LitArk » Books » Non-fiction

Jessica ODwyer - Mamalita: An Adoption Memoir

Here you can read online Jessica ODwyer - Mamalita: An Adoption Memoir full text of the book (entire story) in english for free. Download pdf and epub, get meaning, cover and reviews about this ebook. year: 2010, publisher: Basic Books, genre: Non-fiction. Description of the work, (preface) as well as reviews are available. Best literature library LitArk.com created for fans of good reading and offers a wide selection of genres:

Romance novel Science fiction Adventure Detective Science History Home and family Prose Art Politics Computer Non-fiction Religion Business Children Humor

Choose a favorite category and find really read worthwhile books. Enjoy immersion in the world of imagination, feel the emotions of the characters or learn something new for yourself, make an fascinating discovery.

Book:
Mamalita: An Adoption Memoir
Author:
Jessica ODwyer
Publisher:
Basic Books
Genre:
Books / Non-fiction
Year:
2010
Rating:
3 / 5
Favourites:
Add to favourites
Your mark:
- 60
- 1
- 2
- 3
- 4
- 5

Description
Author's other books
Similar books

Mamalita: An Adoption Memoir: summary, description and annotation

We offer to read an annotation, description, summary or preface (depends on what the author of the book "Mamalita: An Adoption Memoir" wrote himself). If you haven't found the necessary information about the book — write in the comments, we will try to find it.

This gripping memoir details an ordinary American woman's quest to adopt a baby girl from Guatemala in the face of overwhelming adversity. At only 32 years old, Jessica O'Dwyer experiences early menopause, seemingly ending her chances of becoming a mother. Years later, married but childless, she comes across a photo of a two-month-old girl on a Guatemalan adoption website, and feels an instant connection.

From the get-go, Jessica and her husband face numerous and maddening obstacles. After a year of tireless efforts, Jessica finds herself abandoned by her adoption agency; undaunted, she quits her job and moves to Antigua so she can bring her little girl to live with her and wrap up the adoption, no matter what the cost. Eventually, after months of disappointments, she finesses her way through the thorny adoption process and is finally able to bring her new daughter home.

Mamalita is as much a story about the bond between a mother and child as it is about the lengths adoptive parents go to in their quest to bring their children home. At turns harrowing, heartbreaking, and inspiring, this is a classic story of the triumph of a mother's love over almost insurmountable odds.

Jessica ODwyer: author's other books

Who wrote Mamalita: An Adoption Memoir? Find out the surname, the name of the author of the book and a list of all author's works by series.

Mamalita: An Adoption Memoir — read online for free the complete book (whole text) full work

Below is the text of the book, divided by pages. System saving the place of the last page read, allows you to conveniently read the book "Mamalita: An Adoption Memoir" online for free, without having to search again every time where you left off. Put a bookmark, and you can go to the page where you finished reading at any time.

Light

Font size:

↓

↑

Reset

Interval:

↓

↑

Bookmark:

Make

Table of Contents

For my children and their other mothers, with love.

PART ONE

Chapter 1

THE HOTEL LOBBY

Ive never given birth, but I know the exact moment when I became a mother: 10:00 AM, September 6, 2002. My husband and I sat huddled on a sofa in the lobby of the Guatemala City Camino Real hotel. On sofas in every direction, other light-skinned American couples cooed over their brown-skinned infants.

Our in-country facilitator, Theodore, strode toward us across the lobbys polished marble floor, his stainless steel Rolex loose around his left wrist. He wasnt Guatemalan but Greek. We had met for the first time that morning.

Behind him was a foster mother. She was dressed in tight designer blue jeans and black leather boots, a pile of pink blankets pressed against her chest. As soon as she reached us, she sat next to me and shifted the bundle to my arms without saying a word.

My heart pounding, I peeked inside.

It wasnt our baby.

I turned the blankets toward my husband, Tim. Does this look like Stefany Mishell to you?

This baby had thin tufts of brown hair. Stefany had black hair as thick as yarn. This baby was tiny and frail. Stefany had weighed a robust six pounds ten ounces at birth and was now four months old. And where were her elegantly shaped ears?

The foster mother glanced at Theodore before answering. She seemed to be seeking permission to speak. Es Tiffany Dolores.

Tiffany Dolores? I said. Our baby is Stefany Mishell.

Theodore, perched on the edge of a pinstriped wing chair across from the sofa, jumped up. This is not your baby, he said.

I passed her back to the foster mother, who began to sing in a soft voice. I didnt want to see this baby, or touch her, or develop any feelings for her unless she was going to be ours. With the edges of my mouth quivering, I put my hand over my heart.

Shes lovely, I said. But shes not Stefany.

I had fallen in love with Stefany from the single photograph we had of her: skin the color of nutmeg, hair as black as a crow. Brown eyes wide open, scowling at the camera. Her head was turned slightly to one side, and barely visible through her hair was that small, elegant ear.

I scanned the sofas dotted throughout the lobby, trying to see if one of the other couples had been given Stefany. The other Americans were grinning and rubbing noses with their babies.

I call Yolanda, Theodore said. We find your baby. Yolanda was our agency director in Los Angeles who was supposed to relay information about us to Theodore. Before we had left San Francisco, I emailed her every detail: our flight number, our arrival time, our departure date. The one detail I didnt confirm was the name of our baby. Because Yolanda was responsible for completing the paperwork for the U.S. and Guatemalan governments, I assumed she knew that.

