Chapter 3--Meanwhile, Back in MA, My Baby Grew

Try as we might, we just can't control Mother Nature. We can avert her attempts, we can try and coax her to see our side of things, but, really, she usually gets what she wants. And so, in Massachusetts, in the womb of an unsuspecting young woman, my baby grew. Her cells divided, connected, and formed a perfect, little person. She grew a head, a torso, limbs, her heart began to beat. As the young woman went about her life, my baby developed fingers, toes, eyebrows, all her vital organs, without creating much of a stir.

In Michigan, I was working through the logistics of how it might be that I could carry a baby. Diagnosed with endometriosis, I began Depo-Provera injections at age 19, which completely stopped my periods. Now, six years later, I quit the injections and began taking prenatal vitamins. My doctor didn't feel comfortable doing an interuterine insemination (the technical word for getting knocked up by a turkey baster), so he referred me to the local expert. In a twist of fate, this would be the same woman who actually performed this procedure (and many others) on me later in life as Eric and I tried to conceive. However, at this time, she was just plain not game.

"She is way too young to be making this decision," Dr. Heidke reported to my doctor. "She will eventually meet someone and be ready to conceive then."

I couldn't have been more annoyed. I was the exact age my mother was when I had been conceived. Two of my good friends were pregnant. What I lacked was not the age, but the spouse. If my HUSBAND and I had walked into her office, she wouldn't have thought I was too young. Ironically, if I'd had the spouse--I thought--I wouldn't need her help! What Dr. Heidke--and most people--couldn't see was that I didn't necessarily want the spouse.

The more I thought about it--having a baby by myself--the more it seemed like an obvious choice. My friend, Melody, gave birth and I immediately fell in love with her son. I was at my happiest when I was feeding him, singing to him, playing with him. I began watching all the mothers around me, seeing myself pushing the stroller, rocking the swaddled child, scooping the remnants of pureed peas off a tiny chin and placing it in my baby's open mouth. I finally stopped looking for "the one" every place I went, because I realized "the one" I had been craving wasn't some guy... it was a baby.

Like I said, though, not everyone caught on to this like I did. Melody asked me many times, "Are you sure you want to do this? It's really hard!" My friend, Jill, told me about her pregnant cousin, who said she would never have gotten through pregnancy without her husband. And, in an uncharacteristic act, my mom seemed to think it was a bad idea.

My mom had always been my best friend, my biggest cheerleader, the first person to stand behind me and push me toward my goals. The only time she had been against something I'd wanted was the time I'd been accidentally engaged (believe me, it's a great story) to a guy everyone hated. And, that time, she had been right. So, it was really hard for me to keep going forward--looking for a doctor, picking a donor, selecting items for a nursery--without her full support. In the late fall of 1999, my mother didn't argue with me; she never said it was a bad idea. But, she prickled every time I brought it up. She changed the subject. She blinked her eyes and stayed silent. She avoided me when I called or asked her to do things with me. Mom never really tried to talk me out of having a baby by myself, but she stayed out of it, and I hated that.

In Massachusetts in the late fall of 1999, the young woman could no longer deny to herself what she'd known for a while: she was pregnant. She had no idea what to do. She was living at a friend's place, sleeping on his couch. She had no job. She didn't know who the father of the baby was, to go to him for support. It should have been an easy choice for her. Instead, she went to a clinic for an ultrasound and, as she waited, she prayed, "Please, have a brain stem." Her prescribed medications could have caused birth defects, which, again, should have made her choice easy. Instead, she prayed for the health of her baby, and cried tears of joy to see a healthy, mobile, baby girl on the screen.

The young woman had not had a good life. Every step had been hard for her. When she and her siblings were young, her parents divorced, and then used their children to fight with each other. She spent time in foster care. She lived with her grandmother for a while. She quit school in ninth grade, and had a baby at 16. Eventually, her mother convinced her to let the baby live with her, so that the young woman could finish school, put her life together. Instead, she floundered, floated from situation to situation, tried desperately to find something that would give her peace, someone she could count on. At 20, she sought help from doctors, and was diagnosed with a bipolar disorder. This gave her some comfort, but the medications were certainly not a miracle cure. The highs of mania were so high, felt so good, it was boring to be on her medication. By the time the depression came, she would be too far gone. Sometimes someone would come along, get her back on her medications, help her through the rough time, but no one ever stayed that she could trust. She met a young man, and became pregnant. He was thrilled and they married. But motherhood was so difficult, another human being who took from her but couldn't give; it made the depression stay and stay. And, then, she got pregnant again. The young woman was distraught. Her husband would be happy, would want another baby to be sibling to this one who already overwhelmed her. She couldn't think, she couldn't feel, she had to make it go away or she wouldn't be able to survive. So, without telling another soul, the young woman had an abortion. And she would never forgive herself. The guilt dripped from her pores, filled her thoughts, made her hate her husband, her baby, herself. Finally, she told her husband, and, as she expected, he couldn't forgive her. She had to leave.

