We met when she was barely two days old.

She fit snugly in the cradle of my forearm, a mere six pounds and 13 ounces. The Birth Mom wanted to meet us, the family that she thought may qualify to adopt the child she wouldn't keep. We, eventually, invited the infant into our fold.

We named her Olivia Melodie Badie. “Little Foot,” and “Baby Girl,” for short. She, the occasional I want-it-my-way-or-else pouter, has completed the Badie circle.
The road to adoption wasn't necessarily a straight and narrow path for us. It was years in the making. The official plunge was taken in May 2002. We contacted a private Christian adoption agency, and signed up for its obligatory adoption classes. Then, slowly but surely, we churned through the massive amount of paperwork, which included an extensive family autobiography.

Most adoptions take a long time, up to a year or longer if you're holding out for a child of a particular race or gender. Ours took less than two months, from start to finish. We welcomed a three-day-old infant into our home seven weeks after we signed on with the adoption agency. Ours was a special case, though. We were an interracial couple, interested in adopting an African-American or bi-racial child. Plenty are in need of a home, but statistically, few parents are willing to take them in. We even experienced the strange luxury of being able to pass on a biracial boy. We had not specified a gender preference because we would accept any healthy child. Deep down inside, though, we wanted a girl. What Mom or Dad doesn't? Someone to dress up on Easter Sunday. Someone to watch get whisked away like a princess on prom night.

Then, one day, the call came. A pregnant woman just days away from delivering a girl had read our family profile. She liked the way we lived our lives, our attitudes about parenting and all-around common sense. The Birth Mom delivered on a Tuesday. We met her and the baby the next day.