Tim and I watched as Theodore hustled the foster mother across the lobby toward the front door. On the sidewalk outside, Theodore snapped open his cell phone and started pushing buttons with one hand. A black-and-white taxi pulled up to the curb and Theodore held onto the cell phone with his chin while he opened the back door. The foster mother climbed inside.

Tim reached over and squeezed my knee. Think of this as false labor, he said.

I forced a smile. We would have to wait a little longer.

Theodore returned, rubbing his hands together as if trying to get back his circulation. He flopped into the pinstriped wing chair with the ease of someone at home in his living room, which in a sense, he was. According to his business card, his office was the hotel lobby.

We found your baby. He shook his wrist in an Ay, ay, ay gesture with which I would become very familiar. Yolanda has too many babies to keep track of.

Tim nodded sympathetically. How long have you two worked together?

Six years here. We worked in Romania ten years, but the babies, they cry in the cribs and nobody picks them up. Before that, we owned a Greek restaurant in Hermosa Beach.

He added this nonchalantly, as if owning a restaurant was the normal career path to facilitating international adoptions.

I hear the food business is brutal, Tim said.

Nothing compared to this. Theodore shook his wrist again. You brought the supplies?

Tim pointed behind the sofa to the eight overstuffed shopping bags.

Yolanda had given us a long list of supplies for the foster mother to use for Stefany: a framed picture of ourselves; a cassette recording of our voices; one hundred eighty disposable diapers; six packages each of wet wipes, diaper rash cream, and shampoo; seven sets of pajamas, onesies, and socks. We brought every item and more. When Tim and I had wrestled our four gigantic suitcases off the lone luggage carousel in Aurora International Airport, we looked as if we were staying for a year, not a short visit over a three-day weekend.

Theodore informed us that Stefanys foster motherthe correct onelived in a suburb one hour north of Guatemala City. Theodore and Tim invited me to join them in the restaurant for coffee, but I couldnt move from the sofa. I stared across the lobby to the hotel entrance, awaiting my daughters arrival. My arms ached to hold her.

Bellmen in beige uniforms and tan rubber-soled shoes pushed shiny brass carts stacked high with suitcases. Guatemalan businessmen walked in pairs to the hotel restaurant. The staffers checked in guests swiftly and efficiently. The concierge answered questions with a dazzling smile.

The Camino Real was the most luxurious hotel in Guatemala. The crown jewel of the capital city, it was complete with crystal chandeliers, blue porcelain vases sprouting bunches of flowers, and a polished marble floor as shiny as an ice rink, maintained by a team of cleaners who never stopped swabbing it. Neighboring buildings were protected by cement walls topped with razor wire, and policemen armed with sawed-off shotguns patrolled every street. But inside the Camino Real, all appeared to be in order. American couples rose from the sofas with their babies. They were parents with children now. Families.

Tim and Theodore returned with three coffees on a tray. I poured steamed milk into a thin china cup and stirred with a demitasse spoon. Except for us and the front desk staff and concierge, the lobby was now empty, which was a relief. I had dreaded meeting our baby among so many strangers.

The familiar flavor of warm coffee comforted me. I told myself this was the last cup of coffee Id drink without knowing Stefany.

Theodore clutched the arms of his chair. Your baby is here! He sprang from his seat and race-walked across the floor.

A compact Guatemalan woman carrying the telltale bundle of blankets stood at the front door. Theodore steered her toward us. As they approached, I saw a babys head covered with so much black hair it looked like she was wearing a beret.

Thats her. I set down my coffee cup unsteadily in the saucer. Tim and I stood.

The foster mother, Lupe Garza, placed the bundle in my arms. The baby felt small, the size and weight of a kitten. Her head fit neatly inside the crook of my elbow. I lowered myself to the sofa, not sure I could remain standing.

Light

Font size:

↓

↑

Reset

Interval:

↓

↑

Bookmark:

Make

Similar books «Mamalita: An Adoption Memoir»

Look at similar books to Mamalita: An Adoption Memoir. We have selected literature similar in name and meaning in the hope of providing readers with more options to find new, interesting, not yet read works.

Rosco Murtson

Adoption Agency Girl

Laura Beauvais-Godwin

The Complete Adoption Book: Everything You Need to Know to Adopt a Child

Marlene Fine

The Interracial Adoption Option: Creating a Family Across Race

Susan Caughman

You Can Adopt: An Adoptive Families Guide

Tracy L. Barr

Adoption for Dummies

Jessica Taylor-Bearman

A Girl In One Room

Valerie Andrews

White Unwed Mother : The Adoption Mandate in Postwar Canada

Siegal

Finding Fernanda: two mothers, one child, and a cross-border search for truth

Morris

Adopting: real life stories

Churley

Shameless: the fight for adoption disclosure and the search for my son

Kay

The Adoption Papers

Christine A. Adamec

The complete idiots guide to adoption

Reviews about «Mamalita: An Adoption Memoir»

Discussion, reviews of the book Mamalita: An Adoption Memoir and just readers' own opinions. Leave your comments, write what you think about the work, its meaning or the main characters. Specify what exactly you liked and what you didn't like, and why you think so.