It was in this way that she found herself living on a friend's couch, jobless, alone, seeking comfort from strangers. It was in this way that she found herself pregnant again... and alone. She truly believed this pregnancy was God's punishment for her abortion. She had let HIM down, and now she had to pay. She didn't know what to do.

In contrast, I had led a blessed life. My mother had always put me first, had loved me through all of my young brattiness, all my teenage angst, all my young adult need for liberation. My parents had been strict, but had always, always been there for me. I unfailingly had a very comfortable roof over my head, and the knowledge that I could call out in the night and someone would come to me. When anything ever happened, my mother's hug could erase it all, put the world back on its axis. I had memories of walking in downtown Detroit, headed to a Tiger's game, my dad's hand protectively enveloping mine, feeling like nothing could ever hurt me. I had memories of lying at the foot of my parents' bed, just talking, knowing that I could bring them anything and they'd always love me. As much as the young woman had NO ONE there for her, I had the two best people in the world. I had gone straight to college after high school, bought a house my second year of teaching, lived four miles away from my parents. I attended basketball games with my dad, went to a sewing club with my mom, and went to church with the two of them every Sunday.

So, what in the world, how could they not support me in this new endeavor? Why couldn't they see how right  this was for me? I didn't understand them, and they didn't understand me. I was already blissfully in love with the idea of this baby, dreaming of giving baths and reading little board books and nursing. My mom talked to her book club about what I was thinking of doing, and the priest's wife was horrified. In fact, she spoke with our priest and he was so upset, he contacted my mom. "I think we should have an intervention," he said. "We can't let her throw her life away like this."

What the what? Throw my life away? I wanted to start a new life, not throw one away! I was completely flabbergasted. Thankfully, my mom thought the intervention was going a wee bit too far. However, she still bristled when I wanted to talk to her. She obviously wasn't going to be behind me, when I would need her the most. I did not know what to do.

The young woman made an appointment with her psychiatrist. She told him about God's punishment, about the beautiful baby girl growing in her belly, who she could offer nothing but love. The visit changed her life, the baby's, and mine.

My mother and I went to get our haircut at a new place. Somehow, we ended up talking about me and the baby. The visit changed my life, the baby's, and the young woman's.

You Don't Live Here

I won't pretend to know how it is in your home. Maybe your husband gambles or you secretly chat with an old boyfriend on Facebook or you fear your youngest is bulimic. I won't pretend to know anything about the shit that may be going on behind your closed doors. So, please, don't pretend to know about mine. Don't say, "Oh, teenage girls can be so awful!" or "Typical teenager!" or "This too shall pass." Don't say that crap to me, because you just don't live here.

The truth is, I'm filtering what I'm telling you anyway. You think I want anyone really knowing what's going on? The screaming, the throwing, the doors slamming, the pure venom spilling from my own daughter's lips... You think I really want you to know?

In our house, just as I once did with Emma, I cuddle with Ben and Becca every night, saying the Lord's Prayer and "God Bless..." Recently, after Ben fell asleep, Becca wanted to talk about the day's events. It had been another Sunday devoted to Emma's fits, demands, and manipulation.

"Momma," Becca whispered, "Why was Sissy yelling?"

"She was just mad, Boo. Don't worry."

"But, Momma, she was scary."

"I know, baby. But she was just mad at Mommy and Daddy. Don't worry." I pulled her closer to me.

"Momma, why did Daddy get her legs?"

"Well, you know how sometimes you and Ben-Ben have to go in time-out, when you're being naughty? Sissy just needed to go in time-out."

"But why did he get her legs, Momma? She was yelling."

"She, just, well, she didn't want to go in time-out. So, Daddy had to take her to time-out. Just like sometimes I pick up you or Ben-Ben and take you to time-out. She was mad and didn't want to go. She's just bigger than you or Ben, so Daddy had a hard time picking her up."

"And you took us out, Momma? You took us out of your's room? When Sissy was yelling, why you took us out?"

"Bec, just don't worry about it, okay?"

"But why did me and Ben-Ben have to be locked in our's room?"

"Daddy and I just didn't want you to watch. She was being naughty and we didn't want you to see, okay?"

"Sissy was mad at me and Brudder? Was her mad at us?"

"No, Boo, just Mommy and Daddy. Don't worry about it, okay? She was just being naughty today. It's okay."

She snuggled her little head deeper under my chin, closer into me, tighter in my security. I couldn't make it go away. I couldn't erase the memory. I couldn't ease the fear.

You don't live here. You don't have to tell Becca the same empty words, "It'll be okay. Don't worry." Words I've said time after time after time.

