My Dad...A Remembrance

It’s 10:55 PM on Tuesday. And here I am sitting in the dining room of my parents’ house wondering what I am going to say on Thursday morning at 11:00 at Dr. Don’s Celebration of Life, particularly since I am the host and first speaker on the program. Of course, I’ve known for almost two months that I need to write this, but the words won’t come because part of me somehow can’t believe that he’s really gone.

About a week after Dr. Don’s death I was on Instagram just scrolling through trying to distract myself from myself. I see the familiar handle “Dad Jokes”- this is a guy who posts tons of stupidly clever jokes and puns  - and I eagerly read the silly joke…Here it is…

“I’m reading a horror story in Braille. Something bad is going to happen. I can feel it.”

I chuckle and immediately start to text the joke to Dr. Don like I’ve done a hundred times before because I know he’ll probably groan and then call me with a much better joke of his own, but I stop myself…no Dr. Don to text.

When I was in college back in the stone age before cell phones, my dad would call at odd hours to tell me jokes. Someone would pound on my dorm room door and shout, “You have a call!” I would run to the stuffy little phone room to plop myself on the uncomfortable orange plastic chair and say, ‘Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Dad. I have a good joke for you…” and then he would launch into whatever joke he was telling everyone that week. Complete with crazy voices, sound effects and his own laughter. He’d finish with a flourish. He’d say triumphantly, “That’s a great joke. Isn’t that a great joke?” but before I would have a chance to answer he’d say, “Alright, Pup, I’ve got to be getting back to work. I love you.” And then he’d hang up leaving me sometimes laughing and sometime staring at the phone in wonder that he took the time to share that dumb joke. Now, of course, I appreciate every one of those jokes that made me laugh. Or shake my head. Or groan.

Tonight there is no laughter. My parents’ house – also my childhood home - is silent except for the tapping of my fingers on the laptop and the low hum of the air conditioner. My daughter Esme is finally asleep after much stalling. Mom took herself off to bed half an hour ago. Diane and Matt’s flight doesn’t arrive until well after midnight.

Here I sit. Stumped. How on earth do I sum up my dad’s life in a few pages? It seems impossible.

Earlier today I lament my lack of progress to my mom.

“Are you going to be able to get it done?” she asks.

My brain shrieks, “Nope! Not going to happen!”, but I hear myself assuring her that I will get it done. Then we start swapping stories about Dr. Don. Eventually, she asks almost as an accusation, “Are you going to tell THE story? You’re going to tell it, aren’t you?”

“About how you stalked Dad?” I reply. “It’s a good story…My Mom, The Stalker.”

She laughs, “I was such a wallflower. I can’t even believe I did that!”

She tells me the story for the umpteenth time and I listen as eagerly as if it’s the first time I’ve heard it. She says, “I was working in the Registrar’s Office at Brooklyn College and in September this really cute guy walked in. He was wearing a light blue suit and he was tan. I saw him and that was it. He had no idea that his life was about to get a lot more complicated.”

“Did you tell anyone?” I ask.

“Sure,” she replies, “I told my mother I met the man I was going to marry. Then I found out who he was. He would take his coffee breaks in the cafeteria in the Liberal Arts building, so I made sure that I was there during those breaks. I would wave to him and smile. It took a few months, but he finally asked me to sit down. I did and then I asked him, ‘So, are you married, engaged, have a girlfriend…?’ He didn’t. And he was really polite so he felt he had to ask me out. He asked me if I would like to go to the Museum of Modern Art with him one Saturday afternoon. Our first date was on December 12th, 1959.”

As my mom retells her part of the story, I remember my Dad’s side of the story. He’d say, “There was this cute girl. I didn’t know who she was, but she was always hanging around, smiling and waving at me. Finally I asked her to sit down. You know the rest. Our first date was at the MOMA,” here he pauses then begins again in a voice still full of awe at the magnitude of his good luck, “All I knew was that this wasn’t like any other first date I had ever been on. Your mother was smart and funny. She knew all about art. I think we both knew right away this was something different. I was overwhelmed.”

They were engaged in March of 1960, but didn’t marry until August 1961 so Ellen could finish her senior year. Ellen moved to Kansas City with Don so he could complete med school. Then it was off to Grand Rapids for Don’s internship followed by residency in Columbus Ohio. That’s where I entered the picture. Diane arrived 3 years later in Fort Lee, New Jersey. Eventually our family settled in Hillsdale, New Jersey. However, that only lasted a few years. Grand Rapids came calling again. We moved here in 1975. Dr. Don purchased a totally unique mid-century modern house without my mom ever having seen it. He knew she would love it. And she did.

I take a break from writing this speech to get a drink of water, stretch and wander around said mid-century modern house.

It occurs to me as I look around my childhood home that it is a far cry from Dr. Don’s modest beginnings in a 2-bedroom apartment in Staten Island, New York. My grandparents owned a dry goods store. They worked long hours and did their best to provide for their two kids. Don and his sister Phyllis didn’t lack for the basics and even had a piano and piano lessons (quite a luxury in their neighborhood), but there weren’t many other extras.

Earlier this week I chat with my Aunt Phyllis. I ask her about when they were kids.

“Your father was such a good big brother to me,” she tells me. “Our parents worked a lot and he needed to take charge of me when they were at the store. He never made me feel like I was a burden to him. I always looked up to him. We knew all each other’s friends. We double dated when we were in high school. He even gave me little pointers on what to wear and how to behave. There was real mutual respect between us. He took good care of me.”

I ask her about my dad deciding to become a doctor.

She laughs, “He had no choice. We were indoctrinated by our parents from the time we were little. Donny would be a doctor and I would be a teacher.”

Is it surprising that my dad was a good and responsible big brother? That he took care of Phyllis with kindness?  Or that he became a doctor? No. That’s who he was. He took care of people. His parents might have pressed him to become a doctor, but I believe caring for people was as natural to him as breathing.

My dad’s skill and dedication to taking care of people meant that he worked long hours. We understood that there were sick people who needed him. However, this meant that Dr. Don focused on quality time with his family rather than quantity. He took Diane and I to see Marcel Marceau when we were kids. I was an aspiring cellist so Dr. Don arranged a Father – Daughter date to see Yo-Yo Ma. There were annual fall treks to Robinette’s Apple Orchard for fresh cider and cinnamon donuts.

And weekends when he wasn’t on call wouldn’t be complete without a trip to the American Bakery to purchase freshly baked rye bread and, of course, each of us girls got a raspberry Linzer Torte Cookie. Diane and my dad were enthusiastic runners and often ran together around our neighborhood and later in California where Diane lives. I am a dedicated couch potato who loves to read and watch movies so my dad happily sat with me to chat about books and old movies.

“What’s your favorite movie?” I ask him.

Dr. Don replies, “’Roman Holiday.’ I was 15 when I saw first saw it and when Audrey Hepburn came on the screen. Ohhhhh…I didn’t know what hit me.”

In the summer we lounged happily by the pool. My parents would get on the phone to their friends to announce “The flag is flying!”, which meant, “Come on over, the water is fine.”

And, of course, there were vacations. My parents were avid travelers and Diane and I were lucky that they instilled in us a love of travel as they planned amazing family trips to places like Washington DC to visit the Smithsonian and the White House, Colorado to ride horses, Boston to visit the USS Constitution and the Museum of Fine Arts, and New York to visit the Metropolitan Museum of Art and to attend the theater.

I should note here that I’m fairly certain Diane and I were the only children ages 8 and 11 attending the Broadway Production of “The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas.” Us kids had no idea what the show was about, but I remember loving all of the energetic singing and dancing. Needless to say, Dr. Don and Ellen got a lot of side eye that evening from all of the folks sitting near us.

My Dad also treated himself and my mom to annual child-free vacations usually someplace overseas. During the course of their almost 58 years together they visited most of Europe, Russia, China, Japan, Morocco, Egypt, Kenya, Ecuador and The Galapagos, just to name a few.

