You've Changed

So, I really loved the discussion that was sparked by my last couple of posts here. And I had lots and lots I wanted to say and write about it all in the past week or so. But there truly hasn’t been a moment. Spike has been on Spring Break and he started things off by coming home sick from school – an awful galloping fever that lasted a good three days. Then we had Easter roll around, and friends and family visiting for the weekend. Bell’s croupy sounding cough returned, and she went into a serious spin of No one but Mama Will Do! which kept me pretty dang busy. Now Ryan, Spike (again!) and Bell are sick – and as far as I can tell, they have three different illnesses. And Spike’s involves throwing up everywhere. Whee.

The good stuff? Bell started walking yesterday! And by walking, I don’t mean one measly little stumbly step. No – I mean she started trucking. It was sort of like Einstein talking in full sentences once he finally deigned to speak. I think that waiting that extra year or so before she finally became bipedal allowed for her to rocket off once she made the leap (so to speak). She was delighted with herself, too.

Also on the good list? I managed to do a rewrite on a few scenes today from Y – which proved to me that I can parent and work and work and parent and that my brain hasn’t totally melted under the new Mommy strain.

So, speaking of strain? I was in The Bakery (Oh, The Bakery) the other day with Spike and Bell and our friend Danny. And Danny asked Spike how he liked being a big brother. And Spike kind of shrugged and said it was okay, and then he turned to me and said in the most accusatory tone of voice that you only expect to hear from your Mormon Eagle Scout about to be ex boyfriend after he’s caught you stumbling out of strip bar with a tranny hooker on each arm and a dusty 100 dollar bill still hanging out of your nose, “You’ve changed.”

“Moi?”

“You’re a lot grumpier!... And you and Dad are tired all the time!”

Well, true and true. But ouch!

And then later – the kicker – delivered for maximum effect (and picked up from hearing a teenage older brother of a friend of his mortally wound his own mother with these words just days before) in ear shot of sympathetic Danny, “Sometimes you’re the worst Mom in the world!”

For those of you who don’t know me personally – the thing is – Spike and I have always been…close. I mean, it was only a few months back that he was still telling me that I was the most beautiful woman in the world. And the best mother. And the smartest, sweetest, funniest thing he could think of. And that he was always, always, always going to live right here, in this house, with his beautiful, funny, wonderful mother. Even when he was going to college. So the turnaround? Though it may be better for any eventual romantic relationships he might have, She is a bitch.

The thing is – for Spike, the babymoon is way over. This last week was his spring break, and he came home on the last Friday of school with a whopper of a fever – which lasted for days. And what did his mom – who usually would have doted on him and clucked over him, and sat there next to him kissing his sweaty, germy brow, totally unafraid of getting anything he’s got, do? She said, “You can sleep with your dad tonight! I have to go upstairs! The baby is crying!”

Okay- maybe I wasn’t that bad. But that’s basically what it felt like to him, I’m sure. And then the week only got worse from there – Bell is in a bit of a Mommy Craze right now. Like – Mommy must never be out of her sight, and preferably holding her at all times, and if I so much as break eye contact with the girl, she sends out this high pitched, heart rending, ear splitting scream that makes everyone in the room stick their fingers in their ears in agony. And for Spike – who we (our big mistake) had told over and over again that he was surely going to be the baby’s favorite (because every other little girl he’s ever met was immediately and totally charmed by him) her total avoidance of him (unless she’s shoving him away as he tries to kiss or hug or play with her or gets too close to me) is just the cherry on the second banana cake. Not only is Mom being co-opted, but the baby doing all the co-opting isn’t even any fun!

And you know, the thing is – I know this is all normal sibling stuff. I have five billion siblings myself. And, as my step-dad the psychologist never fails to tell me, having a sibling is good for Spike. And I know we're not in a permanent state. Mom is popular this week, but at some point Bell will notice her big brother, and suddenly he will have set the sun into the sky as far as she's concerned, and then he'll be annoyed by all her unending attention. Plus, he has been the apple of our eye for a good, solid eight years of his charmed little life. And, lest I sound like, er, the meanest mom in the world – he still is. I mean, the kid – he is my heart. No doubt about it. So then, what to do, what to do – when this little usurper with long lashes and a wicked grin comes along and wants to drool on mommy’s face all day and keep mommy from answering even the simplest call for attention from her boy?

