Many more people with much more thoughtfulness have meditated on, written about, and analyzed all of the ramifications of adoption. There's nothing I can say here that isn't either said better or contradicted persuasively elsewhere. But I've been trying to articulate to myself what adoption means to me. And I've decided I can't. I don't question the fact that Nate is my kid--he's all I think about, live for, and marvel over now. He doesn't question the fact that I'm his mommy. When he hurts a finger or wipes snot in his eye, he looks for me and no one else.
I am not adopted. I have one biological parent who makes me feel safe and perfect, and one biological parent who methodically set out to destroy my sense of security and self esteem from the time I could say "bwah." Biology means nothing to me as a daughter. And because I have known for so long now I would not be able to parent biologically, it doesn't mean that much to me as a parent. And yet I am technically biologically related to Nate, so who's to say how I'd feel if this were not an intrafamily situation?
Some people are horrified by what my sister and I have done (even when they profess to be "so impressed," I can see it in their eyes and hear it in their awkward follow-up questions), and yet we have done it out of and with so much love, I don't place much stock in such reactions. Some adoptees are emotionally ruined by what's been stolen from them, and think of adoption as nothing more than a series of legalized coercions and conspiracies designed to fulfill some kind of distorted emotional cost-benefit scam designed by bitter infertiles to get back at the world. That's where their experience has led them. I don't want to get back at anyone. I don't want to speak for anyone. I don't want to compare to anyone (my dearest friend is adopted and both her A-parents are dead now, yet she has no interest in meeting her biological parents and has put a Thank You letter in her file to that effect; I'm glad my Nate will always have his birth parents in his life and that we are all on the same team, but I can see that my friend has her own reasons and self-perceptions and it's none of my business what she wants/believes about her family).
I guess I think life is too busy, too hard, too complex, and at times too gorgeous for me to be preoccupied with what could have been or what ought to be. WHAT IS is where my focus is. Having had one awesome parent and one ass, I try to be grateful that I was 1 for 2 and I model myself after my mother as much as possible. Knowing that infertility won't be the last heartache I suffer and that adoption won't be the last gift I receive, I try to pay attention to who needs love now, what love is, and whether I'm letting enough of it into my life, genes or no genes.
Nate is almost 10 months old, and we still haven't finalized (price paid for using friend's wife as an attorney who's charged us all of $50 at this point, but whose beloved father is critically ill and thus whose law practice is in perpetual chaos...). The situation makes most people positively desperate! Even our pediatrician implores us to try to "hurry it up"... but my sister and I talk almost every day, she sees Nate every week, both dads get along pretty damn well when they hang out, and Nate is one of the happiest babies you could ever meet. Sleeps like a champ. Plays constantly. Eats anything. Giggles to himself all the time. None of us seems to give a whit about the papers. We're busy living.
Maybe it should be called "adaption." That's a term I have a better handle on. Maybe it's not about who gets what, and who owes whom, but about how we all adjust to who winds up in our lives and what our collective needs dictate. I know this: my boy is waking up right now, babbling away in his crib in the next room, waiting for me to appear in the doorway so he can flap his arms and lay that million dollar smile on me for the thousandth time. And I don't need a definition for anything when I have that.
November 29, 2006
September 25, 2006
Still Holding My Breath
Wild Geese
by Mary Oliver
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting--
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
This is a poem I turn to over and over again (sorry, Poets, I know it's a cliche) when I am fearful and lonely (if you are not a jaded poet and you do like it, see also Oliver's "Peonies" and "The Journey").
Why am I fearful and lonely? I am still waiting for a court date for the adoption. Wolfgang is still in the throes of his demons. Nate the Great is still perfect, and oh how grateful can one girl be for her perfect babe? But I am tense. I am terrified. I am drinking too much of that old infertile feelings cocktail of absolute and utter inadequacy, intense bitterness, and righteous indignation. Maybe I don't have to be good. But I am good. Maybe I don't have to repent. But I do repent. Maybe I should be a soft animal. But I feel like a rigid machine most of the time. Except with NTG, who loooovvvveeesss me as I have never been loved. I suppose that is my place in the family of things. It might not be the family I imagined, but it is the one this world has offered me. If it's gonna be just me and you kid, then let's fly high in the clean blue air, harsh and exciting, and love what we love.
August 12, 2006
On the Extremest Verge...
Our lawyer has all of our paperwork now and will contact us as soon as we have an appointment to appear in the judge's chambers to become a permanent family... Intrafamily adoptions are pretty lickedy-split, thank heaven, even if their participants (i.e., moi) are incredibly SLOW. Even T. surfaced to sign his papers like a trouper. He and his mother are due to visit Thursday (his mom for the first time from Santa Fe), so Nate will finally meet his third Grandma. My most perfectest sister, C., Nate's birth/firstmother is always around, being the mellowest, sweetest, most lovely and loving auntie on the planet. And of course Nate the Great loves/luffs/loaves her to death.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Wolfgang is combusting. Life does not become perfect once we get our babies, Ladies. Not that you didn't know that. But, I had no idea I might have to trade one boy for another. I had no idea IF wasn't the only enemy hiding in my camp... ambushing me from the back while I was keeping guard at the front.
Most recent picture (@6 mos.) below....
May 19, 2006
A Different Waiting Game
T.--a.k.a. my babydaddy--is MIA. He is destroyed that C.--my beautiful and perfect sister and our little Nate the Great's birth mother--does not want to re-connect as more than friends and/or co-birthparents. So, despite the fact that we got off on the right foot with him when Nate was born, and that I have a great email relationship with his mother--who plans to visit Boston from NM this August--he's gone into deep cover. He has a history of depression and drug abuse (following his father's unexpected death 5 years ago), and he is definitely a "lost soul" personality--albeit a gentle and sweet one (e.g. he gave us his childhood teddy for Nate, who looks EXACTLY like him at the same age).
This is problematic both in the sense that I never want him to be a stranger to the little guy, but also because in my naive contentment, I didn't rush the paperwork. T. has yet to surrender his rights. I think at a certain point, we get to proceed anyhow, but I didn't want it to be that way. I didn't want him to feel that anything happened behind his back, or without an opportunity for discussion. So we wait. And feel sad. And anxious. And heartbroken for T., despite what difficulty this causes us.
C. and I exchanged loving gifts on mother's day, and she has gracefully begun to form her own special relationship with Nate, but something feels amiss now. I thought we'd really pulled off something spectacular and extraordinary. But life's not like that, I am reminded. Dysfunction always rules the day. Small price to pay, I know. We have the little guy. He is perfect. Just about everyone is on board our happy little life boat, soaking up the spring sunshine. We'll just have to keep checking the horizon, looking for a distress signal, waiting for some kind of sign.
[Caution: picture below...]
