"Fair" Doesn't Always Mean "Equal"

Years ago when I titled this blog I could have never prophesied just how apropos "The Applicant" would become such a perfect phrase for my life. I ripped it from Sylvia Plath's poem of the same title because I love her, and that particular poem flicks a thumb to our society that values a woman's conformity and subordination through marriage. Through all of my transitions, both professionally and personally, it has become a beacon for my identity, one that I often celebrate. But currently it is a label that is seared onto every moral I uphold, every success I have achieved and every flaw that is woven into my being. 

It took us seven months to complete what turned out to be a ninety-three page document to apply to become adoptive parents of an infant.

"Including, but not limited to": FBI fingerprinting, letters of reference, religious views, thoughts on discipline, detailed description of our home, ethical and philosophical views, community involvement, family relationships, philosophy on raising children (including discipline, structure and consequences) and physical and mental health evaluations. 

The essays, which totaled approximately eighty-three pages, were my biggest hurdle. I am a writer by nature, whether it is good writing or not, I enjoy the process but I underestimated my self-scrutiny. How could I possibly convey the intricacies of my upbringing through incomplete character development and anecdotes? Would I have to classify as a heathen in order to explain my religious beliefs? They asked for details about how Aaron and I met, but do they really want to know the name of the venue for our first date was called, "The Last Chance"? I felt like I was Chunk from "The Goonies" in the scene where he was confessing all of his sins to the Fratellis. I'll tell you anything you want to know, as long as you just give me a baby at the end! There was no limit to their inquisition, and every time I asked for more structure, I was derailed by, "whatever you think is necessary". Their penance for being ambiguous is having to read the "Comfort a Cow" story.

Then came the "Evaluations", which included a one page form for our primary care provider to check boxes and one question for them to free text an answer: "Describe the applicant's general physical condition". Aaron's came back with, "good", from a provider he has never seen on a regular basis. Mine came back to me with a scribbled , "fair/good".  

FAIR. Physically. My skin is so fair I have to get regular skin checks. My hair is bleached blonde to be fairer. I get my nails done on a regular basis. My eyebrows are waxed and I generally wear clean clothing and mascara everywhere I go. I am on Weight Watchers and eat oatmeal every morning. I have all of my teeth, and I smile a lot.  Though my head sweats and I need to shed a bunch of pounds, I can carry six of my filled, reusable grocery bags from my car into my kitchen and not clip my heel on the too-fast-to-close front door. 

One word, buried in thousands of others, that finally brought me here to break my silence and scream to the masses, "THIS IS NOT FAIR!"

It made me realize, again, that we are dependent on someone else to decide whether or not we get to expand our family. If we could have a biological child, none of this would be questioned. The midwives would not list me in "fair" condition and I wound't have to explain to anyone why I quit teaching or what it felt like to do weekly house chores or why we co-habitate with both cats and dogs or how clutter makes me nervous. And try not to judge me based on my med list.

But I do. And they will.  

There are times when everything makes sense. Logically, I understand why we must go through all of this. But it doesn't make it any easier. I will need to explain to someone how my "fair" rating makes me fit to be a good parent. I will have to elaborate on my experiences in therapy and someone will have to follow up on my references and check my driving record before they can move us forward towards our endgame. We now give you permission to move to the next stage. I can hear the voice through a tinny loudspeaker as each metal door seals shut behind us and we've earned a new tool to help battle the foes in each unlocked level. If only we had Lenny Kravitz designing our costume changes for each judging panel.

We will expose our most hidden vulnerabilities and polish our strengths and then fall back into the arms of all of the saints who have given us the momentum to continue this journey. It's not fair. But that's why we teach our children this lesson from the moment we split a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Some of us have to use more tools to reach the same outcome and Aaron and I have been entirely blessed with our arsenal.

Though I have never considered myself a role model for perseverance through muddy waters, I will continue this challenge, and the next, until I have reached its peak. I can tell my children what it means to believe in something with so much passion that your heart breaks with love and determination, and that most of the time life will never be fully realized until they have embraced the challenges that define the essence of their deepest desires.

This life was never meant to be fair. And we could not be more thrilled about that.