I know. Mom and Spike time. Long, sweet talks where I reassure him that I love him no less and he will always be my baby. Running to sit and snuggle with him (or play a round of War) as soon as that girl’s head hits the pillow. And I’m doing that. When I can. But it’s hard. Because the baby is total leech right now (a sweet, lovely, funny, cute, adorable leech – but still sucking my life blood, I swear) and she doesn’t nap regularly or seem to have the world’s most predictable schedule. And when she naps – I need to work. Or close my friggin’ eyes for a second. Or enjoy the sweet, sweet feeling of nobody’s little hands tugging at me day and friggin’ night. This mom – she gets touched out. And even when I pass the girl on to Ryan so I can spend a little time with Spike – it’s likely that, at some point, she will suddenly realize that Mama is not in the room, and the heartrending crying will begin, and nothing daddy does can end it. And what are we trying to teach this child if not that she can trust us to answer her needs? Should I let her cry and cry and cry – when all I really want is for her to know that she can count on me to be there for her? So the bedtime stories get snapped shut with no ceremony, and Mama apologizes to her second banana son and hustles out of the room and sends in dad to finish the chapter – who, in this case, is the obvious replacement (not usually. I mean, dad’s just as good as mom when Spike is actually getting his fair share of attention from Mom). And people, it’s only been a month – no one can expect us to be adjusted and to have figured all this out yet! And so – yes. I am the meanest mom in the world. And grumpy. And tired. And still adjusting. And I love my son with all my heart but yes, I am probably snapping at him more. The sound of a baby crying raises my blood pressure way way up. And he is being surly and snotty and whiny in return. Like a mini-teenager. And so the cycle continues.

I’m not really asking for advice here. I know what to do and how to do it. I know this will all settle out soon. I know that Spike has eight good years of solid attention and parenting to draw upon while we go through this trying time. I know that he knows I love him. I know that none of this is a shock to him – that we prepared him up, down and sideways for the kind of drain a new sister was going to take on our household. And yet, I feel really bad for him. I do. And I wish I could have been the one to kiss his sweaty little brow and hold him close all night while he was sick. But if I had been, the baby would have woken up, taken one look at Dad sleeping next to her, and then wailed the whole night through. And she’s much harder to explain things to. And dang it, she needs me right now – and I’m answering that primal call. Still, I know that Spikey needs me, too. And I’ll be a better mom. I swear I will. But in the meantime, maybe he could lighten up on my mothering skills, because, though I’m sure it’s making him feel better to express his emotions, it’s not helping me much at all.

Clarification

You know, it’s funny. Because I actually woke up this morning feeling like I wanted to erase my last post. I felt like I was whining. Or complaining. Or casting myself as hipper-than-thou against those moms in the bakery yesterday. And I’m totally not. They were perfectly cool, nice, intelligent women – people I’m sure I would enjoy spending time with. And I also felt like I was fanning the flames of the mommy wars a little – which I never mean to do. But after I read the comments that were left in response to the post, I guess I’m glad I wrote it. I obviously touched a nerve. But I don’t think I expressed myself quite as well as I wanted to.

Here’s what I want to say about playgroups – and Mom and Me classes – and the rabbit hole of first time motherhood. I want to say… that’s it’s sort of like grad school. That it’s all about the connections you can make. And that I truly, deeply believe that mothers, most especially new mothers- (but, hey, I’ll go out on a limb and say all mothers)- need a community around them. They need support. They need like-minded, understanding women who get what they are going through. And however women get that support – be it through storytime mommy groups, communal parenting, wine and cheese playdates, or merely email – is way more than okay with me. I mean, that’s one of the best, most important, lessons I learned the first time around. That’s what all my work at Hipmama and Mamaphonic and my dang book was all about – community building! And the stark truth that motherhood is rich and wonderful and also hard as hell – but if we band together, and talk truth about it, and support each other, we can not only get through it, but that it can be realized as an art of its own.

I had Spike relatively young, and none of my friends were parents yet, and I was stuck on Staten Island and feeling very alone– and, seriously, I would have killed for a playgroup back in those early months. And the only way I survived was through Hipmama.com – which was essentially a virtual playgroup (and I still see that many, many mothers still rely on the internet to find some release and support. And I certainly still do. I mean- Molly, Linda, Tracie, Stacy…would I have found any of these women without email?) and Hipmama saved my butt (and later gave me a work identity outside of SAHM). I wasn’t suffering being home with Spike – I was actually crazy in love – totally absorbed – way, way, way down the rabbit hole – but I really needed other people around me who understood that. And understood that my days now revolved around naps and nursing and grinding up food. I needed people who wouldn’t turn up their nose at the scent of baby vomit and wet diapers. And I didn’t really have that in the real world until one of my best friends, who happened to live downstairs from me, had her baby boy almost exactly a year after Spike was born. And then, for a while, I was fine. Because really, all I needed was just one person who understood what I was going through, and was available to me almost 24-7 (such a small, small thing to ask!). We met daily. We strapped our baby boys into their Bjorns and walked through the botanical gardens and talked about sore nipples and sleep schedules and laughed about how we were never going to have sex again. And we were happy. And then, for many reasons, I moved. I moved up here. And I didn’t know anyone. And Spike was now 1 and a half. And I now knew enough to know that I needed other moms. So that’s when I joined groups. I marched myself over to the local chapter of La Leche League and I went to a couple of meetings- and that’s all it took to meet my first friend up here, who was an artist and a SAHM, and had a son just a few months younger than Spike, and glory be! lived five minutes down the road from me! I have spent countless hours at her kitchen table. I have had endless conversations about work and motherhood and everything else under the sun with this woman. In fact, I was over at her house two days ago watching her roll a ball around on the floor with my new daughter as our sons ran around outside! And then I joined another group – this one was for Waldorf inclined parents – and it took me about three meetings to realize that I really wasn’t Waldorf inclined – but it only took me one meeting to meet Ellen – who was my age, and got my references, and was funny and sharp, and who had an absolutely delightful little girl who was about six months younger than Spike, – and we saw each other across a crowded room and immediately recognized a kinship. So, see – that’s what I mean about grad school. I got my MFA and met two or three people who really understood my work and gave me great critiques. I joined some mom groups and met two or three people who I honestly liked and wanted to spend time with and who I am still good friends with to this day. And later, of course, after Spike was in school – there was the almighty playdate – a surefire way to meet more friends than I knew what to do with – the way I met some women who I know will truly be in my life for as long as I live. And those people – those women- are so important to me! My life is richer and better and saner and hella more fun because I have them around. So seriously, I’m not knocking the playgroup. And I don’t think, and I don’t want my little sister to think, that story time is The Man.