We've had to make choices, Is this rule worth a fit? Will this consequence bring about a change in behavior, or a temper tantrum that will last all day? This year, I don't take Emma to school in the morning. She has to ride the bus. She rides the bus because last school year, at least three times a week, she would chase my car, throw her body at the hood, stand behind me so I couldn't back up. She'd open the door before I could take off, throw her shoes inside, and run back to get more things. "I'm ready! I'm ready! I'm ready!" she'd scream, though she was still in her pajama pants, hair uncombed, pills still lying on the counter where I'd put them out for her.

I'd like to say that I stayed calm all these times, that I stopped the car and set her shoes out, then drove away. But, of course, I didn't. I screeched the brakes. I screamed, "You don't even care if you are making me late for work! You lie in your bed until I put my coat on, and then you want me to wait for you! I am sick of this! You cannot treat me like crap and expect me to wait for you!" All true words, but falling on deaf ears, as she and I both ran frantically around the car, tossing backpacks and shoes out and in the car, hearts aflame, lungs burning. So, this year, I don't wait at all. I tell her goodbye, and I hope she makes it out the door.

She makes it out, but often wearing things I've told her not to wear, often leaving her pills on the counter, often not taking food for her lunch. The difference is I am no longer in the scene; I've passed that on to her bus driver, a man who "won't even stop if he sees me running down the street."

I know what you're thinking. Didn't you sometimes wear stuff your parents didn't want you to wear? Didn't you sleep in and miss the bus? Yup. I certainly did, just like many teenagers. The difference is the extremity of the situation. The frequency of the number of times she is running behind, the intensity of her tantrums, the complete inability to learn the next day from the episode the day before. Tantrums with Emma are like Groundhog Day--repeated in the same sequence day after day--but she doesn't learn the lessons. She doesn't connect staying in her bed with running after the bus, doesn't see how throwing herself at my car and screaming at me might make me upset enough that I don't feel like saying, "Have a great day. I love you." Occasionally, she may apologize for the tantrums, but it always feels perfunctory, as though she's trying to unlock my "mad" mode, not truly understanding how she has had an effect on my day, my mood, my heart.

You don't know this, though, because you don't live here. You haven't been here as we took her to a psychiatrist for the first time at age seven. This must be a medical problem, right? You haven't been here as we visited the esteemed counselor my dad recommended, who told us, "I don't think I can help you at all. Her intelligence level is so high, but her emotional interaction is so low. I think she's manipulating me when I'm talking to her." You haven't been to the countless visits to the adolescent behavior specialist. It must be a pattern of behavior, right? He's a fantastic guy who works and works and works with her, but sees the same rut of behavior that we do. You haven't sat with me as I've read the books, the articles, listened to the Total Transformation CDs. You haven't helped as we taped sheets to the refrigerator, the bathroom mirror, the walls in her bedroom, with plans and diagrams and lists and questions... all to return seemingly back to where we started years ago.

You don't live here, and so the Emma you see... She's the survivor. She's figured out how to function out there, how to look right, because you don't have to accept her. You don't have to love her. You could say, "What a bitch," and walk away, so she's got to follow the rules out there. The Emma you see gets all As, says hello to teachers in the hallway, will offer to help at Sunday School or take down your bulletin board for you. The Emma you see has a few friends, loves cheerleading, and is a fun babysitter. She may occasionally say something completely out of the social norm to you, but it's infrequent, and not hostile, so you can pass it off as a teenage mood. The Emma you see is the one her teachers call "a good kid," and try to give her second and third chances on things. I like to think of that Emma as the Katniss (see Hunger Games, one of Emma's favorites) of society, doing what she needs to stay alive.

But, just as you don't live here, neither does that Emma. She has to bottle it up, "white knuckle it," we say. So, at home, she doesn't have anything left for us. She can't take the mental energy to think "What did I do? How did Mom see it? What did Mom feel? How did Mom react?" Instead, we continue the same power struggles day after day, a tornado of Eric, Emma, me, and the Littles being slammed against the walls and ceilings of our home, crashing to the ground in agony.

We had to stop the storm. We couldn't keep doing it, putting everyone in our family through it, day after day. It had to stop. And so, on Sunday, we made the hardest decision of our lives that will be the best for everyone. We sent Emma to live with my parents, about an hour away. We'll still see her, talk to her, have her visit. But she no longer sits at our dinner table each night, or walks out with bedhead on Saturday mornings, or blares the radio in our kitchen inspiring a Hall family dance-off.

It will be good. It will be great. It will be the best for every single person in the end (except maybe for my parents, who now, in their 60s, are raising a volatile teenager.) It had to be done. This, or boarding school, it had to be done.

But, as my principal said yesterday, I am not myself. I am not okay. I've lost my child. My daughter is not with us. I feel like one of my limbs is missing, and the ache in my heart has spread throughout my chest, down into the depths of my belly. I keep picturing rocking her as a baby, holding her tiny hand as a four-year-old, pulling her onto my lap when she was six. How did we get to this? It's never been an easy road with her, I suppose I could have always seen this coming, but I still anguish nonetheless.

