Memories of an adoption

"Hi Lucy." He bent over, looked at her small upturned face, and placed his hand gently on the top of her head. "My goodness, you have gotten big. I knew you when you were still in your mommy's belly!"

I froze. She stared up at him for a moment, just that extra beat that only a parent would notice, and then dropped her chin and stared at the plate of food in her lap, chewing slowly. She stole a glance at me from under her eyelashes. Questioning. I couldn't tell if the question was "Who is this moron and what is he talking about?" or if the question was "Is it true? Did it happen like that?"

Because I know she wants it to have happened like that. She wants to have grown in my belly. She spends more and more time exhaustively scanning her baby album, and Max's album, looking for photos of my pregnancy. As if all she needs to do is just find some evidence, and everything will be right in the world.

But just as everything will never be right in this crazy mixed up world, she will never find a photo of me, pregnant with her.

It never happened.

You wouldn't know it from looking at us. "Nature versus nurture!" her teachers grin. She is a little tiny version of me. Fiery and sweet, strong-willed and eager to please. She has started to roll her eyes at her older brother's antics, and scold him for even the minor transgressions. It is clear to everyone - even people who know the story, even people who mean well - that she is my daughter. It is so clear, in fact, so obvious, so apparent that I am her mother, that everyone forgets the details.

The details don't matter, of course - but her adoption was such a startling event for all of us, I find it hard to believe anyone could have forgotten. There was no real lead up to her arrival - we had no baby, no sign of a baby, no baby stuff, no baby shower. And then suddenly one day, there she was strapped to my chest or sleeping in my arms or sitting in the carseat. We had a baby!? How did that happen!? And everyone from the cashier at the grocery to the mailman wanted to know where that baby came from. It was a subject of much conversation and endless celebration and frequent congratulations and a lot of tears and laughter and wonder at the incredible good fortune of everyone involved. Which is why it still surprises me when people forget.

Our friends, our family....hell, even Sam forgets sometimes. But not Lucy. She doesn't forget. And I don't either. If I were to forget, I would miss the opportunity I take every day to be grateful. I would miss the opportunity to appreciate the gift that is my daughter, and the gift I was given to be her mother.

So to the people who forget. To the people who remember only that she is mine and I am hers? That is my gift to you. You forget because it is no longer important. It is only a very small piece of the puzzle - the first sentence in a long story. Nature, nurture, and otherwise, we will always be mother and daughter.

And for the brief time in the early morning hours following her birth, while they were waiting for the sun to rise before calling with the news?

That was all the time we needed, she and I, to find each other in this great big universe.
And that, more than anything, is a testament to our bond. I am hers. She is mine.
Which is, in the end, all you need to remember.

The Robin Hood of Halloween candy

We were totally prepared. On the counter sat an enormous felt pumpkin, filled with candy. Candy candy. Skittles, Starburst, Twizzler, Tootsie Pops, Bit o'Honey. All the chewy gooey candy a kid could ever want. We had just returned from our own trick or treating adventure and had carefully gathered the candy that Max's new braces wouldn't allow - it was all there, isolated in the pumpkin, ready to be re-distributed to the late arrivals on this rainy Halloween night.

He must have reached past that, over into my mixer that sat tucked away in a corner. Hidden inside it's massive stainless steel bowl, covered by the plastic splatter shield, was my stash. A bag of KitKats, and a bag of Nestle chocolate bars - the miniature size - with the ingredients listed in spanish. The good stuff.

I heard the roving band of neighborhood children approaching, and as their voices and laughter swelled and the automatic light snapped on next to the steps, I heard the crinkle of cellophane.

I was already in bed, and it took me a moment to put it together. To realize that he was giving away my stash, my precious chocolate stash, to the assortment of children (most too old for trick or treating in my opinion) that were standing on my back porch in the rain at 9:30 at night, hooting and hollering.

A travesty.

It was wasted on them. If you had given them a choice between a few miniature chocolate bars or great fistfulls of Starburst, I imagine they would have preferred the fruity goodness over my tiny wedges of chocolate. It didn't mean anything to them, it was just a drop in their pillowcases full of candy.

But it meant something to me. With a noise that bordered on a roar, I clamored out of bed and pulled on my robe. I rounded the corner to the kitchen pulling my robe closed as the door swung shut behind him. "Get back here!" I hissed.

But he couldn't hear me over the revelry on our back porch. He didn't realize his error until he opened the door and stepped back inside. And came face to face with a woman, rousted from her warm bed on a rainy night, to find her chocolate being given away to some obnoxious kids who probably didn't even like chocolate.

As you might imagine, I was devastated.

Distraught.

I did the only thing I could do.

I went to the pantry, opened up one of the 2 grocery bags filled with halloween candy that we had just stuck in there, and pulled out a half-dozen pieces of chocolate. I fucking hate this holiday.