This is problematic both in the sense that I never want him to be a stranger to the little guy, but also because in my naive contentment, I didn't rush the paperwork. T. has yet to surrender his rights. I think at a certain point, we get to proceed anyhow, but I didn't want it to be that way. I didn't want him to feel that anything happened behind his back, or without an opportunity for discussion. So we wait. And feel sad. And anxious. And heartbroken for T., despite what difficulty this causes us.
C. and I exchanged loving gifts on mother's day, and she has gracefully begun to form her own special relationship with Nate, but something feels amiss now. I thought we'd really pulled off something spectacular and extraordinary. But life's not like that, I am reminded. Dysfunction always rules the day. Small price to pay, I know. We have the little guy. He is perfect. Just about everyone is on board our happy little life boat, soaking up the spring sunshine. We'll just have to keep checking the horizon, looking for a distress signal, waiting for some kind of sign.
[Caution: picture below...]
February 20, 2006
Penultimate Post: Dispatch from the Other Side
I do not want to blog about mothering. To me, this place was meant to be a channel for my anger and pain, not a chronicle of the mundane. Which is not to say that my new life is mundane at all for me--my heart is threatening to burst out of my chest at every moment!--but I'm afraid that for me to try to share the minutiae of baby gas and the off-key lullabies with any audience--but especially you--would be deadly for all of us.
This is my second-to-last post only because the adoption is not final yet. It looks pro forma (we are on good terms with T and his mom, and no one seems poised to block the proceedings). I would like to write once more when it's in the bag. But before then (and despite what I just said above), I do want to share with you some of my observations about this accidental motherhood I have stumbled upon after seven years of fruitless trying.
I am officially sentimental. I have cried more in the past three weeks than in ten years. Nate farts and I cry. He yawns--I cry. I try to sing him a lullaby and I cry. I can only think that this must be what joy is. I have never been so unaccountably emotional. I have never in my life felt so tender and good. He is everything I have ever hoped for times a million. Everything that was theoretical and abstract is now real and concrete, and I was so tired of intellectualizing that it is the greatest relief to just experience for a change.
C is doing wonderfully well. She spends a lot of time here, but in the best way--she is not regretful or sad, miraculously. She is proud and curious, but so happy for us. T has been over for dinner a few times, and I think is beginning to believe us when we say we really want him to be involved with Nate as much as he can handle. Additionally, his mother has been in touch quite a bit, sending gifts, gushing over the photos, etc. Her dear husband died tragically a few years back, and this would be her first grandchild. So our boy will have three doting grandmas, and he couldn't be luckier.
Speaking of grandmas, I am staving off Wolfgang's mom as much as possible. She keeps barking at me to let her watch the baby so that I can get some sleep, etc. But I am trying to screw up the courage to explain to her that I'm not tired! Not in the way I was when our IUIs failed, or when Wolfgang lost the egg money. I don't want to "get some sleep"--I want to see every minute of this. I am not sharing this gift, no-sir-ee. It is the best thing that has EVER happened to me, despite the messy logistics and emotional implications, and fuck all, I think I deserve every single drop of it. She also keeps nagging me about throwing a belated baby shower for me. I suppose will do it for her and for W's four sisters (who are desperate to celebrate for us, which is very sweet), but it is the LAST thing I need or want. I am thrilled to have visitors and to receive cards and packages, but I am quite proud of our unconventional success and I have no interest in squeezing it into some trite conventional package with a bunch of junk from Macy's and a plate of bland egg salad finger sandwiches. Plus, I hate showers. I never received a shower invitation with anything but irritation and dread, and the same will go for my own. Ugh.
Still, I had birth announcements made. And I unfortunately spared no expense. I am a hypocrite, but somehow I feel entitled to these lovely cards. We didn't drag anyone to a wedding reception (or register for impractical table linens or crystal), and I've already explained my position on showers, but I must boast of the beauty (the cards feature a photo) of this son of ours to all those fertile myrtles I know who had a bunch of moderately ugly aliens for infants. My joy has not yet supplanted my resentment, as you can see.
Wolfgang had a hard first week with Nate, this sudden stranger of all-importance who has taken over our lives. I think he was scared that he didn't love him as fast or furiously as I did. But now that my mother and C have gone home, and he can start to feel the precious tiny perfection of this little family of ours, he is seeming/feeling much more natural and needed and right. While I won't blog here in the future, my dear neglected W and his heroic struggles for clarity and sobriety and happiness will be the subject of a new project over here.
Donor egg is postponed again. We have been supporting C financially since November, and while we have the insurance green light and a short list of donors, we are about 5k short now. Wolfgang still wants to squeeze it in over the summer--and is gunning hard for twin girls--but I am beginning to think I could stop here. I know it's only been three weeks, but ladies, please believe me when I say I have never felt so full, so complete, so beatifically happy... we'll just see.
We had one minor emergency with the little guy, which warranted a three-hour cardiology consult at Children's Hospital. At his two-week "well visit" appointment, his heartrate was 230 (in a resting state). It turns out to have been a fluke (newborns are understandably a little haywire at first), andactually it didn't really upset me that much. I have a strange sense that Nate is through the woods in so many ways. He really fought his way into this world, under the radar for five months, sporting a pesky umbilical cord and enduring a slightly anaerobic birth experience. He fought his way to us, to ME, and there is something so reassuring about his effort. So deliberate even. It's not that this was "meant to be" (please!), but that we've all made a fucking brilliant coup of a miracle out of a really shit deal for everyone, and it feels really really right.
That said, I am not religious at all, and I'm kind of against symbols, but metaphor and analogy are concepts I can really get behind. I think this is because metaphor and analogy are inherently relational, whereas symbols are static, too individualistic. Symbols ignore each other; the relational components of metaphor and analogy depend on each other. Consequently, I am often able to make better sense of things via comparison and/or contrast. So I have been searching for a way to make sense of my feelings about recent events, and my new motherhood. What I've come up with is this: Nate is not a mere symbol of hope or faith to me, but having him feels like being out on the ocean in a humble but sturdy boat. There are clouds and currents that can threaten us, for sure, but we built this boat, we alone know how it works, and we are prepared for all of the unexpected contingencies. The important thing is that our boat is sound, it has life preservers to spare, and it swaddles and rocks us gently, like a new mother, whispering lullabies in our ears about kinder seas and sunnier shores.
This is my second-to-last post only because the adoption is not final yet. It looks pro forma (we are on good terms with T and his mom, and no one seems poised to block the proceedings). I would like to write once more when it's in the bag. But before then (and despite what I just said above), I do want to share with you some of my observations about this accidental motherhood I have stumbled upon after seven years of fruitless trying.
