But they're tears of joy!
Nearly a year and a half ago, the stork (who was disguised as a New Jersey state social worker) delivered an adorable 10-day-old baby to the home of an old friend. Since then, she's been doing everything that I do -- kisses and Cheerios, baba's and gaga's, ear infections and Netflix -- EXCEPT, at the same time, she's also been waging this terrific fight with terrible bureaucracy to make sure he never, ever leaves her (until Harvard comes calling.)
Anyway, the other week, I got an email from this friend, and it said:
"After rushing to get there, we had to wait. For nearly two hours. Yep. There were several other families ahead of us. Nicholas and Cooper ate cookies. They ran up and down the hallway. They looked for trains. They climbed on chairs. The Little Dude was wearing new pants, which turns out, were too loose in the waist. Every time he ran, the pants fell down to his knees.
"Meanwhile, I was sweating, thirsty and kept running to the bathroom. I was so anxious; it felt like I was in a sauna.
"Finally it was our turn. At that moment, walking into the courtroom, with him in my arms, I was happy. Relieved and happy. For days leading up to the adoption, everyone kept asking me: 'Aren’t you happy?' And I kept saying, 'Not yet.
“'Now I am happy,' I announced to everyone in the courtroom."
Hooray!
The little guy, who is so obviously her baby, somehow found his way to her house last winter. HOW DID THAT HAPPEN? Was it just good luck? (I mean, I KNOW he came in a CAR, people, but I'm talking about the whole meta-journey here...) Then, together, they somehow found their way through the mountains of administrative crap that the state uses to torture, kill and then bury foster parents with. And now, finally, finally, finally, everybody knows what the two of them have known all along: He is her son.
Sniff, sniff. It made me cry last week and today, writing about it, I'm crying all over again! Which just proves that there is something wrong with me and it's probably some kind of post-traumatic stress disorder.
Then, yesterday, I got another email that made me cry. This time from Auntie Pamela. For months, I have been keeping tabs on one of her colleagues, who has been pregnant with a baby with half a heart. Well, that little lady has arrived, and she is beautiful, and she going to grow up and be FINE.
Pamela reminds that my babies are FINE too. But, of course, I can't help but think that they might not have been. And I don't know how we got so lucky either. (This is turning into my post-Thanksgiving post...and, if you've read this far, I really hand it to you.)
It was almost exactly a year ago that the maternal-fetal medicine at Washington Hospital Center accepted my emergency visit, showed me the 5 centimeters of fluid around Baby A and the 2 cm around Baby B, and said, "Enjoy your Thanksgiving. They'll be fine through the weekend."
Last winter was crazy. Last Christmas was crazy. I remember struggling to button my flannel Mimi Maternity shirt, and my sister saying, "I swear! You've gotten bigger since you got here!" And she was delighted because she thought it was all good baby stuff, and I was sweating because I knew it was oh-so-not-normal. At the worst, Margaret had 12-plus centimeters of fluid and Josephine had 0.5.
Over!!! That's over! I hear you, Pamela! And thank you for reminding me.
Every day, I think -- they're amazing! They're like little elves. They burble and hop and, even Margaret when she wakes me up at 4 a.m., clutching the rail of her crib, and babbling and grinning, "Hieee! Die, die, baba!" -- they make me smile all the way to my stuck-together toes. Their warm little bellies! The way they hang onto my neck like monkeys. (The way they pull the short hairs...aaah! Not so great!)
Lucy, too. I take her a little for granted, I fear, but she's my biggest baby of all. (Except for David. Ha.)
It's angels, kiddos. Angels and ghosts and elves and babies.
Sigh...That's enough of that, isn't it?
Some pictures to reward the good readers:
This is Margaret, looking for food...
And, this is Josephine, looking for a bargain...
And Lucylu, looking very much like her father:
Anyway, the other week, I got an email from this friend, and it said:
"After rushing to get there, we had to wait. For nearly two hours. Yep. There were several other families ahead of us. Nicholas and Cooper ate cookies. They ran up and down the hallway. They looked for trains. They climbed on chairs. The Little Dude was wearing new pants, which turns out, were too loose in the waist. Every time he ran, the pants fell down to his knees.
"Meanwhile, I was sweating, thirsty and kept running to the bathroom. I was so anxious; it felt like I was in a sauna.
"Finally it was our turn. At that moment, walking into the courtroom, with him in my arms, I was happy. Relieved and happy. For days leading up to the adoption, everyone kept asking me: 'Aren’t you happy?' And I kept saying, 'Not yet.
“'Now I am happy,' I announced to everyone in the courtroom."
Hooray!
The little guy, who is so obviously her baby, somehow found his way to her house last winter. HOW DID THAT HAPPEN? Was it just good luck? (I mean, I KNOW he came in a CAR, people, but I'm talking about the whole meta-journey here...) Then, together, they somehow found their way through the mountains of administrative crap that the state uses to torture, kill and then bury foster parents with. And now, finally, finally, finally, everybody knows what the two of them have known all along: He is her son.
Sniff, sniff. It made me cry last week and today, writing about it, I'm crying all over again! Which just proves that there is something wrong with me and it's probably some kind of post-traumatic stress disorder.
Then, yesterday, I got another email that made me cry. This time from Auntie Pamela. For months, I have been keeping tabs on one of her colleagues, who has been pregnant with a baby with half a heart. Well, that little lady has arrived, and she is beautiful, and she going to grow up and be FINE.
Pamela reminds that my babies are FINE too. But, of course, I can't help but think that they might not have been. And I don't know how we got so lucky either. (This is turning into my post-Thanksgiving post...and, if you've read this far, I really hand it to you.)
It was almost exactly a year ago that the maternal-fetal medicine at Washington Hospital Center accepted my emergency visit, showed me the 5 centimeters of fluid around Baby A and the 2 cm around Baby B, and said, "Enjoy your Thanksgiving. They'll be fine through the weekend."
Last winter was crazy. Last Christmas was crazy. I remember struggling to button my flannel Mimi Maternity shirt, and my sister saying, "I swear! You've gotten bigger since you got here!" And she was delighted because she thought it was all good baby stuff, and I was sweating because I knew it was oh-so-not-normal. At the worst, Margaret had 12-plus centimeters of fluid and Josephine had 0.5.
Over!!! That's over! I hear you, Pamela! And thank you for reminding me.
Every day, I think -- they're amazing! They're like little elves. They burble and hop and, even Margaret when she wakes me up at 4 a.m., clutching the rail of her crib, and babbling and grinning, "Hieee! Die, die, baba!" -- they make me smile all the way to my stuck-together toes. Their warm little bellies! The way they hang onto my neck like monkeys. (The way they pull the short hairs...aaah! Not so great!)
Lucy, too. I take her a little for granted, I fear, but she's my biggest baby of all. (Except for David. Ha.)
It's angels, kiddos. Angels and ghosts and elves and babies.
Sigh...That's enough of that, isn't it?
Some pictures to reward the good readers:
This is Margaret, looking for food...
And, this is Josephine, looking for a bargain...
And Lucylu, looking very much like her father:
posted by Mary Ellen at
8:18 AM
4 Comments:
Three very distinctive, very beautiful little ladies.
Four years ago next week, the caseworkers gave us our daughter. Meta-journey: what a great phrase. You have a beautiful family.
They're all fine and wonderful and will grow up to be good members of society. Except Josephine, if she does indeed turn out to be a psycho killer. Although prisoners can also contribute to society in meaningful ways.
Aw! You wrote about me and Nicholas!! (I had to cancel Netflix though. I never have time to watch a whole movie. Wahhh.)
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