Nieces. Nephews. Cousins. Friends and friends of friends. Everyone was excited, wanting to meet the new arrival and to welcome him home. Bouquets of flowers, balloons, and gifts were delivered almost daily. I spent my time writing thank you notes while Brian took his naps.

      Overnight the appearance of our home changed from the pristine clean of no children in sight to the careless, haphazardness of baby toys and paraphernalia everywhere. It took me time to obtain some kind of routine, but eventually I acquired a system. We moved comfortably into our new life. Brian was an easy baby. He was a good sleeper, a good eater, and was on a self-regulating schedule. He loved to be held and cuddled. There was no shortage of that.

      I couldn’t get enough of my son. I sat in the bentwood rocker and stared at him while he slept, watching his tiny chest breathing in and out. I loved how his eyes twitched in his sleep. Was he dreaming? What did an infant dream about?

      As I held Brian I thought of how rich our lives were now. How he’d grow up happy and healthy. I’d walk him to school. Bob would teach him how to shave, teasing him when he took his first razor nick. We would see him graduate, get married, become a father. God willing.

      “You’re mine forever,” I promised him. “I’ll be there to keep you safe.”

      Chapter 9

      It was Karen Davis’ job to come to our home every three months to see how we were doing. She and I sat in the living room over coffee, while Brian played on the floor before us and Punim stretched out at my feet.

      I told her early on that we wanted to adopt more babies. Two more. It was my dream to have a large family. But Karen always told us the same story — she hadn’t placed another newborn since Brian. It seemed our odds for getting a second child were slim.

      Chapter 10

      Brian gave us our first real scare when he was six months old. It was late December and he’d been battling a cold for several days. Temperature. Sneezing. Runny nose. Our pediatrician had advised baby Tylenol, lots of liquids, and rest. Late one night as I was going to bed, Bob suddenly rushed into our