Lou’s View – Sep. 1, 2016

The Adoption

by Lou Bernard

It’s been a year.

Not a year since we got our little boy, Paul Matthew. We’ve physically had him for over two years now, since he was fourteen hours old. But it’s been a year since he officially, legally became our child.

When you have a child, there are all sorts of milestones. Birthdays, obviously. First tooth. First day of school. First time you have to throw a fit because the kid colored on the walls. You go through all this, as a family.

I’m learning that with adoption, it adds a few of those. I still remember what day we got the phone call, telling us that we’d been selected to receive a baby. The day we drove down to get the little guy. And, one year ago, the day the court decreed that it was official.

August 31, 2015 was our court appearance. I’ll always remember it. Paul very likely won’t, because he was a year old at the time. But we’ll tell him about it.

Paul was born in New Orleans in 2014, and we spent two weeks down there doing all the legal stuff before we could bring him home. Louisiana has some quirky laws regarding adoption, which is allright with me, since they make up for it by having no discernable alcohol restrictions. There are drive-through margarita stores down there (no joke), so as far as I’m concerned, Louisiana can make whatever other laws they want.

One of the laws states that an adoption has to be finalized one year from the initial date of birth. What this amounted to, for us, was another trip to New Orleans.

For a year, we had Paul, but it wasn’t quite finalized yet. Finally we got our court date—August 31. And we had to plan on going back down, to attend the court and make him officially ours.

We drove down, which takes about two days. Going into New Orleans is worth the trip in itself; Lake Ponchartrain is twenty-six miles long, so as you drive over the bridge, you can’t see land from anywhere. It’s awesome. You feel like you’re in a bad Kevin Costner movie, but it’s awesome anyway.

We stayed overnight in a hotel downtown, ate po-boys for dinner. (“Po-boy” is how Louisiana people say “subs.”) And then we got up the next morning, and went to the courthouse in Jefferson Parish, Louisiana. (“Parish” is how Louisiana people say “county.”)

The lawyer had assured us that there would likely be no problem; it was just a  formality. The judge, Andrea Price Janzen, was a big fan of adoptions, and was not likely to make this very hard on us. Still, you can’t help but be nervous—We were going to court for the right to keep our son. Anyone would be nervous. You would be nervous.

When the judge came in, she immediately smiled at Paul. “Well! Who is this charming little boy?” she asked.

It was, in fact, fairly quick and easy. We’d driven for like thirty hours to attend court for ten minutes. The judge smiled at us, and the lawyer double-checked our birthdates and important information, and then the judge ruled that Paul Matthew was ours, all ours, forever. And then she gave him his first lollipop. Which, as far as Paul was concerned, was the best part of the whole trip. He looked at it for a moment, a little dubious, and then tasted it. And he had it finished before we hit the parking lot.

We brought Paul home to the only home he’d ever known. My boy may have been born in New Orleans, but his home is Lock Haven, Pennsylvania. His bedroom is in a haunted house overlooking a hill, with colorful monsters painted on the walls. And it’s the room I carry him up to, every night at bedtime, after a couple of Doctor Seuss books.

“Are you ready for bed?”

“Yah.”

“How was your day?”

“Goot.”

“Good. We’ll have more fun tomorrow, little guy. Sleep well. You are very much loved.”

And he goes to sleep. My perfect little boy. Mine, officially, since August 31, 2015. My son.

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