I’ve Adopted an Eighth Child, and My Husband Doesn’t Know

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I've “known” for a while there’s another kid intended for the Gonzo clan. I don’t know the sex of the child, the age, or where the little blessing is coming from, but I do know the name.

Asher.



That’s the name I hear, over and over again, during my prayers, my dreams, my most peaceful moments, and my most chaotic crises. “Asher,” I hear. Surely, this child is on his or her way to our family. I just don’t know how, yet. Or when.

In the meantime, I’ve taken the preliminary steps to securing the munchkin. That is, I said to my friend, Mike, who runs an adoption agency, “Hey, if you come across any kids named Asher, give me a call.” Mike asked if there were any other pre-adoption screening requirements, and I said, “No, just the name.”

“Does it have to be a given name, or can it be a kid whose name we can change to Asher?” he asked.

“I’m not sure, yet. Let me get back to you.”

I’ve been periodically checking the “children waiting” website for our state—you know, just in case—but have yet to see the name pop up. It’s silly, really, since we haven’t completed a new home study, submitted any paperwork, or taken any other steps to show our preparedness to welcome a new child into our home.

No matter. I’m way ahead of the game. In fact, I’ve already incorporated Asher into our lives. When I shop, I check out the baby department. If an incredible sale pops up, I want to be ready to stock up on sleepers and burp cloths.

That may be awkward if Asher turns out to be eight years old.

I envision the football games we’ll attend, cheering Asher on to victory. True, Asher may be a girl. That’s where my back-up vision comes in—dance recitals and volleyball tournaments. Maybe Asher will have special needs, so I’m reading more blogs by special needs parents. I’m also reading more blogs on food allergies. Asher may have special dietary requirements, you know.

I find myself preparing larger quantities of food these days. Asher has a large appetite, and is in the middle of a growth spurt. I marveled the other day how hot dogs—although I don’t eat them or feed them to my children—come in packages of eight. Surely, that’s a sign. What happens to the extra hot dog, if a family only has seven children?

When we’re headed somewhere as a family, I find myself counting Asher’s among the cabooses we need to seat. Since we only have five kids at home, now, we’re still doing okay with our eight-passenger vehicle. I don’t know what I’ll do if Asher is part of a sibling group.

Every fairy tale princess knows someday, her prince will come. I, too, “know” someday, Asher will come. Just as those princesses are too busy trying to survive wicked stepmothers and evil witches to actively pursue said princes, I’m far too busy raising the kids I already have to worry much about how the next one will find us. Some days, that’s on par with escaping evil witches.

Let’s not forget, dear readers, that Mr. Wright and I were minding our own business when we accidentally adopted the last two. These things have a way of working themselves out.

Until that time, I’ll continue to dress, feed and house my imaginary eighth child (Asher is so cute when he/she is sleeping!), while trying to figure out a way to break the news to Mr. Wright.

“Honey, we’re expecting.”

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