When I am about 9 years-old I get up the nerve to ask my dad about he and my mom’s upcoming trip abroad. He is sitting in his chair in the family room listening to classical music and reading the newspaper. I ask him, “Daddy, how come Diane and I don’t get to go on this trip with you?”

Without missing a beat he looks over the top of his paper, replies with a straight face, “Because they don’t allow children in Europe,” and returns to reading his paper.

I pause again to stretch, take a sip of water and then re-read what I’ve written.

There’s so much that’s missing. What have I forgotten?

That by example my dad taught Diane and I the value of dedication, hard work and a strong work ethic.

That my dad was incredibly generous with everyone. You’d go out to dinner with him and at the end of the meal as you’d try to split the check he’d wave his hand at you and say, “I’ve got this. It’s my pleasure.”

That his generosity extended to bigger things and included a commitment to giving back to the community. He and my mom are long-time philanthropists. My dad believed that those who have the means are responsible for supporting the arts and other worthy non-profit organizations. And not for any kind of recognition, but because it’s the right thing to do.

That he wanted his kids to have the things that he didn’t have when he was growing up and he worked hard to provide them for us.

That when my mom was in serious condition in the hospital a number of years ago, my dad said to me, “I think your mom could probably live without me, but I don’t think I can live without her.”

That he was intellectually curious and loved to learn.

That he was gregarious and had a seemingly endless capacity for talking with everyone and anyone. A number of years ago I send Chris with my Dad to Costco to keep him company. Upon their arrival home Chris pulls me aside and says, “Omigod, EVERYONE at Costco knows your dad. And he knows all of them. By name. It took forever to get through there because he talked with EVERYONE.”

That when he really got laughing he would laugh so hard that no sound came out.

That his favorite exclamation was “Holy crow!”

That he always wore a tie to work and his tie collection took up an entire wall in his walk-in closet.

That when they were young and poor, my dad would donate blood so he could take my mom out.

That he was a teeny bit Type A and demanded a certain level of excellence from the other doctors and the nurses with whom he worked.

That nurses were kind of terrified of him.

That he got a great charge out of goosing my mom’s bottom then turning to us with a leering grin to say, “That’s good stuff!”

That he was always a night owl and did the late feedings and diaper changes when Diane and I were babies.

That he LOVED great food.

That he was an awesome grandfather who’d give Esme horsey rides on his knees, have long conversations with her, and make her shriek with laughter by pretending to steal her belly button.  

That one of his greatest passions in life was classical music.

That his greatest passion was teaching.

Earlier this week I took some time to read the many sympathy cards and letters addressed to my mom and our family. All of you had so many wonderful things to say about Dr. Don that it seemed appropriate to end with your words.

 “Dr. Arlinsky was such a gem! We will miss our chats and stories in the front yard. He was so very proud of his family and the life he built here.”

 “Don was always ready with a smile and a joke. He was a generous soul who seemed to welcome everyone he met.”

 “I never saw anything but a smile or an infectious grin on his face, usually before symphony or a concert at Saint Cecilia.”

 “Don was one of a kind and had a tremendous impact on everybody he encountered.”

 “A rush of memories come to me – all filled with Don’s laughter and generous spirit. You were a wonderful team, a dynamic couple and obviously in love. Dr. Don’s spirit will endure through the many people he touched through a lifetime.”

 “We have thought of you and Don often in the last few weeks and especially at the Lincoln Center concert. It was wonderful. It was also a testament to you both as so many enjoy the results of your commitment to these programs. We will never hear another concert that meets that standard without thinking of you both – avid, knowledgeable listeners and spirited critics. We are fortunate that our circles have overlapped with yours.”

 “Don helped so many people over the years. His legacy, however, will live on in how he shaped and molded future generations of physicians. I feel honored and privileged to have been his colleague.”

 “Don was such a fixture of training for so many docs that his medical legacy will last for many many years. I first met Don in 1978. He was kind, sincere and thorough. His sharp wit and ability to penetrate to the heart of an issue always made for insightful conversation and medical learning. His hieroglyphics for handwriting were hilarious and even he couldn’t read them back at times. He was a generous person and in spending a lot of time with him during training, I benefitted from his professional and personal experiences. He repeated what he did for me with literally hundreds of docs in training. Unbelievable devotion! His medical ethics and dedication were legendary. I did not want Don to sit alone during your surgery at Metro. In sitting with him, I asked him to fill me in on the details of his upbringing, deciding to become a doc, meeting you, early practice years, and moving to GR. Such a rich life! His last teaching moment: how to work hard, incredibly hard, dedicate his life and work with medical excellence and balance as much as possible a loving life with you and your family. He was so clearly proud of and devoted to you and your children. He will be missed, but remembered.”

Taking Care of Myself

Silence.

Not something I hear a lot of these days.

But this morning I rise at 5:18 (after hitting the snooze once) and head downstairs to my new toy.

Treadmill.

Thank you Mom and Dad for my birthday/anniversary present. My parents are The Bomb.

For 50 glorious minutes I walk. By myself. No child grabbing my legs demanding attention/milk/snack/playtime. No guilt over not paying attention to my poor husband. No television. No iphone. No solitaire. No landline ringing. No computer. No noise except the clomp clomp clomp of my feet and the whir of the treadmill motor.

50 minutes of solitude and exercise.

In short...50 minutes of taking care of myself.

Something I haven't done much of during my four year stint as a mom. When Esme was an infant, it was easy to throw her in the stroller to take long walks on the bike path or drop her at the day care at the gym. Once she got much more mobile it became much less convenient to get her and me to the gym. And once she refused to sit in the stroller it was no longer possible for me to take long walks outside.

So I stopped.

I focused all of my energy on taking care of my daughter and put absolutely zero energy into taking care of myself. I fed her well. Kept her healthy. But didn't bother doing the same for me and relied on convenience foods because I was often just too darn tired to take the time to make healthy meals.

Consequently...I am fat.

Now, now I hear some of you saying, "No you're not. Don't talk about yourself like that. You're beautiful."

And I thank you for trying to make me feel better, but the truth is that I am fat. According to the scale and the standard Body Mass Index (BMI) numbers I am fat. Not just fat, but obese.

Ugh.

Now, mind you, I'm not the heaviest that I've ever been. Still have quite a ways to go to get to that number. Thank goodness. However, I also have a long way to go to get to what is considered a healthy BMI.

Hence...the new treadmill and getting up pre-dawn to walk.

You might be about to congratulate me for taking this great step forward toward better health, but don't just yet. You see, I've been putting it off this year even after I had a huge health scare in January.

Yep. I was hospitalized. Thought I was having a heart attack. So I had an overnight stay in a luxurious cardiac room at the Naples Community Hospital in FL (did I mention that I was on vacation?) complete with a stress test and nuclear scan of my heart. Thankfully, no heart attack. Instead turns out that I have pretty severe reflux (GERD) and some new medication is taking care of that nicely.

Whew! What a relief.

So, you'd think after that scare that I would have gone right out and bought that treadmill to get going on avoiding a real heart attack, right?

Nope.

Here's the thing...my life, aside from the fact that I'm fat, is pretty awesome most days. I get to hang out with an amazing kid. We play. We go out to lunch. A lot. And we go out to dinner. We get ice cream or frozen yogurt a few times a week. I'm not much of a one for cooking. At all. I really really really like chocolate. A lot.

Basically I kinda like my life the way it is.

So for the last seven months I had been resisting the changes I need to make. Going merrily along ignoring and denying what I know I needed to do.

But the reality is that I can't just hop on a treadmill and expect fantastic results if I don't do the other work of making myself and my family healthy food. And that takes work. Lots and lots of work.

So I didn't do any of it.

Until I had another health scare. Two actually - a pretty serious case of pneumonia and then a cancer scare. Thankfully, the pneumonia resolved and I don't have cancer.

But I do have a great appreciation for the fact that I want to be around for my kid's high school graduation, first big job, wedding, birth of her first kid, etc. I want to be there for her. And I can only do that by giving up my old unhealthy ways and adopting a new lifestyle.