I am officially sentimental. I have cried more in the past three weeks than in ten years. Nate farts and I cry. He yawns--I cry. I try to sing him a lullaby and I cry. I can only think that this must be what joy is. I have never been so unaccountably emotional. I have never in my life felt so tender and good. He is everything I have ever hoped for times a million. Everything that was theoretical and abstract is now real and concrete, and I was so tired of intellectualizing that it is the greatest relief to just experience for a change.
C is doing wonderfully well. She spends a lot of time here, but in the best way--she is not regretful or sad, miraculously. She is proud and curious, but so happy for us. T has been over for dinner a few times, and I think is beginning to believe us when we say we really want him to be involved with Nate as much as he can handle. Additionally, his mother has been in touch quite a bit, sending gifts, gushing over the photos, etc. Her dear husband died tragically a few years back, and this would be her first grandchild. So our boy will have three doting grandmas, and he couldn't be luckier.
Speaking of grandmas, I am staving off Wolfgang's mom as much as possible. She keeps barking at me to let her watch the baby so that I can get some sleep, etc. But I am trying to screw up the courage to explain to her that I'm not tired! Not in the way I was when our IUIs failed, or when Wolfgang lost the egg money. I don't want to "get some sleep"--I want to see every minute of this. I am not sharing this gift, no-sir-ee. It is the best thing that has EVER happened to me, despite the messy logistics and emotional implications, and fuck all, I think I deserve every single drop of it. She also keeps nagging me about throwing a belated baby shower for me. I suppose will do it for her and for W's four sisters (who are desperate to celebrate for us, which is very sweet), but it is the LAST thing I need or want. I am thrilled to have visitors and to receive cards and packages, but I am quite proud of our unconventional success and I have no interest in squeezing it into some trite conventional package with a bunch of junk from Macy's and a plate of bland egg salad finger sandwiches. Plus, I hate showers. I never received a shower invitation with anything but irritation and dread, and the same will go for my own. Ugh.
Still, I had birth announcements made. And I unfortunately spared no expense. I am a hypocrite, but somehow I feel entitled to these lovely cards. We didn't drag anyone to a wedding reception (or register for impractical table linens or crystal), and I've already explained my position on showers, but I must boast of the beauty (the cards feature a photo) of this son of ours to all those fertile myrtles I know who had a bunch of moderately ugly aliens for infants. My joy has not yet supplanted my resentment, as you can see.
Wolfgang had a hard first week with Nate, this sudden stranger of all-importance who has taken over our lives. I think he was scared that he didn't love him as fast or furiously as I did. But now that my mother and C have gone home, and he can start to feel the precious tiny perfection of this little family of ours, he is seeming/feeling much more natural and needed and right. While I won't blog here in the future, my dear neglected W and his heroic struggles for clarity and sobriety and happiness will be the subject of a new project over here.
Donor egg is postponed again. We have been supporting C financially since November, and while we have the insurance green light and a short list of donors, we are about 5k short now. Wolfgang still wants to squeeze it in over the summer--and is gunning hard for twin girls--but I am beginning to think I could stop here. I know it's only been three weeks, but ladies, please believe me when I say I have never felt so full, so complete, so beatifically happy... we'll just see.
We had one minor emergency with the little guy, which warranted a three-hour cardiology consult at Children's Hospital. At his two-week "well visit" appointment, his heartrate was 230 (in a resting state). It turns out to have been a fluke (newborns are understandably a little haywire at first), andactually it didn't really upset me that much. I have a strange sense that Nate is through the woods in so many ways. He really fought his way into this world, under the radar for five months, sporting a pesky umbilical cord and enduring a slightly anaerobic birth experience. He fought his way to us, to ME, and there is something so reassuring about his effort. So deliberate even. It's not that this was "meant to be" (please!), but that we've all made a fucking brilliant coup of a miracle out of a really shit deal for everyone, and it feels really really right.
That said, I am not religious at all, and I'm kind of against symbols, but metaphor and analogy are concepts I can really get behind. I think this is because metaphor and analogy are inherently relational, whereas symbols are static, too individualistic. Symbols ignore each other; the relational components of metaphor and analogy depend on each other. Consequently, I am often able to make better sense of things via comparison and/or contrast. So I have been searching for a way to make sense of my feelings about recent events, and my new motherhood. What I've come up with is this: Nate is not a mere symbol of hope or faith to me, but having him feels like being out on the ocean in a humble but sturdy boat. There are clouds and currents that can threaten us, for sure, but we built this boat, we alone know how it works, and we are prepared for all of the unexpected contingencies. The important thing is that our boat is sound, it has life preservers to spare, and it swaddles and rocks us gently, like a new mother, whispering lullabies in our ears about kinder seas and sunnier shores.
February 14, 2006
February 9, 2006
Why I Never Win Anything
When I was a college freshman, all the girls in my dorm chipped in to buy a common room television (it was a very dorky college, and no one had her own t.v.). We fought all year over Brokaw versus Jennings, The Wonder Years versus Thirtysomething, and then we had a raffle at the end of the year to see who would get to take home the 32-inch monstrosity. I won. When that happened, my mother said, "Wel,l there's your luck for the year. Better enjoy it!" Since then, I've always figured that the prize parking spot, the errant twenty in a back pocket, or the perfect weather on an important day were all signs that my luck had a tendency to waste itself on the trivial, that I would never wind up with anything better than a used television at the end of the long and tedious day.
But now, you see, It's plainly obvious that I have clearly just been waiting all these years to win the baby lottery. Nate was born at 4:30 p.m. on Tuesday. He was 7lbs 12 ounces and 20.5 inches (holy cow!). He had a freakishly short umbilical cord wrapped around his neck which had to be cut before his body could come out, and he could be properly oxygenated (I thought, fuck, the fucking television, of course he will suffocate). He was breathing within seconds of coming all the way out, and by ten minutes he had a nine on the Abcar (sp)scale. To say that he is beautiful is like saying the Grand Canyon is impressively big. He IS beauty. A head full of fuzzy white blonde hair, perfect slate gray eyes, skin like cream. Long and lovely fingers, and oh those perfect red lips that I can't keep my mouth off of...
I want to tell you about my sister, but I can barely look at her without bursting into tears. She was a machine. She is my hero. She labored for 24-hours, pushed for 1 and a half hours and came through without a single stitch. While Nate was on the warming table getting flushed, and before she had to push the placenta out, we embraced, pure with exhaustion and gratitute, crying loudly and joyously, trying to breathe.
The hospital staff was wonderful--all very aware and supportive, especially the midwife. Gifts and good wishes are pouring in from T.'s family as well as Wolfgang's and mine, and we are just reeling from the rightness of it all.
I promise to write more about the details. For now, just know that nothing that could have gone wrong did, and that we are just basking in our good fortune for the time being...
