She dropped a handful of hard copy, parent profiles on the coffee table in front of me, “start with these,” she said.
I reached for the pile and discovered there were ten separate profiles. Though you would hardly know the difference between them all, the first pages were all the same. A sheet of what I call basic stats; first name, height, age, ethnicity, etc. Followed by a short paragraph about the couple and another paragraph about each parent. I looked at my social worker stunned. I was about to give my baby to one of these couples, and this was all the information they were going to give me? I felt pressured to pick one on the spot and thumbed through the pile as if I was reading them. I asked if I could take them home. She nodded, and I grabbed four random profiles and headed back home.
I stashed the profiles under my bed and left them there for weeks. The task seemed daunting to me. They all looked the same and sounded the same. They all had something I didn’t have, a supportive partner. I was heartbroken, alone, and feeling sorry for myself. I didn’t want to read about their perfect lives and how badly they wanted what, at that time, I didn’t want. I didn’t want to be pregnant. I didn’t want to pick any of them. I knew my choice to place my baby for adoption was the right one, but when I thought about picking her parents, I knew she would no longer be my baby; she would be theirs too.