So I have my new treadmill. That's the easy part.

The hard part will be learning a whole new way of eating and really taking care of myself.

But I'm making a start.

So, if you see me chowing down on pizza somewhere feel free to give me the stinkeye because you know that I'm not supposed to be eating that sh*t anymore.

Time to go shower and make myself a healthy breakfast.

Wish me luck.

Domestic Goddess? Yeah, Not So Much...

I am a crappy house keeper.

It's true.

There's no other way to say it.

When I first quit my job to become a stay-at-home-mom I had all these fantasies of finally having the time to really clean my house every week. My home would look like those homes you see in magazines. Clean. Organized. Beautiful.

I'd finally have the time to really learn how to cook. My husband would be so grateful and happy about eating wonderful home cooked meals. Meals I would cook Every. Single. Day. AND I'd pack his lunches. I'd plate everything so it looked like it was cooked in a restaurant. Elegant. Refined. I'd learn to bake homemade bread!

I would do it all!

I would be the next Martha Stewart...only a whole lot nicer. And with a sense of humor.

Yes. I would be a Domestic Goddess!! I would finally have the TIME to do it all.

What I didn't count on was having the time, but not the inclination.

Or the ability.

Here's what I've learned about myself as a stay-at-home-mom:  I don't do well when I have to do the same task over and over and over again.

It's boring. Monotonous. And it drives me crazy.

Quite frankly, if my job as a stay-at-home-mom was an actual JOB for which I received pay, my ass would have been fired long ago. Don't get me wrong, I'm good at the mom part of my SAHM job. My kid is engaged, happy and we have a blast together. I'm good at keeping her happy.

It's the at-home part of my SAHM job at which I suck.

The thing is, when I get on a cleaning tear I do pretty well and I sort of like it. It's nice to see chaos become order and dirty become clean. In a few hours I can have our home - the public areas anyway - looking ship-shape and ready for company.

But the cleaning never lasts. Ever. I just can't seem to MAINTAIN it.

Today I look at the living room with the dirty sippy cup and breakfast dish on the coffee table and four pairs of dirty kid socks strewn on the floor along with 463 toys, two pairs of pajamas, the junk mail that my daughter keeps taking out of the recycling bin, a random box or two, three flashlights (daughter is obsessed with them) and the empty blue bin that is supposed to contain the toys in the living room...It's then I think to myself, "For f*ck sake! Didn't I JUST clean this place like 6 days ago??? And now I have to do it AGAIN???"

It's the "again" part that always ruins it for me.

Again. Again. Always again.

Kind of like laundry.

OMG.

The laundry. How do three people generate so much EFFING laundry??? It just needs to get done again and again and again. It's NEVER EVER done. Ever. Didn't I JUST fold that pair of rainbow stripe kid leggings like yesterday and now they're dirty AGAIN???

And then there's dinner.

Does it have to happen every single night???

I only know how to cook like 4 things. And if I want to cook something new that means finding a new recipe, grocery shopping and then actually cooking something that requires me to focus on the recipe while my daughter hangs on my leg begging for snacks. I can BARELY cook the stuff I KNOW how to cook, but to do a new recipe AND manage my kid??? Not so much.

So instead I usually just make something easy for the kid, grab a bowl of cereal for myself and leave my poor husband to fend for himself

Yeah, my poor husband cooks his own dinner when he gets home from a day of meetings and work stress. Really. I am totally not kidding about this.

He should fire me.


I am NOT a Domestic Goddess.

Martha Stewart, I hate you.

Purple Jacket

Some kids have blankies.

Others have binkies.

Yet others have their thumbs.

And still others have a favorite stuffed animal. A lovey. A snugglie.

My daughter has Purple Jacket.

Not "a" purple jacket.

Not "the" purple jacket.

She has "Purple Jacket."

The amazing thing about Purple Jacket is that he so so much more than a jacket.

Oh yes. He.

Purple Jacket is a "he."

Purple Jacket is my daughter's friend, snugglie, partner in crime and primary source of comfort...absolutely necessary for bedtime for close to two years now and also for anytime that we are just hanging out.  We used let my daughter wear Purple Jacket other places, but now he stays at home because if he were to be lost....

Life. As. We Know. It. Would. Be. Over.

Despite having to stay at home, Purple Jacket apparently leads quite an active life.

A typical morning conversation with my daughter...

ME: How's Purple Jacket this morning?

ESME [shaking her head]: Not good.

ME: Not good? What's wrong with Purple Jacket?

ESME: He had bad dreams. Very bad dreams. He's tired.

ME: Ohhhh. Poor Purple Jacket.

ESME: Poor Purple Jacket. So tired.


And a typical afternoon conversation with my daughter...

ESME [upon walking in the house]: Where is Purple Jacket?

ME: I think he's in the bedroom where you left him.

ESME [flies to her bedroom to retrieve Purple Jacket]

ME [upon her return to the living room]: How is Purple Jacket?

ESME: Good!

ME: He had a good long nap while you were at school?

ESME: No! He had a party!!

ME: Purple Jacket had a party??

ESME: Yeah! On my bed! He had cake and ice cream and tato chips and cake and ice cream and lots of friends. He had a big party!

ME: Wow. That's amazing. Purple Jacket leads quite a life when we're not home.

ESME: Yeah! Amazing!


Recently we've had a bit of a Purple Jacket emergency. When Esme is taking him off, she breaks Purple Jacket's zipper. Now for most kids this wouldn't be a tragedy, but for my daughter...well, one of the main features of Purple Jacket is The Worry Spot....that part at the waist where the two jacket halves comes together and the zipper starts. Purple jacket always has to be zipped so with her fingers Esme can gently "worry" at the fabric and the start of the zipper. And when she is super tired or in need of extra comfort she gently rubs the Worry Spot under her nose. For some inexplicable reason this soothes her and calms her down.

So when the zipper is no longer functional...

And my daughter is distraught at having no Purple Jacket for bedtime and for self-soothing...

Yep.  You bet. I rush him the next day to our lovely seamstress (because I am useless with a sewing machine) and beg her to fix him. Gotta give the woman credit. She looks at this somewhat ratty old fleece jacket, takes in my request to have a new zipper put in, and doesn't bat an eyelash at what is obviously a ridiculous fix.  It takes a week and four times the original cost of the jacket (which I picked up for $4.99 at a re-sale shop), but Purple Jacket is good as new.

Life as we know it is not over.

I'm looking forward to getting home today to see what new adventures Purple Jacket has had while we've been out of the house.

Can I Really Call Myself A Writer?

"What do you do?"

It's what grownups ask each other by way of a greeting because we so often identify ourselves by what we do professionally.

"I'm a stay-at-home-mom," I reply.

And if I'm meeting someone who is not another SAHM, but instead a member of the "working world" that statement is often met with a blank look or a tepid, "Oh, well, that's nice."

So, then I add, "Oh, and I'm also a writer."

At this point the non-SAHM perks up with a, "Oh! Really? What do you write?"

Apparently learning about what I write is more interesting than hearing stories about making snacks, wiping butts, and hanging out with my 3.5 year-old daughter.

"I write a blog and I'm working on my first novel," and then I add with a laugh, "which is languishing in my laptop."

So there it is.

I'm a writer.

Of sorts.

Truth be told I have not worked on my novel in earnest since my daughter arrived in our lives three and a half years ago.

I always knew when I made the choice to stay at home with my daughter that my creative life would take a hit. Raising a kid is hard work. It takes time and energy. When we decided to adopt one of the conditions I laid out to my husband was that we would need to live on his salary. I knew full well that I would not be capable of raising of a small child  and holding down a job outside of the home. And so I left a career in which I had burned out and started my SAHM gig. And for the most part it has been awesome.

Except...

It didn't occur to me that I would not be capable of raising a small child and at the same time having a creative life. That I would stop writing.

But I did.

Only recently have a I resurrected this blog.

And my novel?

Still languishing in this laptop.

Am I really a writer?

I don't know.