So, maybe you've got problems of your own, things I could never know about, because I don't live there. But, you don't live here. So please don't act like you know what we're going through.

Parenting in Progress

Okay, America, I guess it's time I get this out there: I parent my children. My husband and I both do, and we're damn good at it. But, I would like to point out--ignoring is an important part of parenting.

You know those little dream kids, the ones who are sweet, and shy, and just go with the flow all the time? Yeah, none of those children live in our house. Our kids are loud, and fiesty, and stubborn, and exuberant. In their defense, Eric and I are not sweet, shy, go-with-the-flow kind of people, either. We are loud, and fiesty, and stubborn, and exuberant. You will often find us dancing in the kitchen, or yelling at characters on the TV, or chasing either other through the house (he blows on my neck--it really tickles!). And so, those darling Precious Moments children we dreamed about... Yeah, no.

So, we parent them. We lecture. We take things away. We get in faces. We use stern voices. We use words like consequences and choices and getting on my very last nerve. However, we also ignore, when appropriate. We stay out of it, if we feel the kids are working through something on their own, or will end up with a natural consequence (keep swinging your Ninja Turtle around by its leg, eventually that sucker's gonna bust).

This week, we were trying to stay sane while cooped up in the house with these zany creatures. One of us had the brilliant idea to travel and shop--use up the gift cards people had gotten the kids, get a change of scenery, maybe have a meal outside the house. Sounded innocent. But, as I was telling my friend, we just don't have the kind of kids who can travel, or stay up late, or change their scenery. Our kids need their routine of school, dinner, bath, books, prayers, bed. When we vary the schedule, all hell breaks loose. So, as I was saying, we left the house. We took the kids to their first ever trip to Toys R' Us (Ben's mind is irreparably blown), where surprisingly few fits were had. But, dinner, that was another story.

Part of the problem with dinner, was that it was occurring during bath time. In a place that wasn't our house. With on-lookers. And a new Hulk toy.

So, Minimus (Becca's new horse from Sofia the First) thumped Hulk, and Hulk head-butted Ben. Much to the chagrin of the other five people eating in this place, Ben threw a massive, high pitched, owl-summoning fit. Now, I would like to point out that we were not in a Ruth Chris Steakhouse or anything. We were at a Mancino's (loved the pizza!). And, also, did I mention there were FIVE other people eating there? As in: a mid-aged husband and wife, a father and pre-teen son, and a single man. But, oh, geez, it was like we were interrupting a wedding. So, ignoring was NOT going to be the method of parenting we were going to be able to utilize.

Eric tried talking quietly near Ben. I scooted over and tried to cuddle him. Unh-unh. Not havin' it. So, I grabbed the perpetrator--and the stupid Hulk--each under an armpit and hauled them outside. Eventually, we got cold enough that Ben's brain froze, and we were able to shove what was left of his food down his throat. It was a beautiful family moment, and I appreciate the Mancino's patrons' support in our time of need. Jackasses.

Here's the thing. Sometimes, it's just gonna look like I'm ignoring the kid. But, if I'm at the front of one of those "should have a CDL to drive" carts with the two parts, holding the two-year-old in my arms, pulling the groceries and the four-year-old is strapped in the back, screaming his fool head off, something about "I waaaaaannnnnnt my guuuuuummmmmiiiiiiiieeeeees!", just LOOK AWAY. I don't need your help. I don't need your condescending looks. If you want to walk up and give me a high five for great parenting (notice that I am NOT giving him the gummies, or giving into the attention seeking behavior), that's great. Otherwise, just go about your business.

Okay, soapbox done.

The Door Was Opened

And, so, I pursued as if God was calling me to adopt. Which, in fact, He was, but that's a later story.

I called the woman from the shelter who was advising Lee with her baby's adoption. She let me know that Lee was involved with a local agency and was reviewing parent profiles, but that she would pass on a letter, if I was so moved.

I was so moved.

I wrote Lee a letter, explaining how I couldn't imagine the pain she was experiencing, and that I was so impressed with her selfless decision to put her baby's needs before her own. I told her about my mother, about my obsession with kids, about my job and my house, about this baby-shaped hole in my life.

She didn't respond.

Unfortunately, Lee was unable to go through with the adoption. The baby's father, who was in jail at the time, would not sign off his parental rights. If she put the baby up for adoption, the birth father wanted custody, and the baby would go live with his mother until he got out of jail. Given the choice of trying to raise THREE children or allow her son to be raised by his father, Lee was forced to keep her son and lose the beautiful dreams she had laid out for him. I still pray for her often, for her baby (now 15!), and thank God for her role in my daughter's adoption.

