A FAMILY FOR FREDDIE

Will anyone want to take a chance on adopting this ten-month-old baby boy?

Who would take a chance on adopting this baby boy born without arms?

IREMEMBER THE FIRST TIME I saw Freddie. He was standing in his playpen at the adoption agency where I work. He gave me a toothy grin. What a beautiful baby, I thought. His boarding mother gathered him into her arms. “Will you be able to find a family for Freddie?” she asked. Then I saw it. Freddie had been born without arms.

“Freddie’s so smart. He’s only ten months old, and he already walks and talks.” She kissed him. “Say ‘book’ for Mrs Blair.”

Freddie grinned at me and hid his head on his boarding mother’s shoulder.

“Now, Freddie, don’t act that way,” she said. “He’s really very friendly,” she added. “Such a good, good boy.”

Freddie reminded me of my own son when he was that age, the same thick dark curls, the same brown eyes.

“You won’t forget him, Mrs Blair? You will try?”

“I won’t forget.” I went upstairs and got out my latest copy of the ‘Hard-toPlace’ list.

Freddie is a ten-month-old white boy of English and French background. He has brown eyes, dark brown hair and fair skin.

Freddie was born without arms, but is otherwise in good health. His boarding mother feels he is showing signs of superior mentality, and he is already walking and saying a few words. Freddie is a warm, affectionate child who has been surrendered by his natural mother and is ready for adoption.

He’s ready, I thought. But who is ready for him?

It was ten o’clock on a lovely late summer morning, and the agency was full of couples – couples having interviews, couples meeting babies, families being born. These couples nearly always have the same dream: they want a child who looks as much like themselves as possible, who is as young as possible and – most importantly – a child who has no medical problems.

“If he develops a problem after we get him,” they say, “that is a risk we’ll take, just like any other parent. But to pick a baby who already has a problem – that’s too much.” And who can blame them? I wasn’t alone in looking for parents for Freddie. Any of the caseworkers meeting with a new couple started with hope. But summer slipped into autumn, and Freddie was with us for his first birthday. “Freddie is sooo big,” said his boarding mother, stretching out her arms.

“Sooo big,” said Freddie, laughing. “Sooo big.” And then I found them. It started out as it always does – a new impersonal record in my box, a new case, a new ‘Home Study’ – two people who wanted a child. They were Frances and Edwin Pearson. She was 41. He was 45. She was a housewife. He was a truck driver.

I went to see them. They lived in a tiny white frame house in a big yard full of sun and old trees. They greeted me together at the door, eager and scared to death.

Mrs Pearson produced steaming coffee and over- warm cookies. They sat before me on the sofa, close together, holding hands.

After a moment Mrs Pearson began: “Today is our wedding anniversary. It’s been 18 years.”

“Good years,” Mr Pearson said, looking at his wife. “Except…”

“Yes,” she sa i d . “Except. Always except.” She looked around the immaculate room. “It’s too neat,” she said. “You know?”

I thought of my own living room with my three children. Teenagers now. “Yes,” I said. “I know.” “Perhaps we’re too old?” I smiled. “You don’t think so,” I said. “We don’t either.”

“You always think it will be this month, and then next month,” Mr Pearson said. “Even when you begin to guess the truth, you don’t want to accept it.”

“We’ve tried everything,” Mrs Pearson said. “Examinations. Tests. All kinds of things. Over and over. But nothing ever happened. You just go on hoping and hoping, and time keeps slipping by.”

“We’ve tried to adopt before this,” Mr Pearson said. “One agency told us our apartment was too small, so we got this house. Then another one said I didn’t make enough money. We decided that was it, but this friend told us about you, and we decided to make one last try.” “I’m glad,” I said. Mrs Pearson glanced at her husband proudly. “Can we choose at all?” she asked. “A boy for my husband?”

“We’ll try for a boy,” I said. “What kind of boy?”

Mrs Pearson laughed. “How many kinds are there? Just a boy. My husband is very athletic. He played football in high school; basketball too, and track. He would be good for a boy.”

Mr Pearson looked at me. “I know you can’t tell us exactly,” he said, “but can you give us any idea how soon? We’ve waited so long.”

I hesitated. There is always this question.

“Next summer maybe,” said Mrs Pearson. “We could take him to the beach.”

“That long?” Mr Pearson said. “Don’t you have anyone at all? There must be a little boy somewhere.”

I wasn’t alone in looking for parents for Freddie … But summer slipped into autumn, and Freddie was still with us

“Of course,” he went on after a pause, “we can’t give him as much as other people. We haven’t a lot of money saved up.”

“We’ve got a lot of love,” his wife said. “We’ve saved up a lot of that.”

“Well,” I said cautiously, “there is a little boy. He is 13 months old.”

“Oh,” Mrs Pearson said, reaching out for her husband. “Just a beautiful age.”

“I have a picture of him,” I said, reaching for my purse. I handed them Freddie’s picture.

“He is a wonderful little boy,” I said. “But he was born without arms.”

They studied the picture in silence. Mr Pearson looked at his wife. “What do you think, Fran?’

“Kickball,” Mrs Pearson said. “You could teach him kickball.”

“Athletics are not so important,” Mr Pearson said. “He can learn to use his head. Arms he can do without. A head, never. He can go to college. We’ll save for it.”

“A boy is a boy,” Mrs Pearson insisted. “He needs to play. You can teach him.”

“I’ll teach him, sure. Arms aren’t everything. But maybe we can get him some.”

They had forgotten me. Maybe Mr Pearson was right, I thought. Maybe sometime Freddie could be fitted with artificial arms. He did have nubs where arms should be. “Then you might like to see him?” They looked up. “When could we have him?” “You think you might want him?” Mrs Pearson looked at me. “Might?” She said. “Might?” “We want him,” her husband said. Mrs Pearson went back to the picture. “You’ve been waiting for us,” she said. “Haven’t you?”

“His name is Freddie,” I said, “but you can change it.”

“No,” said Mr Pearson. “Frederick Pearson – it’s good together.”

And that was it.

THERE WERE formalities, of course; by the time we set the day, Christmas lights were st rung across c i ty streets and wreaths were hung everywhere.

I met the Pearsons in the waiting room. There was a little snow on them both.

“Your son’s here already,” I told them. “Let’s go upstairs, and I’ll bring him to you.”

“I’ve got butterflies,” Mrs Pearson said. “Suppose he doesn’t like us?

I put my hand on her arm. “I’ll get him,” I said.

Freddie’s boarding mother had dressed him in a new white suit with

“Athletics are not so important,” Mr Pearson said. “He can learn to use his head. Arms he can do without. A head, never”

a sprig of green holly and red berries embroidered on the collar. His hair shone, a mop of dark curls.

“Going home,” Freddie said to me, smiling, as his boarding mother put him in my arms.

“I told him that,” she said. “I told him he was going to his new home.” She kissed him, and her eyes were wet. “Good-bye, dear. Be a good boy.” “Good boy,” said Freddie cheerfully. “Going home.”

I carried him upstairs to the little room where the Pearsons were waiting. When I got there, I put him on his feet and opened the door. “Merry Christmas,” I said. Freddie stood uncertainly, rocking a little, gazing intently at the two people before him. They drank him in. Mr Pearson knelt on one knee. “Freddie,” he said, “come here. Come to Daddy.”

Freddie looked back at me for a moment. Then, turning, he walked slowly towards them; and they reached out their arms and gathered him in.