Togetherness

"It's a LOT of togetherness," I often hear myself saying in conversation when I'm talking about my life as a stay-at-home-mom.

"A LOT of togetherness."

I wouldn't have it any other way.

But, man, is it ever a lot of togetherness. Oy.

Here's the thing that you aren't supposed to say about being a stay-at-home-mom:

Being a stay-at-home-mom is kind of driving me crazy.

Don't get me wrong...I LOVE my daughter. I love love love love love her. I love her like I've never loved anybody. It's an intense, crazy, deep love that makes me ache when I look at her. How did I get so lucky to be the mom of this amazing person??? When I see her wicked smile and her dimple. Omigod...the dimple. It's the cutest dimple EVER. And I hear her laugh. Pure joy. It fills me up. I know that I am the luckiest mom on the planet. Bar none.

Really.

But then she has one of her spectacular meltdowns. Omigod. The meltdowns. Brutal. For both of us.

Or we get done with swimming lessons at 10:00 a.m. on a Wednesday morning. We get ourselves dressed and I look at the clock to see that it is 10:52. Dear God...WHAT am I going to do with this child for another SEVEN HOURS AND EIGHT MINUTES until we have dinner???

Or the day where we have NOTHING on the schedule and she flat out refuses to go to gymnastics open play or Kidz Wurld indoor play center. 

And the fact that she stopped napping when she wasn't even two and a half years old. What kid stops napping that young???

"Oh, he naps for at least two hours everyday. Most days it's closer to three," a mom I meet at gymnastics open play tells me. Her kid is four and a half.

Four and a half years old and he naps for THREE HOURS???

In my dreams.

Moms hate naps at first because infants take so many of them which makes it hard to schedule your life. But then as life gets crazier when the kid starts becoming more mobile and active, moms come to appreciate and NEED The Nap. The Nap gives moms a break from the togetherness. You use it to clean the house, have a cup of coffee, sleep, or sometimes just sit and relish the quiet.

When my kiddo officially gives up her nap I feel like I might actually have a nervous breakdown.

No napping leads to a LOT of togetherness.

Twelve straight hours of togetherness most days.

Without a break.

Here's something that many people don't know about me: I'm an introvert.

You wouldn't know it about me because I am super chatty, I like to meet new people, and I do like to be out and about. I have decent social skills. I'm not a typical introverted introvert. I'm an extroverted introvert.

But I need alone time.

I need it. Crave it. Have to have it.

Serious quality alone time to recharge my batteries.

Alone time where I have an opportunity to be quiet and creative. When I can make art, write, read, and use my brain in a different way than when I'm in mom mode.

But with twelve hours of togetherness with my three and half year-old daughter...there ain't a lot of quality alone time to recharge. I'm pretty much totally exhausted at the end of every day. So my end of the day alone time isn't quality alone time AT ALL. I collapse in a heap on the couch where I watch television as my body twitches and vibrates because I am over-tired and over-stimulated. Watching television doesn't really help much, but in general I have little brain power for anything else at the end of my day.

Here's the other thing you aren't supposed to say about life as a stay-at-home-mom:

Being with a small child for twelve hours a day is a grind.

It is.

Wiping butts, cleaning up crayon on the walls chasing your kid through the library to get her to stop running and yelling, searching for the same lost toy every single day, watching the same episode of Curious George for the 47th time, keeping your kid entertained and clean and fed and engaged every single day, being the primary educator and disciplinarian every single day. It's. A. Grind.

Please, don't get me wrong...there are SO MANY parts of the day that are also TOTALLY AWESOME. I love watching my kid running and jumping and walking the balance beam at gymnastics open play time. And our couch tickle fights are spectacularly fun. Hearing her whoop with excitement when she hears the theme music for her favorite cooking show, The Pioneer Woman. Listening to her tell her hundreds of stories everyday is the stuff that makes life with her the best. Watching the wheels in her brain turn and seeing her learn something new. Completely awesome and amazing.

However, it's a lot.

A lot. A lot. A lot. A lot of work. A lot of togetherness with no break.

And I know...this is MY choice to stay at home with her. Please, no one needs to remind me. I chose this life. I choose this life everyday even when I think I might have a nervous breakdown because of it. I choose to be the person who raises my daughter.  I choose the grind. And I am SO LUCKY that I have that choice. That my husband earns enough to keep us in house and home so that I can spend twelve hours a day with our kid. That my husband is OK with me "opting out" of the work force to be a "SAHM." I KNOW that I am lucky.

Really. I do.

But, man, it's still a LOT of togetherness.

No Comfort

"I DON'T WANT YOU!" my three and a half year-old daughter roars, fists clenched at her sides, body rigid, tears and snot coating her face.

"I DON'T WANT YOU!" she roars again mid-meltdown then jumps up and down screaming at the top of her lungs.

I hardly recognize this enraged little person. 95% of the time my kid is joyful, happy, hilarious, and extremely kind.

But that other 5% of the time.

Meltdowns.

Spectacular, epic, blow-the-roof-off meltdowns.

Filled with rage.

In the midst of these spectacular epic meltdowns my normally super affectionate, loving, huggy girl directs all of her rage at me.

"What can I do for you?" I ask her in my calmest voice. "What can I do for you?"

"NOTHING! GET AWAY FROM ME!" she shrieks, body still rigid, fists still clenched and eyes now closed as if the very sight of me is just too much to bear.

She rejects my attempts to comfort her.

She rejects me with every fiber of her being.

Sometimes her meltdowns last for just a few minutes, but on occasion she can rage for close to an hour. It is so awful to witness her fury and her suffering as huge emotions overtake her.

If I'm honest with myself, it's also extremely painful to have all of that rage directed at me.

It's especially painful because I secretly worry that she rejects me in this way because I'm not her birth mother, K.

Is there some deep part of her that understands that I am not the woman who gave birth to her? Does she subconsciously want K and thus rejects me?

When she screams "I DON'T WANT YOU!" I secretly panic that she will always reject me because somehow I'm not her "real" mother.

I wonder and worry, if K were raising her would Esme just collapse in K's arms and allow herself to be hugged and comforted? Would she let K do that for her when she won't let me? Will she ever let me comfort her through a meltdown?

"I don't want you," Esme says again breathing hard, but she is running out of steam.

"What can I do for you?" I ask again.

"Nothing," she snuffles then walks to the couch where she seizes her beloved purple fleece jacket. She takes her "worry spot" (the bottom front where the zipper comes together) and gently rubs it under her nose. Her preferred method of self-soothing.

I take a step toward her and ask gently, "Can I give you a hug now?"

"Not yet," she says hiccuping, a few tears still rolling down her cheeks.

"OK, I'll come back and check on you in a few minutes."

I walk into the kitchen where I sag against the counter exhausted and hurt, trying and failing to not take it personally. Trying and failing to be confident in my role as Esme's "real" mom.

Wondering and worrying.

A few minutes later I return to the living room to sit down near her on the couch. "Can I give you a hug now?"

She shakes her head, but she moves closer to me and we sit together, not quite touching, in silence for a long time.

Margaret's Birthday

"There is a cat," says my 3.5 year-old daughter.

We are sitting at a table in our local library and she is "reading" to me from a Rainbow Fairy chapter book. Whenever we come to the children's section of the library she immediately secures the lone red plastic wagon with the blue handle (there are also two blue wagons with yellow handles, but apparently these are less desirable than the red) and rushes to the chapter book spinners to peruse and select her books. Recently she announces that she will only select the Rainbow Fairy books with the PINK covers.

Conveniently there are dozens and dozens of Rainbow Fairy books with pink covers.

Once her wagon is loaded to almost overflowing, Esme comes to me to "check out" her books. This involves me sitting with an old computer keyboard in my lap "scanning" each book - passing it over the keyboard while saying, "Beeeeeep." I scan them. She puts them back in the wagon.

Today Esme grabs my hand when we're done "checking out" her books. "Come," she says, pulling me to my feet.

"Where are we going?"

"To a party!" she says with a grin.

