Dear X,

This week marks the beginning of the third trimester. It’s the final inning of the least fun game ever, but at least the end’s in sight, right? Lately Melly’s been pushing me to get going on the adoption stuff. She’s supposed to start processing things. We only have a couple months left. So this week, even though I’m not technically in school, I have homework.

Here’s what I’m supposed to do by Friday:

Fill out the non-identifying information form. Yay. That sounds about as fun as a trip to the dentist. (More about dentists later.)

Start going through the potential adoptive parent files. These are the applications for the couples who want babies. Who want you.

In other words, I have to start picking your parents.

No pressure.

At first all the couples seemed exactly the same to me. There are no names attached to these people, just a sea of smiling photographs and the hopeful details they provided about their lives. Their dreams of parenthood laid right out there for me to see. Of course, they are all putting their best foot forward, so to speak. They all use the same kind of language, how much they would like to have a child, the joy that said child is going to bring into their lives, the incredible things they have to offer, the way that they’re so ready to be parents. They all sound like amazing people. And I have to guess about what’s left unsaid.

For instance, consider the following couple—the dad’s a dentist and the mom’s a hygienist. They clearly work in the same office. They own their home. They both grew up in the same town and went to the same high school. They were high school sweethearts, the form says. And they have a dog, a big beautiful golden retriever that there’s a picture of in the file. In the picture, the dog is wearing a sweater and perfectly posing for the camera.

So I start mentally making a list of the pros and cons of giving you to this couple:

Pros:

You will have good teeth.

You will never be poor—since the world is always in need of dentists. You will be financially secure.

You will be raised in a stable environment.

You will have a dog friend. I like dogs. Evelyn’s allergic to dogs, so I don’t have one. But I like them.

And now for the cons:

This couple is boring with a capital B. I almost fell asleep reading their application. You’re going to be so bored if I give you to them.

But then I think, what’s so wrong with boring? Boring is safe. Boring is like the opposite of half the other girls who go to this school, whose parents have problems with drugs or alcohol or are like Amber busting in here in the middle of night, almost strangled to death and kicked out of her house with nothing.

Amber’s still here, by the way. She’s been like a different person since she moved in. She’s in Heather’s old room. There’s irony for you. At least I no longer feel the urge to punch her every time she talks. But then she’s not talking a lot, either.

Anyway. Back to the cons of Team Dentist.

What if they’re like cardboard people, X, who have never done anything exciting in life and never will? What if they’re the type of people who hang out safely in their own little spearmint-scented bubble and take vacations to Hawaii once a year but otherwise don’t feel the need to go anywhere or do anything fun?

I guess that brings us back to BORING.

The kicker is the dog. That poor dog in its sweater. The perfect dog in the perfect family, doing exactly what it’s told. But in its eyes I can see the desperation. HELP ME—it’s silently screaming.

You’re the dog in this scenario, X.

So yeah, I put that application in the HELL NO pile.

This next potential dad—I kid you not—was a freaking brain surgeon. The mom was cool—she had a degree in music and there was something genuinely sweet about her answers. She seemed nice.

But they went in the NO pile, too. Because a) a brain surgeon? Really? Then he’s probably never home, is he? And he probably thinks he’s the smartest person ever. Who wants a dad like that?

And also, they’re Mormon. I can’t do that to you, X. I mean, no offense to the religion intended. There are a lot of Mormons in Idaho, as you probably know, and they’re good people. It wouldn’t be the worst thing if you grew up Mormon. But I kind of want your religion to be your own choice, which I don’t think it would be, if I gave you to them. But maybe that’s true of every religion.

And couple #3—the Hikers. This mom was a chef (pro: good food for you, X!) and the dad was an engineer (so probably financial security, also) but it seemed to me that they spent their every waking minute hiking or rock climbing or running marathons. And I thought, well, that’s good, too, right? I mean, if those people were your parents, you’d be healthy. Well fed. Fit. And you wouldn’t be bored, would you?

But you’d be tired. It exhausted me just reading their application. You’d probably be one of those kids who played three different sports at all times of the year and ate dinner in the car on the way to the next practice and possibly cracked your head open falling off the side of a mountain.

NO.

I realize I’m being overly critical. I’m looking for reasons to say no. But I don’t know the whole story about these people, do I? What if I pick a couple who seems perfect, but the mom is secretly addicted to Xanax and the dad’s a workaholic and they hardly speak to each other? Or what if I pick a couple who fight all the time and they’re trying to adopt because they think you’ll fix what’s wrong with them? A fixer baby. That’s what my little sister was to my mom and Brett, I’m pretty sure. And that’s not fair to you.

I wish there was a way for them to be truly honest when they fill out these forms. I wish I could see not only their beautiful little dreams of a family, but their fears, too. Their flaws, instead of only their strengths. The truth. Not the polished up for-company version.

Anyway. I’ll keep looking and hope I don’t screw it up too badly. Because that’s why I’m doing this, right? This is exactly the point. I want you to have better parents than I could be to you. I want you to have a better life than I could give you.

But what if I pick wrong?

Of course, the grown-up version of you who’s reading this letter already knows. I’ve already picked, on your side of things. And you’re either happy about that or not.

I hope you’re happy about who I chose for you. I hope you’re happy, period.

That’s what I want.

S