But now, you see, It's plainly obvious that I have clearly just been waiting all these years to win the baby lottery. Nate was born at 4:30 p.m. on Tuesday. He was 7lbs 12 ounces and 20.5 inches (holy cow!). He had a freakishly short umbilical cord wrapped around his neck which had to be cut before his body could come out, and he could be properly oxygenated (I thought, fuck, the fucking television, of course he will suffocate). He was breathing within seconds of coming all the way out, and by ten minutes he had a nine on the Abcar (sp)scale. To say that he is beautiful is like saying the Grand Canyon is impressively big. He IS beauty. A head full of fuzzy white blonde hair, perfect slate gray eyes, skin like cream. Long and lovely fingers, and oh those perfect red lips that I can't keep my mouth off of...
I want to tell you about my sister, but I can barely look at her without bursting into tears. She was a machine. She is my hero. She labored for 24-hours, pushed for 1 and a half hours and came through without a single stitch. While Nate was on the warming table getting flushed, and before she had to push the placenta out, we embraced, pure with exhaustion and gratitute, crying loudly and joyously, trying to breathe.
The hospital staff was wonderful--all very aware and supportive, especially the midwife. Gifts and good wishes are pouring in from T.'s family as well as Wolfgang's and mine, and we are just reeling from the rightness of it all.
I promise to write more about the details. For now, just know that nothing that could have gone wrong did, and that we are just basking in our good fortune for the time being...
February 6, 2006
Drivers, start your engines...
We're in labor. Today is Bob Marley's birthday, and tomorrow is the anniversary of the Beatles' arrival in the U.S. Both days are a million times better than my birthday (1/30), which marks the assassination of Gandhi and Bloody Sunday. Smart boy.
More news to come!
More news to come!
February 1, 2006
Not so fast...
The midwife and OB have decided NOT to induce. The little guy (now "Nate") is doing so well these last couple of weeks, growing and moving, etc., they want to give him every chance to get as developed as possible (this is because he got no early pre-natal care and was so small for a while). Also, this crunchy midwife practice doesn't really believe in induction unless there's a strong reason (why the potential blood clot from his umbilical vein varix isn't as strong a reason this week as it has been over the past month was not spelled out...). So my mother is now here and we are all just waiting... Doh!
T's mother has gotten in touch from New Mexico, and C made it clear that we want her to consider herself Nate's grandmother just as much as we want T to stay as much in contact as possible. We'll see how it all plays out. I gotta say, when I used to think abstractly about adoption I thought I wouldn't be able to handle any "birth parent" involvement and so I always thought if we chose adoption it would be international. Now that there's this real and particular baby to actually consider/protect I feel surprisingly unthreatened and open. Of course C makes all the difference. But when she told me T's mom had been in touch I was kind of amazed that I didn't feel any panic about it (maybe I'm just so used to being in a panic by now?). Of course she's not seeking custody or anything like that, which would be different, but my first real thought was "wow, he'll have three grandmothers doting on him--lucky boy..." I don't really recognize this version of myself. I'm much more of a glass-half-empty gal by nature. At least I thought I was. If I am not just overtired and I am really changing, even if it's only noticeable to me, oh please please let it stick. Let me enter motherhood like it's a warm bath after a long hard run in the snow. Let me accept more and fight less. Let me stop holding my breath and clenching my jaw. Let me let myself be.
Okay, since I am on the verge of downright gooey with all this romantic sentiment, I will sign off and wait some more. Wait and worry, that's much more my speed.
T's mother has gotten in touch from New Mexico, and C made it clear that we want her to consider herself Nate's grandmother just as much as we want T to stay as much in contact as possible. We'll see how it all plays out. I gotta say, when I used to think abstractly about adoption I thought I wouldn't be able to handle any "birth parent" involvement and so I always thought if we chose adoption it would be international. Now that there's this real and particular baby to actually consider/protect I feel surprisingly unthreatened and open. Of course C makes all the difference. But when she told me T's mom had been in touch I was kind of amazed that I didn't feel any panic about it (maybe I'm just so used to being in a panic by now?). Of course she's not seeking custody or anything like that, which would be different, but my first real thought was "wow, he'll have three grandmothers doting on him--lucky boy..." I don't really recognize this version of myself. I'm much more of a glass-half-empty gal by nature. At least I thought I was. If I am not just overtired and I am really changing, even if it's only noticeable to me, oh please please let it stick. Let me enter motherhood like it's a warm bath after a long hard run in the snow. Let me accept more and fight less. Let me stop holding my breath and clenching my jaw. Let me let myself be.
Okay, since I am on the verge of downright gooey with all this romantic sentiment, I will sign off and wait some more. Wait and worry, that's much more my speed.
January 25, 2006
My Baby-Daddy and Other Tidbits
We had dinner at C’s with T, the little guy’s soon-to-be “birth father,” last night. Imagine a blonder, slightly bigger Kurt Cobain who snowboards instead of sings. T is painfully shy and vulnerable, with just a very faint whiff of smoldering emotion under the surface. He showed up unannounced on C’s doorstep Saturday morning, unshowered, hungover, and exhausted from 24 hours of travel. He’d been in Alaska on some crackpot business venture with a shady friend of his for the past six months. C was livid and made him leave without a nap or a shower (though she tells me she fed him some Captain Crunch). Then she called me in tears because she felt she had been too cold towards him. All this two days after she and I toured the maternity ward together with her midwife and she so gracefully and lovingly assured the midwife and me that she was doing the right thing. She kept prodding the midwife to understand that the baby would come to me, that I’d be doing the feeding, etc. So much so that when we left, I said, “Listen, sweetie, don’t worry about me if you want to hold him first or feed him, or whatever. I don’t need any symbolic moments, and I don’t feel territorial about it at all.” And she said, “Don’t get me wrong, I’m excited to see him and make sure he’s okay and everything, but he’s going to be yours.” Incredible, isn’t she?
So she planned this dinner so T could meet us, despite her being so angry with him and not wanting to give him any encouragement that they will get back together. She cooked manicotti and garlic bread and I put on my best teacher-talk routine, asking specific but innocuous questions that T—despite his shyness—seemed happy enough to answer. We talked about Alaska and Vermont (where he’s from), and about traveling to strange places, etc. But Wolfgang was stumped. He’s a performer while T is a mumbler. Men can be so unnatural with each other in new situations, and I think it’s true what they say about men needing an activity to talk over, rather than talk itself being the activity.
Anyway, I had planned to say all kinds of poignant things to T about how we want him involved and included in the little guy’s life, but all I could really manage was, “It’s been great to hang out with you; I hope we can see each other again soon!” (Ugh.) But I still felt really good about it all, despite C being a little sad about how messed up T is, and despite W being a bit horrified by how awkward T is. I felt really grateful. He was gentle and kind, and he is so clearly still ardently in love with C—so I know he is attracted to goodness and light. This makes me think the little guy will have some very lovely qualities, although between C and T, he will be so fair that I think he may actually be transparent!