"Whose party?" I ask.

"Margaret's party! It's Margaret's birthday party today."

Margaret is Esme's baby doll. The doll who goes EVERYWHERE with us. Whose clothes, despite numerous washings, have degraded to a rather unfashionable shade of pale grey. Who is, according to my daughter, the source of all trouble in our house. When I comment that the living room is a huge mess, Esme informs me, "Margaret did it. Margaret makes big messes!" When I trip over the scooter suddenly laying behind me on the kitchen floor, Esme says with a straight face, "It was Margaret." And when I return to the living room one day after folding some laundry in the bedroom to discover an entire bowl of Triscuits crumbled to little bits and spread all over the couch...the apparent culprit, "Margaret."

We really do love Margaret despite her trouble-making tendencies.

So, apparently, today is Margaret's birthday (it was also her birthday a week ago Thursday, several times in January and on multiple occasions throughout the last six months) and we're having a party in the library.

Esme pulls all of the rolling chairs from the computer desks over to a table. There is no one else in the children's section right now so I make no objection.

"You sit here! In this one," says Esme pointing.

"OK."

She then pulls half a dozen Rainbow Fairy books from her hoard, slaps one on the table in front of me and says, "This is yours. You read."

OK.

"No, wait!" she says, yanking the book out of my hand. "I read this one to you."

She opens the book to the middle and begins in the sweet sing-song voice she uses when she tells her stories, "There is a cat. The cat doesn't want to be picked up. I pick up the cat. I say, 'Shh cat. You OK. You OK.' I put the cat down. The end!"

She closes the book and looks at me with a huge smile.

"You have so many stories to tell," I say to my daughter. "So many stories to tell."

She laughs.

And with that she opens another book to tell me yet another story. This is what the rest of the party consists of - her "reading" the rest of the half a dozen books to me and Margaret. Some of the stories have a plot and even make some sense, but most of them simply involve Esme experimenting with different words in nonsensical combinations, half-talking and half-singing.

I'm pretty certain based on prior experiences that Margaret will have another birthday soon. Probably not in the library. More than likely at home where Esme will "bake" her a cake in her play kitchen and I will be commanded to sit at the kitchen table where I will have to eat the pretend cake over and over and over again. 

You Never...Until You Do

Do y'all have a list of "nevers" in your head?

You know the list...that slightly self-righteous all-knowing "Well, I'll never do this" or "I'll never do that" list.

"I'll never date a bad boy."
"I'll never lie to my parents."
"I'll never take the easy route."
"I'll never get married."
"I'll never have kids."
"I'll never get fat."
"I'll never stay in a bad marriage."
"I'll never get divorced."
"I'll never take a job that I don't feel passionate about."
Etc. Etc. Etc.

I didn't know that I had a "never" list when my husband and I set out to become parents some five odd years ago. In the front of my brain I just assumed I'd become a mom and it would be all rainbows and unicorns and sweetness and light.

OK, well maybe no rainbows and unicorns, but I thought it would be awesome.

And it is.

Mostly.

I know that I am incredibly lucky to have the life I do with my husband, my daughter,  a nice house, money in the bank, and the opportunity to stay home to raise my daughter. Truly, it's a great life and I know I shouldn't complain.

But.

But three and a half years into this momhood gig I realize that I've had a "never" list lurking in my brain.

My list goes something like this, "When I'm a mom..."

• "I'll never 'let myself go' and will always take care of myself so I don't get fat and unhealthy."
• "I'll never neglect my marriage." 
• "I'll never judge other moms for their choices."
• "I'll never leave the house while wearing sweats or yoga pants."
• "I'll never let the laundry go for days and weeks."
• "I'll never leave the house unless I've showered and done my hair and make up."
• "I'll never leave dirty dishes in the sink overnight or for days at a time."
• "I'll never put my child's needs before the needs of my husband and our marriage."
• "I'll never resent my husband for having a job outside of the home when I'm home all of the time."
• "I'll never let my kid eat food for which we haven't yet paid."
• "I'll never let my kid have a tantrum in public."
• "I'll never raise my voice to my child and will always speak to her patiently."
• "I'll never check out mentally when I'm with my child."
• "I'll never plop my kid in front of the television for hours at a time so I can get things done."
• "I'll never check out mentally when I'm with my husband."
• "I'll never give up time with my girlfriends."
• "I'll never stop being a good friend."
• "I'll never stop writing, blogging and making art."
• "I'll never spend every evening on the couch zoning out in front of the television."
• "I'll never give up date nights with my husband."
• "I'll never lose the things about myself that make me me."

And I never do any of these things.

Until I do.

All. Of. The. Time.

I almost always leave the house while wearing sweat pants or yoga pants.  Do my hair? Wear makeup? Seriously? That never happens. I haven't been thin or healthy in quite some time. I find myself judging other moms for things that I know that I do with own kid or that I am afraid of doing. I don't want to be THAT mom who is yelling at her kid on the playground. But sometimes I am.

Do I pay attention to my amazing husband beyond talking about our daughter or general domestic issues? Not so much. Here I have this wonderful, kind, brilliant and loving life partner, but I can hardly remember what it feels like to be in a romantic relationship with him because I don't make the effort these days. I'm too worn out from being a mom. Or at least that's what I tell myself to justify not giving him more of me. He always gets the last and worst of me. I'm not the wife that I want to be.

What about my totally awesome kid? She's funny, kind, energetic, and one of the most engaging people I've ever met. But I'm not the mom I want to be because I'm not in the present moment with her the way I should be. I'm so tired and sometimes just plain resentful of constantly having to be on duty for her. She gets me all of the time. But she doesn't get the best of me. At the end of the day especially I am always impatient and in a hurry to get her to bed. I'm not kind. I'm not the mom I want to be.

My house is consistently a wreck. It takes too much energy and patience to try to wrangle my 3.5 year-old into helping put away the 800 toys and all of the household items that she just HAS to put on the floor every single day. I always put off doing the laundry and the dishes. And when was the last time my floors saw a mop? Ha! I'm not the housekeeper I want to be.

And my friends? Well, I see them a few times a year and I keep them updated a few times a week on Facebook. I'm an awesome friend...yeah, not so much. I'm not the friend I want to be.

Blogging? Writing my novel? Making art? Haven't done any of that in I can't remember how long. I'm not the creative person I want to be.

Truth is, I'm pretty much a hot mess right now. I find myself in that territory many moms find themselves in: I've lost the things that make me me because I let the "never" list take over.

I never.

Until I do.

But now.

Time to set the "never" list aside.

Time to get back to being me.

Transracial adoption: One of these things is not like the other...

An interesting incident from January 2012 when I was still a new mom...

We are in line at the grocery store, my five month-old daughter sound asleep in her baby carrier on the cart and me watching the woman in front of us unloading her cart's contents onto the belt.  The woman is blonde, blue-eyed, petite, and pretty. The little boy standing next to her - probably five years-old or so - has to be her son because he looks exactly like her. He is adorable. I can't help staring at him.

The little boy notices me gazing at him so I give him what I hope is my best "I really like little kids" smile. Thankfully he smiles back. Then he notices the baby carrier sitting on my cart and makes his way over to me.

"Can I see the baby?" he asks me in a raspy voice.

"Sure, Buddy," I say and move aside.

Grasping the cart handle he hoists himself up for a good look. Apparently this is a kid who really likes babies because he gets a goofy big smile on his face. At this moment his mom notices him missing from her side and looks around to see him standing on my cart.  She looks as though she's going to call him back so I give her my most "it's OK" smile with a little hand wave and she relaxes while the cashier continues to scan and bag her items. After another moment the boy's smile fades as he looks from Esme to me and back again several times. He steps down from the cart and with a serious expression says slowly and loudly, "S h e ' s   v e r y   b r o w n."

The petite blonde looks alarmed at this loud pronouncement from her son.

"Yes, she is," I reply.

"She's very brown," he repeats, "and you're NOT."

A look of sheer horror settles on the face of the little boy's mom, but I wave her off gently before she can interrupt.

