The Luckiest Person I've Ever Met
New
The baby is tiny. I can’t nurse him. We want him to have breast milk, but it’s hard to come by. There are various avenues to get it. I sign up on wait lists, join online groups. I constantly scan facebook and craigslist ads, anxious to be the first to respond. We meet up with strangers in parking lots—women who have frozen their milk; sometimes giving it away, sometimes selling it. There’s a vetting process, but often I just have to go with a feeling and trust that these women and their offerings are legit. I learn what the good stuff looks like, smells like. To us, it’s like liquid gold. A couple of times we run dangerously low and James drives 4 hours to another city to get the milk. There and back. The baby grows.
Two Weeks
I take my baby to the local co-op, and am immediately surrounded by a gaggle of older women. They're blocking my way. I can't get past them.
"Oh how cute! How old?"
"Two weeks."
"Oh, how precious!"
"He's so young to be outside! I never took my baby out of the house for the first two months."
"Well, he's adventurous."
Then—"I just want to put a blanket on him."
"He's pretty warm right now actually. He tends to run hot."
"Well, I would give him a blanket. But that's just me. I'm a mama!"
Silence. Another woman comes forward. She's been thinking.
"He's only two weeks old?"
"Yeah."
"You look so great!" A questioning look. She means “so thin”. She looks at the baby. She wants an explanation.
"He's adopted," I say finally.
(I wish I'd said "You look great too," but I'm new to this.)
"Oh, I thought so. Well, that explains it! Ha ha ha."
"Ha ha."
The women draw apart, and let me pass.
One Month
The baby’s first doctor, who is, to put it gently, a diabolical cunt from hell, says to me at a visit "Do you know if any relatives had issues with—oh right. Of course you don't. You're not his real mother." (Except I do know.) Then, under "problems" on his chart, she puts: "adopted as an infant".
Two Months
We don't get much sleep around here. Everyone's been sick. I have a bad case of tennis elbow. The cat got in a fight. The dog won't stop throwing up. Today I put the dirty laundry in the trash. Yesterday it was the dishes. At least I'm trying to clean. But the phone really shouldn't go in the 'fridge. I make up weird, meaningless songs to soothe the baby and am surprised to find that I'm still singing them fifteen minutes later, repeating the words mindlessly, as if—or probably just in—a trance. Today, in this foggy, drugged-like state, still wearing last weeks snot-encrusted sweats, reeking of spit up, my foot covered in dog vomit that I hadn't had time to clean up yet, I found myself just standing there—rocking rocking rocking the screaming baby, looking out the window at the water and the trees—and absolutely grinning like a fool. But then I've always known that I'm the luckiest person I've ever met.
Six Months
Today I asked my baby’s super nice new doctor to correct problems: “adopted at birth,” and replace it with “asthma”. Which she did, quietly and unblinkingly.
Eleven Months
On Mother's Day it was pouring down rain, windy and cold. I tried to make the most of it—coffee in bed—but after lying around for a little while I started to feel like I should do something, so I made us all go out for a walk. Let’s go buy a plant, I said. It was a long walk, nothing but puddles and trash for miles. At the plant store, a woman said happy Mother’s Day and I said thank you. But then she looked at my baby and added, where’s he from? We bought a plant and headed back out. The rain was cold. The baby cried, he was tired. We walked.
Twelve Months
Headed home from the subway. The baby is crying. It’s almost dinnertime. A couple of nuns approach as we pass the big cathedral. They come up astride and stay with us for a full block, all smiley and breathless like they’re high on drugs. They’re trying to get me to go to the evening mass. I’m not religious, I say. That’s okay, they say, you can just come to admire the beauty of the building. It’ll be past my baby’s bedtime, I say, that’s okay, they say, God loves you, and even your crying baby. Oh good, I say, and keep walking. I don’t believe in God, but it’s nice to hear. I hold my crying baby close, and we go home.
Gah, the comments people make, Anna. It's so touching to read these reflections from your son's infancy.
I remember being on the hospital ward with newborn prem triplets. "You've got your hands full!" was the most common reaction. And I mean true, yes, but what I really appreciated were the people who said, "You are so lucky. A triple blessing!" Because that was how it felt.
What a snapshot!