Nine

By Sonya Spillmann

Pen in hand, the social worker sits in our living room and asks us question after question. How do your other kids feel about another child? What will sleeping arrangements be? What family or community support do you have? All the while, I’m thinking: I should have dusted the bookshelf. How much longer will the kids behave? Why didn’t I hide our alcohol?

The woman is a natural blonde, and she sits with the air of both kindness and business. Evaluating a home, a life, a marriage, is no easy task. Her hair is cut in a shoulder-length bob, and there’s a folder on her lap that will get thicker with information about our family in the coming months. My husband, Chris, and I have already filled out an initial set of paperwork. We’ve already driven to the adoption agency she works for to watch a powerpoint presentation on the long and detailed process we’re undertaking. We’ve already had a short in-person interview, and I’d already cried through multiple videos of families meeting their adopted children for the first time. 

We’d taken the next steps and worked through answering an extensive set of questions about our upbringing, faith, and resources. About our support and belief systems. About our personalities and preferences. 

And now this woman is in our home, making a study of us. 

In another twenty minutes or so, we will all walk around the house together, our three kids weaving in and out of our path. “Here is our bedroom,” I will say. “And the boys room,” turning ninety degrees to the left, “And this is the room the little boy or girl will have,” stepping just one foot farther down the hall. I’ll show her the basement, my daughter’s room, and yes, even the corner of the storage room with the shelf of old bottles of alcohol. 

But before all of this, with just the three of us in the living room, she begins to ask questions about our marriage. 

Weeks ago, I sat in this same room filling out the questionnaire she’s going over. I had got stuck on one answer: On a scale of 1-10, 10 being ideal, how would you rate your marriage?

The answer box was only large enough for a number. No room for explanation, no caveats, no exceptions. What’s honest but not bragging? I wondered. What’s realistic but not alarming? How do you boil down the complexities of a relationship into a fixed spot? 

“Adoption can be hard on a marriage,” she says from the couch. Chris and I both nod. Could we ever forget the joy each newborn brought to our home—but how, months later, that same child’s presence created a new and unwieldy strain on our relationship we’d need to figure out? It would happen after adoption, too—we knew to expect it. 

“But,” she looks down at her lap, shuffling through papers, “you both seem to have a pretty good view of your marriage.” A small smile pushes its way onto my face. “That’s good,” she says, and I try not to feel too proud.  

With her blonde hair, blue eyes, and cream skin, she says, “You both answered nine.” 

Nine. 

Both of us. 

Nine. 

We both said our marriage was a nine.