Meeting Lee opened the door to the idea: I didn't have to get married. I didn't have to wait to find "the one." I honestly wasn't even sure I was cut out to be someone's wife. Ever. None of my romantic relationships had lasted more than a year and I couldn't imagine living with someone else EVERY DAY. But thinking about adopting Lee's baby gave birth to the idea that I could adopt, or something. That I could bring a baby of my very own into my home. Suddenly giving baths at night, reading books in the rocking chair, singing lullabies, guiding first steps--all of these dreams seemed within reach.

This very same month, in Massachusetts, an egg was released. A woman was making rash decisions, looking for comfort, seeking someone who could calm the storm in her mind. The egg found its mate and fertilized. My daughter began.

After school started, I began to look on-line at adoption agencies. The local Catholic Human Services would not even discuss single parent adoption. Mostly, I received a half-cough, half-laugh when I told the counselors that I was a 25-year-old teacher, looking to adopt a baby. Like my mother, I think they all thought it was, well, sweet. But not particularly realistic. When women could choose from so many other married couples, many of whom could offer a stay-at-home mother, why would they choose a single-working mother, who was only 25? Adoption just didn't seem like the road I would travel.

Financially, adoption seemed out of reach as well. Most domestic adoptions were $30,000 or more... I just didn't see how it would be possible. But, still this idea had taken root in my mind, and I couldn't let it go. At the time, there was an Elton John song that kept playing on the radio, and it wouldn't let stop haunting me.

"Blessed"

Hey you, you're a child in my head
You haven't walked yet
Your first words have yet to be said
But I swear you'll be blessed

I know you're still just a dream
your eyes might be green
Or the bluest that I've ever seen
Anyway you'll be blessed

And you, you'll be blessed
You'll have the best
I promise you that
I'll pick a star from the sky
Pull your name from a hat
I promise you that, promise you that, promise you that
You'll be blessed

I need you before I'm too old
To have and to hold
To walk with you and watch you grow
And know that you're blessed

In my internet searching, I began to think about artificial insemination. Why not? I had a womb, I could grow one of these things on my own, right? I talked to my best friend again, spending an afternoon talking about the process when we were supposed to be "off" and relaxing before evening parent-teacher conferences. I had found a cryogenic lab that would send the samples, had even selected some donors I preferred. Was it crazy? "Of course not. You're a girl. You want a baby. Make it happen," she said. Good friend.

What stood in my way, interestingly, was trying to find a doctor to do it. I first went to my own doctor, kind of a stick-in-the-mud, bland man, and got an exam. I had been taking depo-provera (an injection that stops your periods) for endometriosis since my freshman year in college, so I wanted to wean my body off that. I also wanted to get all checked out and get the clear. I wasn't thrilled about the idea of Dr. Oatmeal implanting my donor's seed, but I felt like I couldn't be real picky. After the exam, I told him what I planned. To say he was a little taken aback is an understatement. And then, he said something I would hear hundreds of times in the journey to find my daughter, "Oh, you don't want to do that. You're so young. You'll find someone."

If you've read my other writing, you know a little about my Grandma Hendricks. I am proud to say that my stubborn streak came directly from her. So, at 25-years-old, in a paper-thin gown, freshly released from the speculum, I looked Dr. Oatmeal in the eyes and said, "Of course I want to meet someone! I want to meet my baby."

Where My Baby Came From-The Beginning

I love babies. Obsessively. I always have. I love their rolls of leg chub, their tiny chicklet toes at the end of smooth, kissable feet. I love the stage where their stubby fingers point at something and look at you expectantly, "Wha's dat?" I will answer the name of endless items--bird, tree, boy, cloud, car--and wait while they repeat the word in sweet babyese. I love the smell of newborn--a mixture of milk, fresh diaper, baby lotion, and sleep. I love the way babies fit in the crook of my arm. I love when they copy facial expressions. I love to hear them belly laugh.

Teaching is a fantastic career, but I know my favorite job ever was working at a day care center in the toddler room. Kids came to us as babies, little bundles of energy who were just beginning to get vertical. They'd toddle around, going from the leg of a highchair to the shelves, gripping tightly. Then, one day, they'd try it out, "Maybe I could let go and get over there quicker?" Their faces of glee when one step led to ten led to running everywhere. When they entered our room, they'd have very little speech, but enormous vocabularies. They'd know what we were saying, but not be able to vocalize it yet. It was almost like they were still in-utero when they'd come to our room, because they were just breaking their way OUT of the baby phase. So, we'd sing songs, go for walks, push them on the swings, read books, build with blocks, change about 68 diapers each day, and watch them turn into little human beings. When they left our room, they'd have begun to string words into short sentences. "What doin', Warwa?" a little girl named Haley asked me once when she arose from her nap, and that memory has framed all of day care for me. I knew she'd leave soon. The kids would gain an awareness of the bathroom and begin trying it out. They'd insist on feeding themselves, sometimes even wiping their own faces and hands. "My do it!" was very popular as a method of determining that someone was ready to move to the next room at day care. It was crushing to me, to see them travel up to the next room, move on without me, especially knowing they'd never remember me. I was in there--with my Winnie-the-Pooh march and my funny story voices--but they'd never recognize that piece of me inside themselves.

