When my partner, Jake, and I first explored adoption from China, we were informed that the wait would be around six years for a child. It felt as though our journey had ended before it even began. However, our adoption agency recommended the special needs program, which offered a shorter wait time. My immediate reaction? No way, not us.
The term “special needs” intimidated me. I thought of it as something that only those truly prepared could handle, echoing the age-old belief that “God doesn’t give you more than you can bear.” Sure, I knew there were families who openly embraced special needs parenting, but I didn’t think we were cut from that cloth. Still, before we bolted from the conversation, we took a moment to educate ourselves about what we were potentially rejecting.
The range of conditions under China’s special needs adoption umbrella can vary widely, from minor issues like a missing thumb to more serious conditions such as Spina Bifida. Families get to select which medical needs they feel equipped to handle. After thorough research and a few deep breaths, we decided to take a leap into the world of special needs adoption.
It’s fascinating—and a bit perplexing—how some cultures categorize minor imperfections as special needs. I share this perspective not to criticize cultural norms but to open minds about whether special needs adoption might be a fit for others.
At the beginning of our “paper pregnancy,” we received a list detailing various conditions and had to indicate which ones we were open to. One term that caught my eye was “limb differences.” Unsure of what that entailed, I consulted my trusty source, Dr. Google. I learned that it refers to congenital (present at birth) absence or malformation of limbs, sometimes due to injury or disease. The causes are frequently unknown. After some thought, I figured, “we can manage that” and checked the box.
A few weeks later, I found myself gazing at an image of a seventeen-month-old boy whose special need was a “congenital hand abnormality.” I instantly fell in love with him.
Fast forward to now: my son is four years old and has a right hand that’s a stub with four little finger nubs. As any parent of a spirited boy can relate, I find myself exclaiming “get down!” and “don’t touch!” countless times a day. He’s quite the little adventurer—capable of climbing ladders, catching balls, and getting into anything he shouldn’t. He can even snatch toys from other kids and dangle them just out of reach until they cry (I know, I shouldn’t be proud, but I am). Just recently, he got into trouble for taking my Kindle, smothering it with lotion, and pretending it was a baby. Throughout all of this, I’ve used many descriptors for my little whirlwind, but “handicapped” has never made the list.
My son is learning to adapt his environment to suit his unique anatomy. While buttons and shoelaces can be tricky, he’s already mastered push-ups at just four years old. I have no doubt that my little dynamo will conquer whatever challenges come his way.
The most difficult aspect of raising a child with a limb difference is navigating my reactions to people’s stares or comments. Children are naturally curious; they want to look, ask questions like “why,” or wonder if “it’s an owie” (most adults can quickly gather it’s a congenital condition). Kids tend to accept my simple explanation, “This is how he’s made,” as they continue scaling the jungle gym or reclaiming toys from my little thief (we’re working on that).
Occasionally, we encounter rudeness or ignorance. Once, a seven-year-old yelled, “OMG did you SEE that kid’s hand?” loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear. Another time, a woman on the bus reacted as if she had encountered a mythical creature, exclaiming “how gross” to no one in particular. Despite my instinct to defend my child, I refrain from reacting. If I step in every time someone makes a thoughtless remark, my son won’t learn how to navigate a world where some people simply don’t get it.
People will notice that his anatomy is a bit different. He’ll eventually have to find his own way to respond to comments, including the unkind ones. We all wish for a smooth path for our children, and it can be tough to witness his desire to fit in. While my son’s limb difference isn’t always obvious, people do notice eventually. Reactions vary widely—from indifference to friendly curiosity. I’ve been fortunate that mean-spirited comments have been rare so far, but I anticipate that one day he may face teasing, likely when I’m not around to intervene.
There’s currently no “cure” for limb differences. Perhaps technology will one day allow for advancements like growing a hand in a lab, but that’s not a reality today. I can’t pinpoint anything he can’t do that might be improved with a prosthetic, so we’ve decided to wait until he’s older to explore that option. He will have the choice of using a cosmetic, semi-functional “slip-on hand” that mimics a real one when he’s ready.
He affectionately calls his hand…well, his “little hand.” At this age, he enjoys showing it off and will cheerfully say, “It’s just my little hand,” before launching into compliments about someone’s dress or inquiring if they have candy. He is quite the charmer! We sometimes refer to it as his “lucky fin,” much like Nemo. This is how I often explain his limb difference to other children. I’m grateful that Disney has introduced a more relatable character for kids with limb differences, as otherwise, we would be left with Captain Hook—who, let’s be honest, isn’t exactly a role model.
In conclusion, embracing the journey of adopting a child with limb differences has been transformative for our family. It’s a path filled with love, laughter, and a unique perspective on resilience. If you’re interested in exploring family-building options, consider checking out this excellent resource on pregnancy and home insemination.