At least nobody cried, unlike what happened in my student conferences yesterday. While I am made of stone, I guess I can make other people cry kind of easily. My therapist used to get choked up once in a while, though I never cried in therapy. And I make students cry all the time. Most of my (first-generation urban college) students have received almost no authentic positive feedback for their whole lives. They either get condescending crap: “You can be anything you want to be! You’re all wonderful!” Etc. Or they get anti-compliments: “You’re wasting your talents… You’re not living up to your potential…” Etc. I make it a point to figure out what the student is truly good at and to explain how I think he/she can leverage that talent to develop others that he/she needs in order to succeed. You’d be amazed by the effect this has (however self-aggrandizing that sounds). Yesterday I did second-semester “goal setting” conferences with all of my students from last term. Three students choked back tears—two of them hard ass guys with attitudes like you read about who got Cs and Ds from me last term. They all did this in the context of responding to compliments about specific things that I actually observed in them. They cried I think because someone— however briefly and in however small a way—knew who they were and apparently still liked who they were despite knowing.
Which brings me back to T. I’m determined to know who he is, and to find what’s good about him. I want the little guy eventually to know that I know those things about T, and to know that he was conceived from goodness, whatever the complications. I can’t explain this sudden parental/teacher feeling I have towards T, who I hardly know at all, and whom my sister kind of hates at the moment, but I guess it makes me feel just a bit more like that little guy getting ready to enter our lives is someone I already know, someone I’m already connected to and protective of.
On a drier note: at last measurement, the little guy was 5 lbs 12 ounces. And he’s moving around like a madman according to C—two excellent signs. T tested negative for cystic fibrosis, so despite C’s positive we’re in the clear there, too. Also, I’ve decided not to try to nurse him. So much has already been so fraught—I don’t want to be preoccupied with some Quixotic quest for milk that makes it impossible for me to enjoy the experience of feeding and snuggling, etc. Organic formula and shared baths will have to do. My mother arrives Monday and C will be induced Tuesday unless she’s already in labor. So far all of the non-stress tests have been good—the umbilical cord thingy has not moved out of the realm of theoretical threat into the realm of actual threat as far as we can tell. All that’s left to do is clear out my horrendously full inbox at work, clean the house, do the laundry, and get as much sleep as possible this weekend.
Looking at my posts over the last couple of months, I can’t believe how all over the place I am. I so often use writing as a way of ORDERING everything that feels too messy to bear, and making SENSE out of what I just can’t figure out otherwise. So hopefully my lack of focus means I’m getting used to some idea/experience of chaos and mess. My mind is going in a million directions, and my heart—good god, I can hardly breathe! So forgive me if I do some random, last minute housekeeping here, in no particular order:
Nina: Thank you for the sisters in India thing—it keeps me from passing out when I panic. Which is all the time.
Speaking of panic: I keep Panic Womb in my Water Bottle because it is the first brilliant blog I discovered, and it is one of my deepest desires that there will be a new post there some day soon.
Those of you having a bad go of it now: I approve 100% of any sour feelings you get from hearing about my outrageously good fortune with C. If the tables were turned, I would feel positively acidic. Snark it up.
I highly recommend British crime drama—Touching Evil, Wire in the Blood, Frost, Prime Suspect, etc. If you want to feel better about wasting your time, those are the DVDs for you.
Regular readers/commenters past and present (as far as I can tell since I don’t do stats): Emily, AnnaH, Donna, Heidi, Millie, Thalia, Avonlea, Claudia, Pamplemousse, Jessica, B. Mare, Tami, Penelope, Lionness, Wavery, Susan, and anyone I have rudely left out… I may not thank you when I should, but your honest and incredibly sensitive comments mean the world to me. And while I don’t intend to stop reading or writing in this community, I am aware of needing to snap out of my egocentric universe for a minute and tell you that you have made all the difference for me during this past year. Really and truly.
My turn to cry.
Wishing you all good things in the world ladies…
So she planned this dinner so T could meet us, despite her being so angry with him and not wanting to give him any encouragement that they will get back together. She cooked manicotti and garlic bread and I put on my best teacher-talk routine, asking specific but innocuous questions that T—despite his shyness—seemed happy enough to answer. We talked about Alaska and Vermont (where he’s from), and about traveling to strange places, etc. But Wolfgang was stumped. He’s a performer while T is a mumbler. Men can be so unnatural with each other in new situations, and I think it’s true what they say about men needing an activity to talk over, rather than talk itself being the activity.
Anyway, I had planned to say all kinds of poignant things to T about how we want him involved and included in the little guy’s life, but all I could really manage was, “It’s been great to hang out with you; I hope we can see each other again soon!” (Ugh.) But I still felt really good about it all, despite C being a little sad about how messed up T is, and despite W being a bit horrified by how awkward T is. I felt really grateful. He was gentle and kind, and he is so clearly still ardently in love with C—so I know he is attracted to goodness and light. This makes me think the little guy will have some very lovely qualities, although between C and T, he will be so fair that I think he may actually be transparent!
At least nobody cried, unlike what happened in my student conferences yesterday. While I am made of stone, I guess I can make other people cry kind of easily. My therapist used to get choked up once in a while, though I never cried in therapy. And I make students cry all the time. Most of my (first-generation urban college) students have received almost no authentic positive feedback for their whole lives. They either get condescending crap: “You can be anything you want to be! You’re all wonderful!” Etc. Or they get anti-compliments: “You’re wasting your talents… You’re not living up to your potential…” Etc. I make it a point to figure out what the student is truly good at and to explain how I think he/she can leverage that talent to develop others that he/she needs in order to succeed. You’d be amazed by the effect this has (however self-aggrandizing that sounds). Yesterday I did second-semester “goal setting” conferences with all of my students from last term. Three students choked back tears—two of them hard ass guys with attitudes like you read about who got Cs and Ds from me last term. They all did this in the context of responding to compliments about specific things that I actually observed in them. They cried I think because someone— however briefly and in however small a way—knew who they were and apparently still liked who they were despite knowing.
Which brings me back to T. I’m determined to know who he is, and to find what’s good about him. I want the little guy eventually to know that I know those things about T, and to know that he was conceived from goodness, whatever the complications. I can’t explain this sudden parental/teacher feeling I have towards T, who I hardly know at all, and whom my sister kind of hates at the moment, but I guess it makes me feel just a bit more like that little guy getting ready to enter our lives is someone I already know, someone I’m already connected to and protective of.
