It's Good to be a Grand

I’ve written of this before—the whole organic bébé production while rockin’ the Nf2 (Neurofibromatosis type2)—here, Rabbit Killers, Runners and Me and here, Baby Love.

Given all the risks—the solid state, 50/50 odds of passing the ol’ bastard down to your progeny plus the gross hormone increases which often motivates the tumors to flower like tulips in April—why, WHY would anyone choose to become preggers while Nf2-ing?

Is baby making a biological imperative, even in the face of Nf2? If so, I must be short a DNA strand or two.

I consulted my Magic Google Ball, asking ‘why do women want to have a child via pregnancy versus adoption.’ I found this article: "Adoption is Not the Same as Having a Child of Your Own"

The author was addressing this specific comment, tossed off by one of her readers. Her response was beautifully even handed. Here’s a snippet:

Adoption and giving birth are two very different ways of creating your family.  Just as New York City and Paris are two different vacation destinations, or chocolate and vanilla are two different flavors of ice cream.
What Adoptive Parents Miss
Adoptive parent don’t get to experience the joys and pains of pregnancy and birth.  They don’t have the visual proof of impending parenthood and the communal sharing this elicits.  They miss out on the wonder of seeing a tiny foot or head or butt make waves across the belly.  They don’t get to indulge in the pregnant parent’s favorite pastime–playing Guess the Gene. “Whose nose she will have” or “Will he get grandma’s gigantic feet?” 
What Biological Parents Miss
If you haven’t adopted you haven’t felt the breath holding excitement of “getting the call” announcing that a birth mother has chosen you (domestic adoption) or that a child has been referred (international adoption).  You’ve missed the wonder of meeting a fully formed human being that is your child, complete with all the unspoken possibilities of that relationship.  Oh, and you’ll never have the pins and needles sensation of waiting to travel to pick up your child whether you’re driving across town or flying across an ocean—making lists, packing and unpacking, giggling at absolutely nothing, and worrying over absolutely everything.

In any case, we all have to make our very own choices. Of course and DUH. I figured that, if my body's timepiece reached MUST HAVE BABY NOW! o'clock, adoption would be my best, smartest option.

As our friends and co-workers began popping sprogs like so much popcorn, Jen and I discussed what we wanted for ourselves. Given our age difference (the evil wench is 11 years younger than me) our theoretical biological alarm clocks would go off at different times, if at all. We both watched for the symptoms.

Did either of us, while in our 30s, of a sudden:

• find wee stuffed baby duckies and bunnies irresistibly adorable?

Yeah but I wanted them for myself. 

• become terminally wistful at the sight of mummies changing poopy diapers in airport bathrooms as we jetted off on one of our vacas?

That’d be a big fat negatory mon ami.

• smilingly gaze on kiddos having tantrums in restaurants, shops, airports or anywhere else?

Nope-a-rino.

We did, and continue to, offer to borrow and babysit our friends and family’s bambinos. Is it because we want or need ones of our own? Non. We both enjoy the little ankle-biters but it’s awesome plus to be able to hand them back to their parental units.

e.g., Saturday, while holding my gorgeous step-grand Olivia, I sensed she’d just dropped a giant steaming load. How can so much poop come out of such a small being?! I got to hand her back to Mommy Bethanie.

Oh yeah, it’s good to be a Grand!