by Terri Combs-Orme Ph.D.

Created on: May 14, 2008   Last Updated: October 31, 2008

I am blessed to have raised another woman's child, and I thank her everyday that he is also my child.

A little more than 21 years ago I held my 10-day-old son for the first time. He was instantly and utterly mine, and I have never looked back or had a single regret. I hardly remember the pain of infertility: the acute agony of unexpected periods, the physical discomfort of two surgeries, the indignity of tests and medication and medical forms. In the moment I looked into his eyes those things were forgotten.

I do remember meeting a woman with sad eyes in the waiting room one day early in our infertility saga. We swapped stories as women always do in that situation, and when she told me she had been undergoing various infertility treatments for 15 years, I had to ask myself a question: What did I want more, to be pregnant or to be a mother? I did not need to ponder. I set a deadline for ending the treatment if we got no results, and on that day we began the adoption process.

It was the best decision I ever made. My son was all I had ever wanted: cuddly, cheerful, curious, and talkative from his first word. He was a delightful, chubby eight-month-old with teething drool on his shirt, a talkative 14-month-old who loved jokes, an active three-year-old who could dance better than I could. I was a mother, a role I had coveted more than my other roles of college graduate, professor, or writer.

In the 21 years since our son made our family complete, we've had our share of problems, like all parents. Adoption certainly brings some unique problems; how can your child forget that another mother has handed him over to someone else? Moreover, during those sticky adolescent years it's hard to tell what is normal obnoxious teen behavior and what results from your child's genetic background or emotional scars. But, like all parents, you take what comes and do the best you can.

I have not been a perfect mother. I am intrusive, over-protective, too quick to jump to make a plan to solve every problem. I was stressed as a working mother, guilty about time spent at home and time spent at work, grumpy over deadlines. But I also loved every minute of it, even the all-night ear-splitting screams from ear infections and the projectile vomiting that required changing the night clothes four times before morning. I was needed, and the love we shared was all-consuming. (And, to tell the truth, I was really good with those midnight crises.)

It's a little early for me to determine whether I have been a successful mother. The story is still in its early chapters. But I can say that he has been a successful son. He bravely moves forward, looking for his path and getting back up when he stumbles. I try not to rush out with a map, a flashlight, and some antiseptic for that boo-boo.

I do not know what lies ahead for us as a family or for my child, but there are no regrets. Ever.

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