When I was 4 or 5 Santa brought me a beautiful little doll in a pink frilly dress. She was lying in a tomato basket my mom had covered in fabric and decorated with ribbon and lace. Despite the feminine touches I named the doll "Baby Jesus." (My sister later told me Baby Jesus was retarded and made me cry. My very, very Catholic parents were horrified.)

In high school I dreamed of one day being a mother. I thought of names for my future children... maybe Taryn with a "y" or Sorrel after a character from my favorite children's book.

In my late 20s many of friends had children. While I had always wanted kids I was formerly fine with motherhood being a future endeavor. But at 27 my uterus skipped a beat. I was in full-fledged baby trauma. I remember my friend and co-worker, Ginny, coming to the office with her new baby boy. She had gone through years of baby trauma so she understood when I hesitated to hold her son. I wasn't afraid of holding him. I was afraid of what I would feel. She placed him in my arms and sat silently next to me for 45 minutes while I cried in my cubicle. That was the day when the dream of being a mother became a mission for me.

At 30 I finally started to accept that marriage may not happen. So the first thoughts of a Plan B started to emerge. After months of research and soul-searching adoption became less of an alternative and more of a choice for me. It's the way I want to form my family. My relationship with Mr. Inertia put my plans on hold for a while, but last summer I learned about the hosting program and subsequently met my child. From thousands of miles away here was the little boy destined for my home and my heart.

I've always, always known that I wanted to be a mother. While the desire to carry around a baby in a tomato basket and substitute "i"s with "y"s faded long ago, my mother instinct has never wavered. I never planned to adopt an older child. But Peanut and I fit together so perfectly I feel it was in my life's plan all along... I just didn't know it.