I had this job at 23, prime "I want a baby" age. My poor mother had tried for YEARS to have a baby, only to miscarry before we'd even be able to see the babies on an ultrasound. I had been consumed with baby envy since I'd been old enough to fake feed a doll (Rub-a-Dub dolly-age three), and my mother's barren plight had only fueled the fire. My mom and I were those ladies in the store that new mothers hate (I say "were," but it really should say ARE), We would come up to any baby and talk, wave, coo, play peek-a-boo. If mothers made eye contact with us, we'd ask, "How old?" "Are you getting any sleep?" "Looks like a keeper!" and other horrid phrases that I know new mothers dread. But we couldn't help ourselves (still can't). We wanted our own baby, and there was nothing we could do about it.

We "adopted" several families with babies. I babysat for a couple down the street, practically LIVED at the home of a family from our church when I was 14, latched onto a Michigan State Trooper in the grocery store parking lot when I found out her daughter was 18-months-old. I shared these babies with my mom, but they grew, and, really, they weren't ours. Again, they'd move on, and we wouldn't necessarily be there as they turned into leading characters in other people's lives.

So, as a new teacher, at 24, I was baby crazy. I admit it. A few of my friends started to have babies, and it made me nuts. Of course, they were married and ready and socially acceptable. So irritating. At the school, I'd make friends with all the moms lugging around baby carriers. I even baby sat for a friend's baby in the mornings the year I taught part-time in the afternoons. Once, as I was chatting up a baby in its carseat, making it giggle and kick those little legs, a fellow teacher said, "You know, you really should get one of those." I knew she was right. But, not really something I could pick up at the store. Or could I?

It was Labor Day weekend, the weekend before I began my third year teaching. I was four months away from turning 26. I had spent the whole summer thinking about first grade and how it would go, so I was more than ready for school to start. My parents were volunteering at a local homeless shelter, helping with dinner and night programs. Would I like to go? Honestly, I couldn't come up with an excuse, and so God drove me to the Nehemiah Project.

While we were dining, I met Lee. She was probably a year or two older than me, with two daughters under school age, and a belly brimming with baby. The whole evening, I played games with her daughters, combed their hair, read them stories... and stared at that belly. Every other occupant had constant advice for her, "The girls should be in bed by now." "They shouldn't be eating that." "My mother never would have let me do that." I was so impressed she didn't punch anyone in the face. As we left, Lee's girls gave me hugs and I tried to hug Lee with my eyes. I just felt so awful for her, stuck in this situation, wondered what she was possibly going to do.

"I feel so bad for Lee, Mom," I said in the car as I drove my mom back to her house. "Those two little girls, and now a baby coming! What is she going to do?"

"Oh, honey, she's giving that baby up for adoption." My mother's words slapped acoss the car, rolled my eyeballs back into my head.

"I would love to adopt that baby." I said the words before I thought them, even. But, once they were out, I knew I'd never said anything more true. I had a "dad" who wasn't my biological father, what did I care how a baby came into my life? I knew, I knew, I knew, I was ready to be a mother.

My mom patted my leg, "Oh, sweetie, that's nice," like I'd said I'd have her and dad over for dinner that night.

I stopped my car in her driveway. I looked at her with a burn behind my eyes. "No, Mom, I am completely serious. What would I need to do? Do you know? I always thought the hardest part of adoption would be finding the baby. I would love to adopt that baby!"

Mom tried to look away from my stare, but I wouldn't let her break eye contact. "Well, honey, I guess... I guess you should talk to Pastor Ward about that. It's just, honey, it's such a serious thing to say."

I didn't blink. I felt like my heart had woken up when she said the words, "She's giving that baby up for adoption." It all finally made sense in my head. Why I had been engaged, but never could go through with a marriage. Why my thousand first dates had rarely led to a second. Why buying my own home had been the first thing I did when I received my full-time teacher contract. It all led me to this moment, to this conversation, to adoption. It all made sense.

My mom hugged me, then got out of the car and went into her house. I'm fairly certain she thought that was the end of the conversation. That I'd go home, and realize that raising a child alone was nuts. That I'd look at the rooms of my house and think, "A baby? Here? That's crazy!" That I'd be too shy to call Pastor Ward and tell him of my insane scheme.

Instead, I went home and called my best friend. Thank God cordless phones were the new thing, or I'd have been tied up in my phone cord. I paced back and forth from my living room through my dining room into my kitchen and back. "Listen," I said, "What would you think if I said I was going to adopt a baby?"

