The Pre-Adoption Psychological Evaluation (Malcolm-2002)

Last week, Malcolm and I had to meet with a psychologist as part of the adoption process. It wasn’t a pleasant experience, and it was only afterwards that I realized it was her that didn’t get it—not me. Just because she had the title of psychologist behind her name didn’t mean that she was anymore familiar with the nuances of the unintentional discrimination against older child adoptions than the guy at the DMV. Yet, because she had that title, I let my guard down.

“Tell me about Malcolm,” the psychologist had asked. We talked for about thirty minutes while Malcolm worked on his homework in the other room. I told the psychologist about Malcolm’s situation with school and how he’d moved around a lot when he was in first and second grades. I also shared how I thought the separation of Mychael and Malcolm had affected them over the last few years. I tried to give her an overview of the big picture so she would better understand Malcolm.

I work in the system; I understood her role. Basically, the Court had determined that this woman’s forty five minute interview with Malcolm would somehow give her the authority to evaluate him in terms of his psychological and emotional well being. Regardless, I thought the psychologist and I were allies—that we both wanted what was best for Malcolm. As a result, I never felt any ill will for her whatsoever. That is, until she filled me with bullets toward the end of the conversation. “And so, whereas Mychael had the benefit of being the only child, Malcolm-”

“Stop,” she said abruptly. “If I hear you make one more comment about Mychael, I am going to recommend that you not be allowed to adopt Malcolm.”

I was so shocked by her interruption in the first place that it took me a minute to process the content of her statement. “What?” I finally asked her.

“I’ve sat here for the last thirty minutes and listened to you talk about how Mychael had this and Malcolm had that, about how Mychael did this and Malcolm did that. I did not ask you about Mychael and yet, you have spent half the conversation talking about Mychael,” she said in a haughty, self righteous tone.

Is this really happening, I thought, feeling my face get red and my jaw start to throb. I didn’t even know how to respond; I was so floored by her angry tone and the condemning nature of her comments. I’m not even sure what I said to defend myself, but I know I was embarrassed and humiliated. I left that office feeling like the most horrible Mother on the face of the planet. Despite ice packs, muscle relaxers and a ton of ibuprofen, I didn’t sleep more than an hour that night because my jaw hurt so badly.

The next day at work, my co-worker Lynn, who—like my Mom—was born to Mother, asked me about the appointment.

“It went okay,” I told her, too embarrassed to admit that during the meeting, I’d discovered what a rotten Mother I was. “Did you have both the kids last night?” I asked her, trying to change the subject. She loved to talk about her grandchildren. She picked them up from daycare two or three times a week as a favor to her daughter and always had stories to share. Her oldest granddaughter, Madison, had recently turned three, and the youngest granddaughter, Melissa, was just shy of a year old.

“Yes, and Melissa is getting so big. It looks like she’s going to be walking soon. Madison was well over a year old when she started walking. But, they say the second one walks sooner in order to keep up with the first one. Melissa is already trying to rip off her diaper. Can you believe that? Every time she goes potty, she’ll tell you and want her diaper changed. I think Melissa is going to potty train before Madison, too.”

I told Lynn how my Mom always used to say the same things about my brother and me. “She always said how I was more expressive and overt whereas Shawn was the sweet one who was always trying to make sure some sense of order was maintained.”

“Yeah, my girls are the same way,” Del chimed in.

“And you have three kids,” I said, validating the exhaustion of yet another child.

While Del and Lynn continued comparing and contrasting their kids, I found myself thinking about my own and how Mychael did one thing whereas Malcolm did another. Suddenly, I had an epiphany.

“Lynn,” I interrupted, “how does your daughter gauge her expectations of Melissa?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean...like, how does she know when her girls might walk, or eat solid foods or potty train or whatever else.”

“I don’t know. I guess for Melissa, she probably looks at Madison…and for Madison, I guess she probably reads books, or asks me what she did when she was little.”

Feeling validated by the information, I explained the situation with the psychologist.

“I can’t believe she said that to you,” Del remarked from behind his cubicle wall.

“Me neither,” Lynn said, clearly annoyed. “These are your first kids, how are you supposed to know what to expect? Of course you compare your kids, but not because you are trying to see which one is better…because you’re trying to figure them out…and the oldest child is your only frame of reference! And she’s going to recommend against the adoption because of it? Give me the phone number of that lady.”

“It’s okay. Just knowing I’m not a horrible Mother makes me feel better. Now that I understand the situation, I’ll be able to defend myself if she decides to go that route. I’m just so glad I’m not a bad Mom. I felt so guilty last night—slept less than an hour.”

“Same here,” Del, my fellow parentally induced insomniac added. “I took a couple Tylenol PMs, but still couldn’t fall asleep until 5:00 this morning. How are we supposed to sleep at night when there’s so much to worry about?”