"No,  I'm not," I say with a chuckle.

The little boy thinks about this for a moment and then asks, "So, is your husband brown?"

"Omigod," says the little boy's mom her face flushing in utter embarrassment.

Personally, I don't think she should be embarrassed at all. Her kid is a genius! How many five year-olds would make that leap?

"No, Buddy, my husband isn't brown."

He looks confused.

"My daughter is adopted."

"What does that mean?"

The boy's mother is now making quiet strangling noises with her face in her hands, "Honey, please!"

Ignoring his mother's near panic, I say, 'That means that my daughter grew in someone else's tummy, but that lady couldn't tale care of her when she was born. So my little girl came to live with me and my husband and now we're her parents."

"Oh, OK," he says cheerfully walking back to his mother's side.

"I am SO sorry," says the mom looking as if she'd rather be anywhere else.

"Please don't apologize. It's just fine. Really."

My daughter is brown.

Very brown.

And I am not.

I'm Back (and Conversations with Esme...)

It's hard for me to believe that my amazing girl is almost three years old.


And that I haven't written on this blog for more than two years. What the heck happened???

Motherhood.

That's what happened.

Diaper changes, sleep deprivation, walking circles around the kitchen island in the middle of the night trying to get her back to sleep, schlepping her in the car seat here and there, teething, barfing (her, not me), bottle feeding, baths, sleep deprivation, multiple daily clothing changes, getting barfed on, getting barfed on some more, getting barfed on again, sleep deprivation, crying in my car because I'm so tired, hearing her first laugh, seeing her first smile, watching her roll, then scoot, then crawl, then pull herself up, then take her first step, and more steps, then run, then say her first word and her second word, trips to the playground, more trips to the playground, etc. etc. etc.

Losing myself entirely for almost three years in this wonderful, terrible, fabulous, maddening and transformative thing called motherhood. When I started this blog back in 2009 to explore my husband's and my adoption journey, I had every intention of then writing about our family post-adoption and about my experience with motherhood. But somehow writing about motherhood just never materialized. I was just too busy. Too tired. Too much of a mom and not quite as much of the me I was before I became a mom.

But here I am again. Feeling the need to write. And what else would I write about? Being a mom is my full-time gig. It's what I do. It's what's in my brain. It's kind of all I know these days. So basically it's all I know to write.

So, to kick off the re-boot of this blog I am going stop making excuses for why I've been gone so long and instead get you up to speed on my girl via some of my favorite conversations with Esme who is, as I already mentioned, amazing.

Actually she is A-M-A-Z-I-N-G. Super smart, extremely independent, uber social, fearless, compassionate, charming, and has a great sense of humor.


February 8, 2014

Filed under "What Not to Say to Your Child":

ME: OK, Sweetie, it's time to get dressed.

ESME [goofs around in rocking chair]

ME: Guess you don't want to go to the mall today. Guess we won't replace your bracelet.

ESME [hopping off chair]: Go mall! Go mall!

ME [lifting Esme onto changing table]: Well, we have to get you dressed. Can't go to the mall in your pajamas. Well, you could, but then I'd be a crap mom.

ESME [laughing hysterically]: Crap mom! Crap mom! Crap mom!


March 19, 2014

At the library with La Munchipessa.

ESME [picking up a toy stuffed frog]: Frog is sad.

ME: The frog is sad? Why is he sad?

ESME: Has no friends.

ME: The frog has no friends?

ESME: Nooo.

ME: That is sad.

ESME [rolling a toy car with two Little People in it to the frog]: Frog has new friends!! [smiles]


May 5, 2014

ESME [pointing to her purple sock monkey doll]: This is baby.

ME: Purple Monkey is your baby today?

ESME [nodding, but also frowning]: The baby sick.

ME: She's sick? Oh no.

ESME: Need to go to doctor office. The baby sick. Need to go to doctor office.

ME: OK, we better call to see if we can get an appointment.

ESME [pointing to Purple Monkey's little leg]: The baby has cramp! Has cramp!

ME: Oh no.

ESME: [rubbing Purple Monkey's leg and smiling a huge smile]: Cramp all gone! Baby feels better!


May 11, 2014

I am in bed while my husband and daughter are busy in the kitchen making pancakes for me. (And I know this because La Munchipessa just ran to the bedroom door, announced, "We making pancakes for you!" and then dashed off again.)

Happy Mother's Day to me!!!

[addendum: In related news, La Munchipessa just reappeared in the doorway to announce, "We have syrup!"]


May 31, 2014

So, I'm fighting the spring/early summer crud [cough cough cough sniffle sniffle sniffle]. My daughter;s take on the crud...

ESME: Open you mouth.

ME [opening my mouth]

ESME: You have germs in you mouth.

ME: Yes, I have germs in my mouth.

ESME [pointing to herself]: I doctor. I make you feel better.

ME: You're the doctor and you're going to make me feel better?

ESME: [nodding enthusiastically] : I doctor.

ME: What do you recommend for me to feel better?

ESME [thinking]: Soup!! [runs to her covered water table where she busily combines dirt and grass in a bowl] I make you cake. You feel better.

ME: Well, thank you. I think cake will make me feel better.

She comes home...part 8

It's difficult for me to describe witnessing my husband hold his daughter for the first time. I'm not sure that I can beyond including the above photo in this post...It's still my absolute favorite photo of the two of them together. The quiet wonder and joy of the moment.

Several hours or so before this photo is taken... I tuck Esme into her carrier and load her into the car to make the trek to the airport to pick up Chris, who is finally able to travel to Orlando to be with us for the weekend. According to the airline website his flight is on time so I expect to park the car, meet Chris at baggage claim and have some time to introduce him to his daughter. Imagine my surprise and dismay when I receive a text mid-way on my drive to the airport that his flight is 25 minutes early. 

Crap. 

So, now I'll be picking Chris up curbside.

A short time later I see him standing there with his backpack slung over his shoulder. Smiling. Looking a little tired and nervous.

I ease the car over to the curb, get out and walk around to greet my husband with a long hug and a kiss. Then wordlessly he opens the rear passenger door and leans in to get his first real look at our daughter. Tears immediately spring to his eyes. Happy tears. "She's so beautiful."

We have to get going before airport security shoos us away on this busy travel Friday.

"Do you want to ride in the back with her?" I ask.

He shakes his head.

And then we're off to the attorney's office so Chris can sign the papers.

We don't talk much on the way and laugh a little hysterically when I call up the wrong address on the GPS landing us at the pediatrician's office instead of the attorney's office. A quick panicked call to the attorney and we're off again.

Finally we arrive. Chris gently lifts the carrier out of the car. It is apparent that he is already mesmerized by his little girl.

Soon we are settled into a small conference room. The attorney leaves us to gather the papers. 

"Do you want to hold her?" I ask Chris, taking Esme out of her carrier.

"No, I'll wait until we're back at the hotel," he says wistfully. Then he looks at Esme in my arms. "Wait. Yes. I do."

So I hand her to him. For a few seconds he looks as if I've handed him a live grenade.

"It's OK," I say.

She looks so very tiny in his hands.

He gazes at her already full of love and adoration.

I take a few photos. He is lost in the moment, but finally looks up and I snap a few of him smiling, too. 

Then the attorney is back and Chris is signing papers while I change the baby's diaper and give her a bottle. 

And then it's done.

Chris and I are now Esme's legal guardians.

We return to the hotel to begin our first weekend together as a family. While we do many fun things including dinner out at a Thai restaurant, a trip to Babies-R-Us to buy a Snap-n-Go, and her first visit to an art museum, what I remember most about the weekend is Chris holding Esme. Singing to her. Dancing slowly with her around the hotel room. The way he gazes at her. It is obvious that he is completely smitten.

We joke now that we're doomed. That one day our daughter is going to look at Chris and ask sweetly, "Daddy, can I have a pony?"

And he's going to reply, "A pony? Of course! What color, Honey?"

You can see it all in this very first weekend. 