On a drier note: at last measurement, the little guy was 5 lbs 12 ounces. And he’s moving around like a madman according to C—two excellent signs. T tested negative for cystic fibrosis, so despite C’s positive we’re in the clear there, too. Also, I’ve decided not to try to nurse him. So much has already been so fraught—I don’t want to be preoccupied with some Quixotic quest for milk that makes it impossible for me to enjoy the experience of feeding and snuggling, etc. Organic formula and shared baths will have to do. My mother arrives Monday and C will be induced Tuesday unless she’s already in labor. So far all of the non-stress tests have been good—the umbilical cord thingy has not moved out of the realm of theoretical threat into the realm of actual threat as far as we can tell. All that’s left to do is clear out my horrendously full inbox at work, clean the house, do the laundry, and get as much sleep as possible this weekend.
Looking at my posts over the last couple of months, I can’t believe how all over the place I am. I so often use writing as a way of ORDERING everything that feels too messy to bear, and making SENSE out of what I just can’t figure out otherwise. So hopefully my lack of focus means I’m getting used to some idea/experience of chaos and mess. My mind is going in a million directions, and my heart—good god, I can hardly breathe! So forgive me if I do some random, last minute housekeeping here, in no particular order:
Nina: Thank you for the sisters in India thing—it keeps me from passing out when I panic. Which is all the time.
Speaking of panic: I keep Panic Womb in my Water Bottle because it is the first brilliant blog I discovered, and it is one of my deepest desires that there will be a new post there some day soon.
Those of you having a bad go of it now: I approve 100% of any sour feelings you get from hearing about my outrageously good fortune with C. If the tables were turned, I would feel positively acidic. Snark it up.
I highly recommend British crime drama—Touching Evil, Wire in the Blood, Frost, Prime Suspect, etc. If you want to feel better about wasting your time, those are the DVDs for you.
Regular readers/commenters past and present (as far as I can tell since I don’t do stats): Emily, AnnaH, Donna, Heidi, Millie, Thalia, Avonlea, Claudia, Pamplemousse, Jessica, B. Mare, Tami, Penelope, Lionness, Wavery, Susan, and anyone I have rudely left out… I may not thank you when I should, but your honest and incredibly sensitive comments mean the world to me. And while I don’t intend to stop reading or writing in this community, I am aware of needing to snap out of my egocentric universe for a minute and tell you that you have made all the difference for me during this past year. Really and truly.
My turn to cry.
Wishing you all good things in the world ladies…
January 18, 2006
The Meaning of Stuff
I’m starting to think I’ve resisted getting baby stuff because what I’m really resisting is being a part of the mommy club. On some level, I’ve learned how to be an alien; I don’t know how to be mainstream. But I also feel a little disoriented by the need for concrete objects when I’m still so preoccupied with intangibles. I don’t want to hear about Bugaboos and Baby Bjorns; I’m still stuck in my desire for much more abstract things: the miracles of family love and human development, and the reclamation of my self worth. I don’t care about the LATCH system or the Ferber method; I want to sit on my old couch with a new babe and feel my life restart itself. I don’t give a goddamned flying fuck about crib bumpers or environmentally correct butt wipes. I fantasize about infantile gurgling and wide-eyed reciprocal wonderment. “Real” mommies can have all their stuff—from their eggs and milk to their pack-n’-plays and snap-‘n-gos: I’ve got a burning lust for my kind of motherhood, which has nothing to do with shopping or decorating, thankyouverymuch. And they can keep all their condescending advice, too: I can’t wait to be covered in spit-up and drunk with exhaustion—I’ll find my own way to put my baby to bed and deal with his gassy fits. THAT’S THE WHOLE POINT—it’s our lives, our experience, our turn to mess up and love it anyway. Clubs are for copycats and sycophants—people who lack depth and imagination in their own lives and find solace in comparing themselves to others. And don’t try to tell me we infertiles are part of a club—this is an anti-club, Ladies. We treasure the rich idiosyncrasies of our individual hardships and successes, we’re not working towards homogeneity but against it. What’s coming will be a hard transition for me—because I know what it’s going to be like. I’ll be dragged incrementally and insidiously into the normalizing conventions of the nuclear family—I’ll have my snap-‘n-go and my Snuggli eventually, no doubt. I’ll forget that I was ever a part of some more compassionate, more complex, more human community. And I will be far poorer for it—despite whatever myriad acquisitions surround me—of this I am certain.
January 9, 2006
Thump on the Head
We went to our clinic Friday. ED recipients get a “social work” consult in their basket of treatment goodies, and so we had to get our heads shrunken before we officially picked a donor. If any of you reads Ms. Magazine (or used to), you would remember the “thump on the head” section, which rebuked stupid sexist comments by celebrities and politicians, such as Sean Connery and Strom Thurmond, for example. Well. Wolfgang sees the sign in our clinic’s waiting room that says: “We love children here at Boston IVF, but their presence can be difficult for some of our patients. Please make arrangements so that you can avoid bringing your children to appointments with you.” (This direct sensitivity is an example of why we switched from our old clinic.) Nonetheless, Wolfgang reads the sign and says (audibly), “Don’t you think if you have a problem with kids, you shouldn’t really be here?” Thump. We’ve been infertile for seven years and you’re still THAT much of a bonehead? So we have a fight in the waiting room. That’s fun, isn’t it? Like we’re so hard up for scrutiny, we need the other IF patients to think we have a terrible relationship on top of everything else? Then we get into the consult with the smiling desperately social worker, and he can’t help himself from making similar wisecracks in response to every question she asks. SW: “Do you think it will be hard for you to answer questions about who your baby looks like or ‘takes after’?” WG: “If we think that’s going to be hard, I don’t think we deserve to be parents, do you?” Thump.
Ugh. Then we went shopping for baby stuff. First, I should say I DESPISE shopping unless it involves living or life-giving things, such as food or plants or puppies. Second, Wolfgang hates crowds and crowded places, such as ToysRus, Target, Old Navy, etc.—exactly all the places we needed to go SHOPPING in. Needless to say, we do not yet have a car seat or crib. We do have a promise never to shop together for these things again.
Then I got a pounding headache for the remainder of the weekend, and made W. minister to me on the couch while I watched hours of Jaques Pepin cooking beautiful foods for which I had no appetite whatsoever.
But you know what? We haven’t been this giddy in years. The little guy is doing fine, as is my little sis, and it looks like we’ll be parents at the end of the month. Bickering, equipment-less parents, but parents nonetheless.
Ugh. Then we went shopping for baby stuff. First, I should say I DESPISE shopping unless it involves living or life-giving things, such as food or plants or puppies. Second, Wolfgang hates crowds and crowded places, such as ToysRus, Target, Old Navy, etc.—exactly all the places we needed to go SHOPPING in. Needless to say, we do not yet have a car seat or crib. We do have a promise never to shop together for these things again.
Then I got a pounding headache for the remainder of the weekend, and made W. minister to me on the couch while I watched hours of Jaques Pepin cooking beautiful foods for which I had no appetite whatsoever.
But you know what? We haven’t been this giddy in years. The little guy is doing fine, as is my little sis, and it looks like we’ll be parents at the end of the month. Bickering, equipment-less parents, but parents nonetheless.