"I'd say it's about damn time." Did I mention she was my best friend?

We talked and talked, and everything that made sense to me made sense to her. "It's a God thing," she said. "You know how I feel about God things." She had this theory that God would put things in your way when they weren't according to His will, and that He would slide things into place when they were according to His will. "You just gotta call that Pastor. I mean, jeez, it's a Pastor. How much more of a God-thing can you get?"

So, I did. Much to my mother's dismay, the very next day I called that Pastor. I told him about our conversation about Lee, and how the words, "I'd love to adopt that baby" had exploded from my mouth. I waited for him to say, "Oh, sweetie, you're too young for that!" or something similar. I waited for him to say something that would make me feel silly, immature, unrealistic. Instead, Pastor Ward carried on with "the God Thing."

"Well, Laura," he said, " I think we should proceed with this by assuming that God has called you adopt."

And, thus, my journey to adoption began.

What Is It About Blood, That You Can't Just Let It Go?

I think my earliest memory of him, I was probably around eight or so. I was spending time at his actual house, which was rare. Generally, we would have visits at my grandparents' house, with my grandparents filling in the gaps where conversation should go. He never was an every-other weekend kind of parent; but, of course, that could have been because he lived so far away.

On this occasion, he was working on some sort of deck, and I "helped." Mostly, I played with the pretend family of beavers that were living under the pile of wood. I don't remember doing any of the cutting, measuring, hammering... But maybe bitterness erased it all from my mind. I do remember trying to think of things to say to him; what could I do to make him like me?

We went to a Bluegrass Festival, and I was, understandably, bored out of my mind. I know he was just trying to think of things to do with me, but I really would have preferred putt-putt golf, which was a new thing then, or even just playing a game of go-fish. He didn't know me, though, or what I liked to do. I didn't know him either, and I remember trying very hard just to seem like a good kid.

And so it went, for many years, this strange, awkward "relationship," where we didn't know one another, but felt obligated to spend time together. I now wonder, if my grandmother hadn't been alive, would there be any memories at all? As I got older, there were a few good ones: riding shotgun in my grandparents' RV as he drove (lightning exploded a tree in front of us and I thought Grams would have a stroke, but we were cracking up about Hubba Bubba soda), making a puppet out of a crutch, him teaching me to drive a stick shift. Mostly, we were two strangers, going along, making the best of it, both clinging to the one thing that tied us together: our love for Grams.

When I was 17, he remarried, and that really did change things for us. Suddenly he could give me what my parents couldn't: siblings. So for several years, I tried to shove myself into their family, photo bombing their memories, driving to their home on vacations and in the summer.

One time, though, I admitted this to my step-sister. We were walking past a store, and I said, "That's what I dress like in real life." It was the funky, not-quite-goth, steel-toed shoes with a broomstick skirt look that I patterned after Molly Ringwald's Pretty In Pink character.

She looked at my jeans and sweatshirt. "Really?"

I only presented the faux me to them, too. The straight As (that part was true), never talk back, would never dream of sneaking out of the house girl. The "I'll do your laundry and sort your Tupperware cupboard and drive your cat to the vet" kid. It wasn't their fault, really. I had been doing it my whole life, why quit now? How to quit now?

So, as an adult, I just kept going. Followed the rules, tried to be a people pleaser, tried to make him like me. After Emma, it got harder, because I began to care more about how he treated HER than me. I didn't want her to feel like she had to be good to be loved; I didn't want her to feel like less of a grandchild. I really began to see the distance between us then, but what to do?

Eric always said, "You have a dad, a great dad, who loves you and loves the kids. Why can't you just let this go?" And I wondered, why couldn't I? If he called me, why didn't I just let the machine get it? Why did I make efforts that seemed ignored, if not thrwarted? Actions speak louder than words, and there were so many actions that would have added up, if I had been willing to look. But he was my only tie to my grandmother, and that was reason enough to try to make an effort.

Then she was gone. Suddenly, the tone of his voice changed, or maybe it was always that way and now my ears could hear it. New memories popped up, or maybe they'd always been there and now my mind could see them. Lies were told and words were twisted, but maybe that's how it had always been. I had to let it go, but maybe I always should have.

So, what do I tell Emma about her birth family? That their love or attention shouldn't matter; that we are her REAL family? How do I tell her let the "blood" go, when I couldn't for forty years? What is it about blood, that you just can't let it go?

It's Important to Keep the Chocolate Sauce on the Side

I do not want to be Sally Allbright. Remember Sally, from When Harry Met Sally? It took her forever to order a piece of pie, and if you didn't have the right kind of ice cream (on the side), she didn't even want the pie. Seriously, I don't want to turn into her. I don't want to say words like "on the side" and "special order." I don't want to hold up the rest of the line when I make an order at Wendy's. I don't want to go to a restaurant and ask to see the ingredients list of your refried beans. But, alas, here I go.