Sunday comes all too soon and I find myself driving Chris back to the airport so he can return to his last week of work at the job he is leaving. Neither of us wants him to go. But he'll be back in five days.

He kisses our daughter gently. He kisses me gently. And then he's gone.

She comes home...part 7

"I don't know how you did that! Taking care of a newborn all by yourself in a hotel room! I couldn't have done it."

Numerous people express these sentiments to me upon our return home with Esme.

"Well...I didn't really have a choice," I reply.

I'm sure before all of this craziness happened if someone had told me that I'd be spending 10 days with an infant in a hotel room, the majority of those ten days alone with her, I probably would have fainted at the prospect.

Fainted dead away.

But the truth is that once we get to the hotel and it's just Esme and me...I'm more relaxed than I have been in almost three years.

After the insanity of our failed adoption in March, getting the news of Esme's birth on the heels of Hurricane Irene and the mad rush of getting myself to Florida, after the agonizing and waiting, making the final pact with K, nasty Nurse Stink Eye, the signing of the papers, the clueless attorney, and finally (painfully) saying goodbye to K...being alone with Esme in a clean, quiet hotel room seems comparatively easy.

Even relaxing.

"I didn't have a choice," I reply to the folks amazed by my ability to take care of a newborn alone in a hotel room. "But honestly, compared to the two and a half years of waiting and everything else that happened on our adoption journey...taking care of her turned out to be the easy part."

Esme is a quiet baby.

She sleeps most of the time wrapped up like a burrito. Over the course of two days at the hospital I have become adept at swaddling. She cries when she wets her diaper and when she's hungry. However, I am extremely grateful that she is apparently one of those babies who, when a need is addressed, immediately stops crying. She isn't one of those babies who gets herself all worked up.

Our room is spacious with two queen sized beds, a decent sized sitting area and a tiny kitchenette. Because we're in Orlando - Land of the Evil Empire Disney - hotel rooms are plentiful and cheap. A room this size and quality near where we live would be in the hundreds for just one  night. But here it's affordable. And conveniently the hotel is right across the street from Target. Anything I need is just one minute away.

Our first night together as mother and daughter is relatively quiet. Upon our arrival in our temporary home she sleeps in the portable bed-top sleeper while I get all of the various baby stuff set up in little stations around the room. Once that's done I sit next to her on the bed to watch her sleep. Wrapped up burrito-style she is very still, although from time to time she moves her little head in a circle and her mouth opens wide in a silent cry. And then she settles back down into deep sleep.

Do newborns dream?
 
"Hello, my little burrito," I whisper to her.

Some part of my brain thinks that I should be panicked about being here on my own with her, but I'm not. She's quiet and content. I'm quiet and content.

I send text messages and photos to Chris and our families. She sleeps, eats, makes wet diapers, and occasionally opens her dark-brown-almost-black eyes. I'd like to think she can see me, but I know from my reading that she sees virtually nothing at this point in her life. Her world is made up of sound, taste and other physical sensations. Like most newborns, she isn't crazy about being naked. Her skinny legs and arms flap manically when I change her. Her way of saying, "Holy crap it's cold in here!!!"

"I'm sorry, my little burrito," I say and try to dress her quickly. The teeny tiny newborn clothes are simply gigantic on her. Every time I change her I can't help but be delighted by her big feet. Well, giant for her...they are tiny little feet, but look ginormous on her pencil skinny legs. She has long, slender toes.

When she is awake, I lay her the length of my thighs and just gaze at her. Every little movement is adorable. She makes soft smacking sounds. And sometimes she sighs deeply.

I touch her face, her hair, her hands and feet. I am certain that she is the most perfect baby ever and tell her so, "You are the most perfect baby. Ever."

She doesn't reply, but looks in my direction with wide unseeing eyes. And sighs deeply.

I'd like to think she understands that already after just a few days I adore her with every fiber of my being.

No matter how tightly I wrap her into her burrito blanket cocoon, her left hand inevitably makes its way up and out of the top of her swaddling blanket. She sleeps with her fingers pressed to her cheek. This just kills me it's so sweet.

"I think we should call her Houdini," I say to Chris. "Her left hand will not be contained. She gets it out of the swaddling every time I do her up!"

He laughs, but it is obvious that he is incredibly sad to be missing her first day away from the hospital. Her first day as part of our family.

"You'll be here tomorrow," I say trying to ease the ache, knowing it doesn't help.

She comes home...part 6

My stomach is doing uncomfortable flip flops.

I sit on one of the couches in the airy third floor hospital lounge, but it's impossible to get comfortable. From time to time I get up and walk around just to be doing something. When I'm not walking or glancing at the door, I'm sending text messages to Chris.

10:50 AM [ME]: I signed all the papers. The attorney now in with K having her sign everything. OMG. This is really happening.

11:01 AM [CHRIS]: I'm at my desk. Having a bit of trouble breathing.

11:01 AM [ME]: me too

11:20 AM [CHRIS]: Anything?

11:20 AM [ME]: Still waiting

11:21 AM [CHRIS]: This is nerve-wracking.

11:21 AM [ME]: What about this entire experience hasn't been nerve-wracking???

11:22 AM [CHRIS]: Bonus wracks for being so close to it happening. I'm sorry I'm not there with you.

11:22 AM [ME] I'm sorry too. But you'll be here tomorrow and we will just get to hang out without anyone else around!

Two hours earlier I arrive at the hospital to find K watching television and the baby laying next to her asleep.

"You just missed her being awake," says K.

"That's OK," I reply. "I'm sure she'll be awake again soon."

K nods.

"Do you want to hold her?"

I nod as K hands her to me. The baby doesn't even stir during the hand-off. One little hand peeks out of the top of the swaddling blanket.

"How are you?" I ask K.

"I'm OK," she says looking at me and then back at the tv. "I'm OK."

Again, I wonder if she is trying to convince me or herself that she truly is OK.

"Are you sure?"

She nods her head.

I try one last time. One last time I'll say it and then there's no going back for either of us.

"There's still time to change your mind," I say.

The statement...a question really...hangs in the air between us for a minute before K says, "No. I'm OK. I'm OK."

She looks back at the tv. I look down at K's baby in my lap. Sleeping. Content. Unaware of the pact being made and confirmed by the two women who love her more than anyone else in the world will ever love her.

Finally the attorney arrives. A pretty woman with dark hair in her mid-thirties. She smiles broadly as she introduces herself to K and to me. She coos over the baby announcing that she has a 5 month-old at home. After a few minutes of chit-chat she turns to me and says, "So, have you and your husband chosen a name?"

"Esme Louisa," I reply.

'That's beautiful," says the attorney with another big smile.

"Unless you changed your mind and there's a name that you like," I say turning to K hoping, even though I love the name we've chosen, that K will tell me that she's changed her mind and would like to have a part in naming her baby.

She shakes her head, "No. I'm OK. That's pretty."

Esme Louisa it is.

And then the attorney is leading me out of the room explaining that I have to be in a different part of the hospital while K signs the papers. She leads me to the lounge, pulls out a huge packet of papers and proceeds to go over each one with me. I'm sure that I'm supposed to read each one thoroughly, but I can't seem to focus properly because I'm so nervous. So, I nod a lot. Finally, the attorney announces that she needs to go review all of the documents with K, which will take a while. I try my best to read everything per the attorney's instructions, but just end up locating all of the places I'm supposed to sign and, with shaking hand, do just that.

The lounge is empty but for me. People come and go from the maternity ward, but no one stops here.

The minutes drag by.

Then at 11:32 the doors open and there is the attorney with a big smile on her face.

K signed the papers.

The attorney gives me a quick hug. I hand her my signed papers. We return to K's room. The moment I see K is so terribly, horribly bittersweet. She is crying. Big tears. I want to hold her, to tell her that it's all going to be OK. I want to adopt K along with her baby. She is so young and scared. She needs someone to take care of her. Seeing her cry and knowing what we've done...I am so heartbroken for her. So happy for me and Chris, but so heartbroken for her.

