Let me start by saying this as Andrea's adoptive mother: I would welcome Andrea into our family again—and my husband Antonio and our four other children would too. Not once, but ten times over, with complete conviction. I've already told the story of his arrival (issue 100, "From Four to Five"); now Andrea is seven years old and has started first grade. With support, and a year behind, but he was ready. All of us were moved to tears by those first pages of A's he brought home from school—scrawled in enormous, crooked letters, but unmistakably, beautifully, A's.
Why Complicate Life?
When we met Andrea, we were an ordinary family of six. Our children were all doing well. We knew the world of disability, but as volunteers, assistants, and educators through scouting and our parish. We had already discussed adoption, and even special adoption, but we hadn't seriously thought it was our path. Meeting Andrea set off a chain of reflection, but stepping into the world of disability as the central actors—not outsiders—is never easy.
What drives a family to say yes to special adoption? Honestly, I don't know, because there's no single answer. It's like asking all couples who have biological children to give one reason why. For us, being Christian and being scouts played a large part. A scout promises to serve when and where there is need. An elderly priest who was also a scout always told us: "When you're asked to do something, if you can, you must." So by the time we were adults, that readiness to respond when we saw real need was already part of who we were.
The first question—a sensible one—is "if you can." So we did a quick assessment of the house: where would he sleep, what barriers might we need to remove, and so on. Then time: a disabled child turns your daily rhythms upside down. There are therapies, appointments, check-ups. And all that time has to come from the parents, not from the children who are already there. I don't work outside the home, so I could be with Andrea while the others were at school or preschool, taking time from my own schedule and household tasks rather than from his siblings.
We also asked whether Andrea would need long hospital stays. The other children were between five and twelve then, and we couldn't handle extended hospitalizations without upending their lives. We had to make sure the others didn't see the new arrival as someone taking something away from them. That's always a risk with a new child, especially a disabled one, but in adoption it's even more critical—because objectively, parents have no legal obligation to take care of that extra child. The children will accept that life isn't always simple, but if you make them carry the weight of your choice, it becomes too much.
Once we answered "Yes, I can," we had to face "I must." And that's where something starts to creak. Because "I must" doesn't always line up with "I want to." The "must" helps you get past the natural human resistance to hardship: "I'm doing fine—why would I make life harder?"
Basically, Christian foolishness, nothing more. You can tell yourself you don't really feel like it, but the Gospel says that if you meet someone who needs you, you're the one who has to help. Moreover, in a case like special adoption, no one will ever judge you for not taking on such an adventure—everyone will be completely understanding. But you did meet that need, and if you've honestly recognized that you could help, you can't just look away. Can your desire for peace and quiet really carry the same weight as a child who needs a family? For us, in that situation, the answer was no. Never mind the exhaustion or lost free time—Andrea needed us, and we chose him. Looking back, it was the right choice. We're all happier than we would have been if Andrea hadn't come. We sleep less, we drive countless miles to appointments, we've canceled personal plans, and our patience gets tested as we divide ourselves between five instead of four. But what does any of that matter? Andrea is happy, and we are too.
Becoming a Neighbor and Avoiding Sermons
We came to know the world of disability from the inside. It's a world that is tired, weighed down by many problems, anxious about its children. But it's also a beautiful world, full of remarkable people, dedicated and wise professionals, courageous parents, hope against all hope. In the early days, I remember feeling nervous watching the other children in the waiting room before therapies. I was trying to see in them what Andrea might be like as a teenager. When a child over a year old still can't sit up on his own, you can't help but worry.
That's natural. But I stopped being afraid to ask the other mothers about their children. I broke through my own fear of intruding or making them uncomfortable with curious questions. We were all in the same boat and could speak freely. Now it's beautiful to tell young mothers of small children with conditions like Andrea's: "Don't worry. Andrea learned to walk, to talk, to play," and to see the relief that brings them. And when they learn that we adopted him, their eyes widen—not in admiration, but because they see in this something good, something that shows not everyone sees disability only as a problem. That means a lot to them. And to us too.
I said something at a school parent meeting once, when asked about this, that to his siblings, Andrea is their brother in every real sense. They don't tolerate him—they love him. Andrea taught them what we would have wanted to teach them, but never could have managed on our own. I know his arrival made them better people, not in some abstract way, but better than they would have been without him. Living with a child like Andrea teaches you so much about sensitivity, patience, acceptance, respect for life, responsibility to others' needs, justice—all things they learned from him, without a single sermon. Which is remarkable, given that we parents specialize in exactly that.
Daily and Inevitable Difficulties
The first weeks are thrilling, but also the hardest. After the rush of initial visits and celebrations—the friends, the relatives, the gifts—comes the reality of organizing days with the new arrival. This is true with any child, of course, but when you're adopting you add the panic of not yet knowing your own son while trying to memorize his enormous medical file. So the question you keep asking is: "Is something wrong? How serious is it? What am I missing?"
Then you adjust to his rhythms—so different from the children born to you—and daily life begins. For me, that's when the hardest moment came.
Despite all my reflection, my desire to welcome Andrea with his needs, my awareness that something truly beautiful was happening in our home, there remained the fact that this child was not "perfect." And like every mother, I still had to pass through the trial of "Will you love me the way I am, or is it all a lie?" Our natural human instinct is to want perfection for our children. It's instinctive, and no matter how good your intentions, you have to pass through it. In my experience, it's also a very healthy passage. "My leg is stiff, my hand doesn't work—will you love me anyway?"
It wasn't easy to admit, even to myself, that I struggled to answer yes right away, that I would have preferred a "healthy" child. But getting past that struggle was beautiful. That's when Andrea truly became my son. I've mentioned it before—we're believers, and that helped. I don't like to dwell on this, because it feels deeply personal, but with Andrea I learned that when you ask God to help you love someone, He listens and answers generously.
A Disabled Family
Another thing you have to learn to accept is that when disability comes into your family, the whole family becomes a little disabled. Everything slows down. Worries multiply. The range of activities shrinks. The chances of awkwardness in public increase. It's a change you have to accept, knowing full well you could have avoided it, but if it's the consequence of something that makes you happy, that something matters more than everything else. The beautiful part is learning a completely new set of priorities.
Then there are the practical problems—and frequent panic. We were very lucky that Andrea spent a few months in a group home before coming to us. There he was known, cared for, his feeding was managed, and his diagnosis was being worked out. Because we were inexperienced—used to watching children develop "normally"—having a clear path laid out by capable people made all the difference. We had real, familiar points of reference instead of distant hospital staff. In those first two months, we called the group home constantly. We needed help to get through that time with any peace of mind, and we got it. If Andrea had come straight from the hospital, it would have been much harder.
Conscious Choices
Given everything I've said, Andrea's adoption has been absolutely positive and beautiful. I said it at the start: I would do it all over again without the slightest doubt. The difficulties, the exhaustion—they're nothing compared to knowing Andrea has a family, as every child deserves to have, and that family is us. But it's equally important that families considering special adoption understand that these difficulties are real. If you have other children, never upend your family's balance out of excessive generosity. If you can do it, you must. But if you can't, you mustn't.
And if you don't have other children, the couple must be absolutely certain—completely certain—that they're not taking this step to fill a void. Special adoption is not something to do for the couple's own needs; it must be done only and exclusively to answer a real need of a child. A couple with other children who are doing well has an advantage: they can live peacefully with the new child's limitations, because their natural desire to be parents has already been satisfied. But it's the same when disability arrives naturally: if the first child is disabled, it's harder. It's as if the disappointment—so difficult to admit—is harder to manage.
Luisa Dinale, 2012