December 19, 2005
False Start
I was a hurdler in high school and for a short time in college. Hurdlers are notorious for false starts. So much depends on counting--number of steps to the first hurdle, number of steps between the hurdles, height of the hurdles, number of inches between hurdle and crotch, number of seconds between "set" and the gun--all that accounting creates a false sense of security. So when the starter takes an extra beat, someone always flinches.
That someone was never me. I was short for a hurdler. I took four steps between hurdles instead of three. I was fast though, and there was nary an inch between the hurdle and my privates (years on the balance beam made me unafraid of the potential injuries), and I had excellent reflexes. No one could figure how this short blonde girl from a podunk school without its own track could be league champ three years running. Least of all her. But I didn't question it. I just loved it, and I loved me while I was doing it (a rare and precious state for me to be in).
A lot has happened in the past 18 or so years.
This pending motherhood feels like a false start. It's like I was waiting patiently for the gun, and someone came up behind me and whispered "go" in my ear... what do I do? I'm out of shape, I'm not wearing my racers or a good bra, and the hurdles don't appear to be evenly spaced or level. Am I supposed to have left my blocks? Why are the other girls still on their finger tips?
As I hang suspended before my first step towards the obstacle course in front of me, I am aware of the need to explode out of the blocks, but I feel a little sluggish.
I see my sister at the finish line, holding out a winner's trophy, but how can she already know the outcome? I see my loved ones on the sidelines, full of pride and expectation, ignorant to the eventuality: any second now the starter will call the false start and we'll all line back up, the other girls glaring at me for cramping their hamstrings and calves, all of us trying to shake it off before getting back on our knees.
Honestly, I don't remember entering this meet. I didn't even train for it. I have no mental strategies, no dry-runs under my belt to boost my confidence. Come to think of it, this looks more like a steeple chase than hurdles. Hold it, you guys, I'm in the wrong heat!
What the sam-hell do I know about adoption? How in the world do I protect my sister from ridicule or misunderstanding at the same time that we create an open and honest birth story for this delicate little guy growing inside of her? What do I do with the myriad worries about fetal alcohol syndrome (she didn't know for 24 weeks!), cystic fibrosis (T. has still not been tested), and the new one--a vein "dilitation" or "varix" in his umbilical cord--not to mention all of the opportunities for the other shoe to drop before we get the chance to pass papers on this baby, while I simultaneously try not to micromanage the "birth mother," who I am deseperately terrified will hate me forever when this is over?
Thing is, when you're sitting there waiting for the gun to go off, you want to anticipate it, you want to tense your muscles a split second before it sounds...and once you make your move, you can't hesitate or you'll trip out of the blocks. I'm hesitating. I'm supposed to move forward, but I'm convinced I'm going to be wrong to do so. I've filled and emptied my cart at babysrus.com so many times, they'll probably ban me from the site soon. I've emailed La Leche about adoptive breastfeeding, but can't seem to drag myself to the hospital for a breastpump to get my milk ("my milk"?!?!?) going. I haven't started looking for a pediatrician. We don't have a car seat or a crib. I hid the ultrasound photos C. gave me.
I bought a hand-made brown wool infant cap that sits on my dresser, and we've picked a name. We've told about a dozen people. I've counted my sick days. I bought a Terry Brazelton book. That is the sum total of my preparation for a baby one month away. Why can't I make the full commitment here? Why am I not shouting "victory!" and crying with joy on the medal stand?
C. was a terrific competitive swimmer in high school and college. She, too, understands the psychology of the false start, but she was more often the cause of one than her big sister--to her it seemed to be part of the process. Everyone does it once in a while--no biggie.
Yeah. No biggie, I guess, if you can risk losing. The thing about a false start is (even if you get caught and have to start over and then you overcompensate with a slow start and you wind up losing the race) it does feel good to get out of the blocks and take that first step as if you're the only one on the track. But that split second of relief is going to be small consolation if I get DQ'd from this race. Better to play it safe, right? There's nothing wrong with four steps between the hurdles. There's no shame in waiting for the gun if that's what gets you to the finish line.
That someone was never me. I was short for a hurdler. I took four steps between hurdles instead of three. I was fast though, and there was nary an inch between the hurdle and my privates (years on the balance beam made me unafraid of the potential injuries), and I had excellent reflexes. No one could figure how this short blonde girl from a podunk school without its own track could be league champ three years running. Least of all her. But I didn't question it. I just loved it, and I loved me while I was doing it (a rare and precious state for me to be in).
A lot has happened in the past 18 or so years.
This pending motherhood feels like a false start. It's like I was waiting patiently for the gun, and someone came up behind me and whispered "go" in my ear... what do I do? I'm out of shape, I'm not wearing my racers or a good bra, and the hurdles don't appear to be evenly spaced or level. Am I supposed to have left my blocks? Why are the other girls still on their finger tips?
As I hang suspended before my first step towards the obstacle course in front of me, I am aware of the need to explode out of the blocks, but I feel a little sluggish.
I see my sister at the finish line, holding out a winner's trophy, but how can she already know the outcome? I see my loved ones on the sidelines, full of pride and expectation, ignorant to the eventuality: any second now the starter will call the false start and we'll all line back up, the other girls glaring at me for cramping their hamstrings and calves, all of us trying to shake it off before getting back on our knees.
Honestly, I don't remember entering this meet. I didn't even train for it. I have no mental strategies, no dry-runs under my belt to boost my confidence. Come to think of it, this looks more like a steeple chase than hurdles. Hold it, you guys, I'm in the wrong heat!
What the sam-hell do I know about adoption? How in the world do I protect my sister from ridicule or misunderstanding at the same time that we create an open and honest birth story for this delicate little guy growing inside of her? What do I do with the myriad worries about fetal alcohol syndrome (she didn't know for 24 weeks!), cystic fibrosis (T. has still not been tested), and the new one--a vein "dilitation" or "varix" in his umbilical cord--not to mention all of the opportunities for the other shoe to drop before we get the chance to pass papers on this baby, while I simultaneously try not to micromanage the "birth mother," who I am deseperately terrified will hate me forever when this is over?
Thing is, when you're sitting there waiting for the gun to go off, you want to anticipate it, you want to tense your muscles a split second before it sounds...and once you make your move, you can't hesitate or you'll trip out of the blocks. I'm hesitating. I'm supposed to move forward, but I'm convinced I'm going to be wrong to do so. I've filled and emptied my cart at babysrus.com so many times, they'll probably ban me from the site soon. I've emailed La Leche about adoptive breastfeeding, but can't seem to drag myself to the hospital for a breastpump to get my milk ("my milk"?!?!?) going. I haven't started looking for a pediatrician. We don't have a car seat or a crib. I hid the ultrasound photos C. gave me.