Part of me just wants to take it all back. To un-sign everything and go back in time to before we even knew about K and her baby.

I walk to her thinking that I will put my arms around her, but she thrusts Esme Louisa in my direction and turns away.

I can't blame her. I'd probably turn away from me, too, if I was her.

The attorney, oblivious to K's pain and only interested in my joy,  jumps in front of me with a camera and says, "Smile!'

So, I do. Then the attorney says, "Give me your phone and I'll take some pictures for you."

So, I do and she does.

"How about a picture with K?" says the oblivious attorney.

"Well, I think that's really up to K. I don't want to intrude on her privacy," I respond.

K is not crying anymore, but is still obviously shaken by what has just happened here.

"Oh, I guess I always think that everyone wants their pictures taken. It's such a happy occasion!"

Not for K.

This attorney really is clueless.

I look at K who says quietly, "I don't think I want my picture taken."

"I understand," I reply. "That's totally fine."

The attorney looks confused and disappointed. She puts her camera away. Finally, she announces that it's time for her to go. She congratulates me again, makes some vague noises in K's direction and leaves us.

I am wrung out and have no words left to text my husband so I simply send him this photo:

And then I sit on the low pink couch with my daughter and her mother. One of us is sleeping soundly while the other two contemplate the enormity of what we've just done.

She comes home...part 5

"I can't get her to wake up to eat," I say quietly to the night nurse, B. "She is sleeping so deeply. I've tried everything, but she just won't wake up."

I'm very worried about this because the baby hasn't eaten in more than two hours. Nurse Stink Eye, upon returning the baby earlier in the evening after her tests are complete, looks at K and reminds her that because the baby is so small she needs to eat every two hours. No exceptions. She looks at me with the evil Stink Eye and says nothing before leaving the room to sign off from the day shift. I don't know if it's me personally that has her so up in arms or adoptive moms in general. Regardless, I'm relieved knowing that she won't be back this evening.

"Ahhh, give her to me," says Nurse B with a big smile. It's obvious that she loves babies.

It's late. 11 p.m. or so. K is sound asleep after taking a sleeping pill and I've been sitting with the baby for several hours now after a quick trip to my hotel room to freshen up and have a quick bite to eat (a frozen lean cuisine from the hotel snack shop. Yum. Not.)

Since arriving at the hospital five hours ago I've exchanged numerous texts and phone calls with Chris, who is kindly keeping everyone else in the family updated about events down here. It's too much for me to reach out to everyone. I'm pretty exhausted.

Every conversation I have with Chris involves me saying, "I wish you were here" and him replying, "I wish I was there, too" and both of us still uttering things like, "I can't believe this is happening" and "what if she won't sign the papers?" Still, we try to remain optimistic.

"I wish you'd send a picture of you and the baby together," Chris tells me.

"No, not yet. It wouldn't be right. Not until the papers are signed and she's ours."

"Mmm," he replies, "yeah, you're right."

We also spend time reviewing our list of names and narrowing them down to our final choice. If we're to sign papers tomorrow then the baby is going to need a name for the birth certificate. It doesn't take long, thankfully. It's a good choice. A sweet lovely name.

Earlier, long before my conversation with Chris, I ask K if she has a name picked out, "Is there a name that you like? Have you picked one out?"

"Ohhh, nooo," K replies, "no you should choose."

"Are you sure? If there's a name that's special to you, we'd certainly like to consider it."

"No," she says in her breathy voice, "there is no name."

I can't help wondering if there is, but don't pry any further. Her mind seems made up to let Chris and I name the baby. Part of me is relieved, but part of me is also sad because I had been hoping that K might want to participate in naming her little girl.

There have also been several calls with the FL adoption agency throughout the evening. The ladies there seem to be all at once excited for me to be spending time with the baby, but also nervous about me spending time with K (they encourage me to try to take the baby to another room, but I don't feel right about that and even if I did want to it certainly didn't feel like Nurse Stink Eye would let that happen.) I keep receiving warnings from the adoption agency folks to not share any personal information with K: "don't give her your phone number" and "under no circumstances let her know where you live" and my favorite (NOT) "And for God's sake don't give her or offer her any money." It's unnerving to have the adoption agency people display so much distrust for K. And it's the one completely sour note (aside from Nurse Stink Eye) in this whole experience.

"Newborns sleep a lot and sleep heavily. Sometimes it's hard to wake them up," Nurse B explains.

Nurse B is young - maybe 30. She is pretty with long, long brown and a friendly open smile. Additionally, it is obvious that she is confident with her little charges as she easily handles the baby. There is also the added bonus that Nurse B, unlike Nurse Stink Eye who looked at me as if I were some sort of mutant from another planet, acts kindly toward me. Even though I'm not the woman who gave birth to this baby, I am the adoptive mother and Nurse B treats me like she would any new mother.


I'm surprised to see her removing the swaddling blanket, the tiny onesie, the baby's hat and even her itty-bitty diaper (it's SO tiny...it looks like it should be for a baby doll!) The baby stirs in the chilly air, but sleeps on. I am startled to see just how teeny tiny she is out of the swaddling blanket. Her arms and legs are skinny and she has surprisingly huge feet. Nurse B and I both laugh at the sight of those huge feet on such a little person.

Nurse B flips the now naked baby over, pats her bottom hard, and then tickles her feet...also hard.

"Ummm," I say, "should you be doing that? She's so tiny."

Nurse B laughs.

"Oh, ya gotta be kind of mean to them at this age," she says with a happy grin, "or they won't wake up."

Finally after more bottom patting, tickling and flipping over the baby lets out a loud cry.

"Quick," says Nurse B with a chuckle, "stick the bottle in!"

I stick the nipple in the baby's mouth. She immediately starts to suck. Nurse B hands her to me. Feeding her for the first time makes my mouth go a little dry and throat tighten up, but in a good way. I can hardly breathe I am so happy.

The baby makes surprisingly quick work of one of the two ounces.

And promptly gets the hiccups.

I must look a little panicked because Nurse B says, "This is really normal. Newborns get hiccups a lot. Their tummies are not even the size of your thumb. They eat too fast and - boom! - hiccups. Just put her on your shoulder and pat her on the bum. She'll burp and eventually the hiccups will go away."

I carefully place the baby on my shoulder and gently pat her little behind.

"Oh, you can be a little more firm than that," says Nurse B, "she won't break."

So, I pat a little harder.

"That's it," says Nurse B. "You can go even a little harder. You're doing great."

Burp!

And then she's sound asleep again.

Nurse B very kindly walks me through diapering and swaddling. The she gets up to leave saying, "I'm here all night and I'll be back in to check in on you."

'Thank you so much," I reply, "you've been really kind."

It's dim in K's room. I stretch out on the couch with the baby in my arms. I'd take more photos of her, but don't want to risk waking her with the flash. I've sent quite a few pictures already - a few even show her with her eyes open on those rare occasions when she would wake up. Her irises are so dark they appear black. She can't focus on anything when they're open.

"Yeah," I say to her the first time she opens her eyes, "this is kind of a big confusing world isn't it, huh?"

Throughout the evening K watches me with her baby. We talk a bit, but not as much as I though we would. At one point K says, "She's a good baby, just like my older daughter. She was quiet like this. Happy."

"How old is she now?"

"She's 4 years old."

"Omigosh," I reply. "That's such a fun age."

K doesn't respond with anything more than a sweet smile. I know from the adoption ladies that K's daughter is living in St. --- with K's mother. I don't know how long it's been since K has seen her daughter, but I don't have the nerve to ask nor do I think it's my place to ask if she isn't going to volunteer the information.

As K watches me hold her baby earlier in the evening, I wonder what she must be thinking and feeling. Her face appears placid and reveals nothing of her thoughts or emotions.

And now K is sleeping deeply while I get to know the little person who she brought into the world. The maternity ward is finally quiet. I'm exhausted, but not quiet ready to leave this little one to the care of the nurses for the night.

I touch her tiny face and feet and hands, marvelling at how perfect she is.