Excerpt
Finding Jenny
A Nonfiction Story by Amber Lea Starfire, ©2009
I carefully smooth skin, remove blemishes, crop and correct colors in Photoshop, remembering the first time I saw her. My other children were born from me, slick with amniotic fluid and blood. But it wasn't like that with Jenny. I remember standing with my husband on the small, square, stoop, knocking on the door of the foster home, every nerve in my body on high alert. Pretending I was smoothing the cloth of my skirt, I wiped my perspiring palms.
I had always dreamed of having a little girl, especially since I grew up with five brothers (no sisters) and had two sons. However, my husband had gotten a vasectomy—without my approval—after our second child. After several years of pleading, when our youngest son was seven or eight, my husband finally agreed to adopt and we applied with Social Services for a girl, six or seven years old. In addition to the fact that it is easier to adopt an older child than a baby (there are many more older children available for adoption than infants), we thought it would be easier on our family if she was old enough to be in school.
Instead, when the social worker finally called after months of waiting, she told me about a 20-month-old toddler.
"I don't know," I said. "I wasn't planning on another baby."
"She's beautiful," she said. "You'll love her."
So here we were, knocking on the door of the foster home. It opened, and a woman led us into her living room. Jenny sat in the middle of the floor, a small stuffed animal in her lap. She was so tiny–my sons had been that size by ten months. Her skin was a pale cream, and white-blonde curly hair sprouted from the top of her head in two pigtails. When she saw us, she hid behind a chair, peeking out at us with large, frightened eyes.
I wanted to scoop her into my arms and comfort her. I edged nearer.
"She's shy with adults," the foster mother explained, "but good with other children."
"How long have you had her?"
"About ten months. Before that she was in three other homes."
Only 20 months old and in four different homes, poor thing. I watched her, careful not to invade her space, while she watched me. We were only there for about thirty minutes, but by the time we left, I had fallen in love. She was mine.
We visited the foster home twice more before taking her home with us. She was handed to me with only the clothes on her back, clutching a bottle and a small, lumpy pillow in her tiny hands. I wondered why she didn't have anything of her own. Foster parents, I assumed, had to reuse everything for the next child. My heart filled with compassion. Abandoned by her mother and father and moved from foster home to foster home, it was apparent that she had no sense of security or love. I put her in her car seat, chattering cheerfully to fill the space and trying to put her at ease. She cried anyway.
At home, she clung to me like a baby monkey and cried whenever I put her down. I held her, and held her, and held her. After two weeks, I hired someone to help with the housework, because I was unable to do it with a child in my arms. One day, about a month later, she got down and started to play. After that, things became easier, but she always needed more affection and cuddling than most children I knew. Given how much change and abandonment she had experienced, I thought that was only natural.
That was over twenty years ago. Now, in Photoshop, I zoom in, viewing her portrait at 200%. I see a beautiful young woman, and I am somehow surprised. It is as if, by some sleight of hand, someone removed my baby and replaced her with this grown child. She has perfectly shaped, pink lips, large green-grey eyes, naturally arched eyebrows, and thick, unruly hair that graces the middle of her back and frustrates her daily.
We are lucky, she and I, to have each other. Yet we have had a difficult time of it. I have learned from each of my children that parenting, in addition to traditional responsibilities, is a journey in self-discovery. However, I think my relationship with my daughter has revealed more of me to myself, than any other relationship—rivaled only by my relationship with my mother.
I discovered that I felt smothered by emotional neediness. I had to make a special effort to open my arms to her daily and not push her away from me. I discovered that in adopting a daughter, what I had really wanted was a playmate. Unrealistically, I had expected a girl who was like me—someone who loved to read and confidently explored her world—who would climb trees and not cry over a skinned knee. But she was not me. I had a daughter who loved pink purses, soft toys, and frilly things. Later, it would be celebrity gossip and shopping. She was always herself: often frightened and insecure, tentative and uncomfortable with change, artistic, musical, sensitive, and distinctly feminine.
In many ways, we have grown up together through our conflict. During the "Difficult Year" after she turned eighteen and ran away from home, I was afraid that the police would find her on the streets, emaciated, drug addicted, or worse, dead. I kept a light burning in the window of my heart, hoping she'd see it and come home.
Nine months later, two days after Thanksgiving, she sent a text message to my cell phone. "Do you still love me?"
My heart broke. "Of course," I replied. "Come home."
This story has a sweet ending. She recently married and moved to Utah. I hear from her several times a week; she calls if she has a question, needs help with anything, or just wants to talk. She has her independence, and I have mine.
We are learning how to let each other be who we are and to appreciate each other. Our defenses are down. We are getting to know each other as mother and daughter, as women, and as friends.