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These are some of the birth parents we are actively working with to decide if an open adoption is the right choice for them and their baby or. If you are a Lifetime family, you have been presented to available birth parents in open adoption situations that meet your criteria. If you would like to be presented to additional birth mothers seeking adoptive parents, please speak with your coordinator about changing your preferences. If you are a not a Lifetime adoptive family, please fill out a free application as your first step. Are you considering adoption and would like to find just the right adoptive Christian family for your child? You can learn more about the adoption process or just give us a call or text at


21 pregnancy gifts expecting moms actually want

The phone call on a Friday brought me to my feet. At the window of my high-rise apartment I watched people swarming the sidewalks, taking advantage of the spring weather.

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I paced my living room as she described the procedure she thought could treat my fibroids. I did know that I was tired of these fibroids, which were growing rapidly; tired of looking three months pregnant, tired of the heavy periods.

I wanted them gone. And my doctor could make that happen. The line went quiet on her end as she waited for my response. Evidence-based guidance. Personal stories that matter.

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Visit NYT Parenting for everything you need to raise thriving babies and. I had two days to decide what to tell my doctor about whether I wanted to carry. It was the question I asked myself at 30 and again at What if I will never be ready? I am Jamaican, which means I am from a culture where many women assume their roles as mothers early. They wear motherhood like a well-fitted gown, moving the way their mothers and grandmothers did before them, with grace and certainty.

14 best mother's day gifts for new and expecting moms in

My older cousin was one of those girls. She needed no reassurance of her beauty, but when she became pregnant at 16 by a fully grown man, people glanced away, as though her beauty had faded and been replaced by something vile. She had to live with looks of contempt for months, breathing lightly as she passed by with a bowed head, still wearing her school uniform, a loose girl careless enough to let her whole life slip away.

I, on the other hand, excelled in school and did everything right, including not having sex with boys until I was But by our 30s, my cousin had gained respect, her mastery of motherhood becoming her mastery of life itself. The contemptuous grunts of our elders were now directed at the woman who had passed the age of 30 without.

She was carrying my newborn nephew in her arms.

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My mother had me at 22, the average age that young women in Jamaica have their first. When I was 22, I was applying to graduate school; dating women and going to parties and poetry cafes; jobless, carrying around a college degree in my box of things. My sister, like my mother, had her first child in her early 20s and her second child six years later.

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We still looked and sounded alike, but I was keenly aware of the difference — my baby sister becoming a woman before my eyes. My mother proudly assumed the role of grandmother. After she had her first child, my sister dropped out of college, and we got into a battle about ambition. We came to America as immigrants with the understanding that there was no room for mistakes that would keep us from achieving the American dream.

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But who was I, a broke graduate student who had just switched careers to pursue my dream as a writer, to make such a claim? My sister ended up marrying her high school sweetheart, the father of her child, who is now an ant. They live on Long Island with their two beautiful children. Culturally speaking, she made it. I was never sold on motherhood until I started babysitting my nephews. Before then, I had deeply resented how the world perceives black women as maternal figures, the media often portraying us as mammies, in complete disregard of those who might not have a maternal bone in their bodies — bodies we have struggled and fought to own since the dark history of slavery.

In protest, I refused to really look at children. But my nephews transformed my resentment of mothering into hope, and I fell in love. My wife and I met 11 years ago, when we were in our mids. It has been seven years since we got married. I knew from early on in our relationship that she wanted to bear children.

Ever since she was a young girl, she knew she wanted to carry a baby of her own. To be sure you want to?

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My wife had been the one in our relationship to try pregnancy. We tried intrauterine insemination for two years. We also knew the questions would come from the outside world, and we resented them. We live in a heteronormative culture that perceives my wife as more masculine and therefore not the one to carry our. Whenever friends and family would ask about our pregnancy status, they would look to me. Even the fertility doctors we went to for treatment nonchalantly told us that it was good that we each had a uterus.

Life threw a wrench into our plans. After several tries and one miscarriage, my wife was advised, for medical reasons, to give up her dreams of carrying a baby. Not long afterward, I was on my sofa, contemplating what my doctor had just said to me. I need to know your plans on getting pregnant. I knew that the procedure my doctor recommended could pose complications for women wanting to get pregnant.

I knew there was another way to treat my fibroids and still, possibly, be able to carrythough that surgery generally meant a longer recovery time.

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And I knew, deep down, that I cared more about getting rid of my fibroids than bearing. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror — the dark eyes and high cheekbones. Those cheekbones?

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That color? Small drops of regret spilled onto my cheeks as I was unable to conjure more than just eyes and cheekbones. I told my wife.

The best gifts for new moms, according to new moms

I loved the sound of adoption. So many children need good homes. My thoughts bounced back and forth. Something about this dilemma made everything seem unreal. Why would I feel so conflicted if I never wanted to bear in the first place? Does this make me less of a woman? What if I was just being a coward? On Monday, I called the doctor back. The doctor got back to me immediately. My heart battered the wall of my chest as I readied myself to explain, to apologize — to say anything that could redeem me in the eyes of a doctor who has children of her own and who has delivered many babies.

I assumed she would try to see whether I really meant it, a reaction that women with difficult convictions often face. The Times is committed to publishing a diversity of letters to the editor. Here are some tips.

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