I bought a hand-made brown wool infant cap that sits on my dresser, and we've picked a name. We've told about a dozen people. I've counted my sick days. I bought a Terry Brazelton book. That is the sum total of my preparation for a baby one month away. Why can't I make the full commitment here? Why am I not shouting "victory!" and crying with joy on the medal stand?
C. was a terrific competitive swimmer in high school and college. She, too, understands the psychology of the false start, but she was more often the cause of one than her big sister--to her it seemed to be part of the process. Everyone does it once in a while--no biggie.
Yeah. No biggie, I guess, if you can risk losing. The thing about a false start is (even if you get caught and have to start over and then you overcompensate with a slow start and you wind up losing the race) it does feel good to get out of the blocks and take that first step as if you're the only one on the track. But that split second of relief is going to be small consolation if I get DQ'd from this race. Better to play it safe, right? There's nothing wrong with four steps between the hurdles. There's no shame in waiting for the gun if that's what gets you to the finish line.
December 12, 2005
Heart's Palsy II: Looking Forward to Looking Forward
Wow is right. Much is in our favor, and much is not.
C. is due somewhere between January 30 and Feb 2, but the little guy is only 2.5 pounds, and not gaining fast enough (she did not know she was pregnant until 23-24 weeks, so she was drinking with the best of them until then...nuff said about that). C. tested positive for being a carrier of Cystic Fibrosis, but can't seem to get her hapless ex, T. (a sweet but royally fucked up heroin junkie now living aimlessly somewhere in Alaska), to get screened so we can know whether or not the little guy's chances are 1 in 4 for that punishment. Could connect to the low growth rate...trying not to obsess about that. BTW: T. is cool with C.'s plan for the baby at this stage. How could he not be? But still. Major sigh of relief.
We only have 6.5 weeks to prepare. We haven't so much as a diaper, never mind a car seat, a hospital grade breast pump, or a pediatrician, and chances are he'll come early and under some stress, given the above. C.'s hospital does not have a NICU, and she is on state health insurance, so I have no idea how to navigate that yet...
But we do now have a marriage license, so that we can legally adopt together. Got married at City Hall during the WHITE OUT conditions on Friday--choosing to see that as a whimsical omen, if an omen at all, especially since I was eternally opposed to making an honest woman of myself until now... We also have a lawyer, and some preliminary paperwork underway. Of course nothing can happen legally until there is an actual baby, out of the womb, and a birth certificate. On the BRIGHTEST of bright sides, a "relative adoption" is the easiest kind on the market, even in MA, which is a strict adoption state re: private adoptions. No home study, no agency fees. A criminal check, some signatures, a visit to the judge, and lawyer's fees is it. Wowee. If that's not winning the lottery...
We do not think she will change her mind, but given our already palpable attachment to the little guy, could we really blame her if she did? Never.
Still. We just got insurance approval for Egg Donor IVF, and we plan to fucking go through with it. To hell with being rational in an irrational world. I know that sounds nuts, but I just cannot be duped into any more deferrals of any kind. If we have two babies this time next year, well then, hallelujah, I'll start reciting the catechism again. Bring it on, tsk-tskers, bring it on.
We have told C. a dozen times in a dozen ways that all we have right now is our relationship with her, and that she's our number one priority no matter what. She has told her friends (and coworkers!) what she is planning to do with the baby, and she can't believe we haven't started spreading the word yet. Hello? Ummm, listen little sis, this the real world, where everyone but you is a total asshole. You're sure you're from planet Earth?
Anyway, that's crazy-scary-joyful scoop for now. I promise to keep you informed as this unravels...
C. is due somewhere between January 30 and Feb 2, but the little guy is only 2.5 pounds, and not gaining fast enough (she did not know she was pregnant until 23-24 weeks, so she was drinking with the best of them until then...nuff said about that). C. tested positive for being a carrier of Cystic Fibrosis, but can't seem to get her hapless ex, T. (a sweet but royally fucked up heroin junkie now living aimlessly somewhere in Alaska), to get screened so we can know whether or not the little guy's chances are 1 in 4 for that punishment. Could connect to the low growth rate...trying not to obsess about that. BTW: T. is cool with C.'s plan for the baby at this stage. How could he not be? But still. Major sigh of relief.
We only have 6.5 weeks to prepare. We haven't so much as a diaper, never mind a car seat, a hospital grade breast pump, or a pediatrician, and chances are he'll come early and under some stress, given the above. C.'s hospital does not have a NICU, and she is on state health insurance, so I have no idea how to navigate that yet...
But we do now have a marriage license, so that we can legally adopt together. Got married at City Hall during the WHITE OUT conditions on Friday--choosing to see that as a whimsical omen, if an omen at all, especially since I was eternally opposed to making an honest woman of myself until now... We also have a lawyer, and some preliminary paperwork underway. Of course nothing can happen legally until there is an actual baby, out of the womb, and a birth certificate. On the BRIGHTEST of bright sides, a "relative adoption" is the easiest kind on the market, even in MA, which is a strict adoption state re: private adoptions. No home study, no agency fees. A criminal check, some signatures, a visit to the judge, and lawyer's fees is it. Wowee. If that's not winning the lottery...
We do not think she will change her mind, but given our already palpable attachment to the little guy, could we really blame her if she did? Never.
Still. We just got insurance approval for Egg Donor IVF, and we plan to fucking go through with it. To hell with being rational in an irrational world. I know that sounds nuts, but I just cannot be duped into any more deferrals of any kind. If we have two babies this time next year, well then, hallelujah, I'll start reciting the catechism again. Bring it on, tsk-tskers, bring it on.
We have told C. a dozen times in a dozen ways that all we have right now is our relationship with her, and that she's our number one priority no matter what. She has told her friends (and coworkers!) what she is planning to do with the baby, and she can't believe we haven't started spreading the word yet. Hello? Ummm, listen little sis, this the real world, where everyone but you is a total asshole. You're sure you're from planet Earth?
Anyway, that's crazy-scary-joyful scoop for now. I promise to keep you informed as this unravels...
December 8, 2005
Heart's Palsy
When I was twelve, it was beyond me to understand that a recently fed six-month-old infant should not play airplane. Now that I am thirty-seven, it is beyond me to understand that a recently pregnant twenty-five-year-old might break all the rules.
Twenty-five years ago, my baby sister threw up into my mouth.
A couple of weeks ago, she took my breath away.
On my birthday, she is due to give birth to a boy, whom she says she would like to call her nephew.
How do I begin to explain my joy?
How do I begin to explain my terror?
Twenty-five years ago, my baby sister threw up into my mouth.
A couple of weeks ago, she took my breath away.
On my birthday, she is due to give birth to a boy, whom she says she would like to call her nephew.
How do I begin to explain my joy?
How do I begin to explain my terror?
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