A few years back, I had a friend from a big city visit us. We were making Mexican, and she opened my fridge and said, "Where's your cilantro?" I was confused. Why would a person keep a "spice" in the fridge? I opened our spice cupboard and said, "Yeah, I don't think we have any. Will parsley do?" I pulled out the little glass container of dried parsley.

I was met with an eye roll, and asked if we had fresh cilantro at our market. Now, I live in a town with two stop lights. And, let's be honest, the one is really just perfunctory. So, my response was, "You mean Ken's Village Market?" (picture a small town grocery store)

What then transpired was a trip to Ken's (no cilantro-shocker!) where my friend harassed no fewer than four Ken's employees while attempting to scrounge up fresh cilantro. She finished with the manager, and I knew I could never step back inside our local grocery store again. That, my friends, is a Sally Allbright.

But, me? No. I refuse. If I ask for no pickles and you give me extra, I'll just pick 'em off. Or maybe I'll even eat them. Who knows, maybe I'll like it. I don't want to be a pain. I don't want to Big City my waitstaff. Sally said, "I want it how I want it." Me? Not really that big of a deal. When it comes to the choice between be kind or be picky, I choose kind every time. Well, I used to.

Now, I am lactose and gluten intolerant. I can have cheddar cheese (Thank you, Lord!), and I can eat our local Dairy Mart junior avalanche if I take FIVE Lactaids (no, you cannot just take one and go on your merry way like those insipid commercials you see on television). But, for the most part, I am screwed. The gluten intolerance is quite bad and even the tiniest bit of wheat in something will send me into agony. Basically, I can have lettuce. If it's washed. With organic water from viriginal unicorn horns.

For example, I went to a reading conference in Lansing last week and just about starved to death. Breakfast: bagels and cream cheese. Lunch: Chicken with creamy sauce, bow tie pasta, and cookies. Oh, and some rice. I did have a lot of rice. Then, as I sat in the afternoon sessions and dealt with stomach pain, I thought, "Oh, I bet that was a rice 'mix' where gluten loves to hide." I finally dredged up the nerve (and hunger) to ask for a piece of chicken without the creamy sauce. The poor waitstaff looked perplexed and said, "Um, it all comes in a big tray. You want me to scrape the sauce off for ya?" I was so mortified. No, absolutely not. If the sauce could be scraped off to my gut's satisfaction, I could do that myself. What's horrible is that the waitress most likely thought I was too finicky to do so.

This morning, Eric and I dropped our kids off at day care (oh, summer day care, you are the love of my life!) and went to the coffee shop in Cheboygan that actually has soy milk or almond milk that you have can added to your drink. This place is Eric's "Cheers." When he walks in, the barista of the day says, "Hey, Eric! Usual?" It is something he loves about teaching in a small town. Today, I Sally Allbrighted all over it.

When we walked in, the barista did say, "Hi, Eric! Bow tie?" and he nodded. As she began his drink, she asked me what I wanted. I said, in as unfussy a voice as I could muster, that I wanted a mocha with almond milk. Not too bad so far. But, then, it happened. She asked me if I wanted 2% like Eric. And, I am sorry to say, I got a little freaky. In my defense, she was pregnant, and I know all about how pregnancy brain can turn you into a goldfish (Hi, have we met? Oh, three seconds ago? Right. Hi! Have we met?). Also, in my defense, 2% milk would reallllllly hurt me, and mocha with almond milk is one of my few joys in life. I began to watch her like a hawk, trying to look like I was scanning various items on the counter. I read the contents of the caramel sauce (a definite no-no for me), of vanilla flavoring (good news--I could have that!), of the bag of gluten free scone mix (gross-seriously-gross).

The poor nice lady disappeared into the cooler and came back out with a carton of Half and Half. I went into frenzy mode. Yes, 2% milk would make me ill, but Half and Half... I'm not sure I'd make it out alive. I nudged Eric, but he didn't get the gesture. My eyes never leaving the barista's hands, I half mumbled to him, "Uh, you're having 2%, right?"

"Yes," he snapped in a hushing tone, trying to quiet his near-tantrum toddler.

"It's, um, the Half and..."

"Oh, I put 2% in his," the barista said, and I''m pretty sure she turned to spit into mine. I wouldn't blame her.

I just nodded, but I never stopped watching, praying that Half and Half never once even got within a drip distance of my cup.

As we left, my sweet Norm Peters and his picky wife (no wonder we never actually saw her in an episode), I knew I'd never be able to go back. Probably Eric can't go back. I've ruined his coffee oasis. I offered to go back in and apologize but, really, that would just make it worse. "You see, I'm lactose intolerant, and.." the words have become so overused, so trite, it just further pushes you into an "on the side" person. But, you know, sometimes it really is important to have the sauce on the side.