Because the only reason I can write what I wrote about saying no to story time is because I am firmly on the other side of the abyss. I have lots of friends. I have lots of support. This whole mom thing isn’t new to me. I had some idea what I was in for (both good and bad) when I chose to do this all over again. I can navigate it with some degree of hindsight. And I know that I will need to find some moms who have kids Fang Fang’s age. And I know I will need to find some local families who have been created through international adoption. And I know that I will totally have Molly to lean on in a couple more months. And I know that I have the friends who I have now – almost all of which have children – and they more than get it. And though this shot at motherhood will surely be as transformative as motherhood always is (and motherhood is nothing if not transformative. I am always aghast at the moms-to-be who swear up and down that they will be exactly the same after they have kids) I also know that (and I suppose this what I so inelegantly was trying to get at with yesterday’s post) I don’t have the luxury this time of completely upending my life for my little girl. I mean, all the upending I already did for Spike is still pretty much in place- so she will benefit from that. But I am honestly just flailing a little right now – because not only do I have this incredible new baby – I also have some incredible work opportunities to negotiate. And I would be an idiot if I didn’t take advantage of them. And with Spike, I put everything like that aside. I turned my back on my work for a while. And I have never regretted that. I can honestly say that I did exactly what I wanted to do when I surrendered to being pretty much solely a mom for a while. I can honestly say that I came back as a better writer – that I had a stronger sense of self, and a whole lot of material - once I had time on my hands again. But this time I’m going to have to do things differently - I’m going to have to find a better balance. And that’s my struggle. It’s not with the moms at the bakery. It’s not with story time. I’m not thinking about this as Us vs. Them at all. It’s just Me vs. Me. Simple as that. And that’s truly hard enough.

Right, Wrong, Weak, Strong!

I have been reading a lot of that great philosopher Sandra Boynton lately. Specifically, her book entitled “Opposites.” And while it can’t touch her classic, “Moo, Baa, La La La” it does elucidate the way two opposing forces can come together to make a whole. Witness this passage: “In and Out. Whisper and SHOUT!” Or this poetic and intriguing (albeit a bit ageist) idea: “Hot and Cold. Young and Old.”

Okay. Enough of that. I do like Sandra Boynton, though . And she is proving to be as popular (i.e. “read it again, Mama! And again! And again!”) with Bell as she was with Spike when he was in his toddlerhood.

Today I called up my friend Ellen who has two kids who are sort of close in age to Bell and Spike and gave her a last second invitation to the New Paltz Bakery. I have discovered that getting out of the house sometime after Bell eats her second breakfast (don’t ask) has become pretty much necessary for my mental health. Unfortunately, since it was pissing rain this morning (a lovely state of weather that I don’t mind at all when I can lounge around in front of the fire with a good book and a cup of tea - but sheer torture when you have a two year old who needs to go outside) it was a matter of finding somewhere to meet which was both child friendly and not outdoors. Hence, The Bakery. And apparently, every other mother of a toddler in New Paltz had the same idea. It was mayhem in there – babies, babies everywhere. And at first I thought that maybe it would be over-stimulating to Bell – but she trucked on over to the make-believe child sized bakery and stood, glued to the side of the make believe sink, and watched all the other 2 year olds (all boys, strangely) hurl themselves around (and eventually bang on her fingers and clock her in the head with a wooden block) and fold themselves into the make believe cabinets and shove wooden bread and pizza at each other. I think she misses the brouhaha of her orphanage. I think she felt at home with all these kids and all the activity. And it was all I could do to shove some cream of cauliflower soup (I told you, this girl will eat anything) into her mouth now and again. She was really into the scene.

The moms there were perfectly nice, too. They were living The Life. The life I remember and recognize from when Spike was wee. Storytime at the library. Cookies and coffee and organic juice at the bakery. Hanging around until nap time, trying to get some adult conversation in with the other moms in between feeding the kids and breaking up fights and saving your trapped toddler who has wedged himself into the cabinet (true story) – not really wanting to go home because home is dusty and messy and there are a lot of old cheerios crunching underfoot and piles of laundry on every flat surface, and so many things to catch up on. And you know – it’s all worth it – and you do it – you live the life of interrupted conversation and not very good baked goods and lukewarm tea, of wiping snot with your bare hand, and never having a clean shirt on for more than ten minutes in the morning, and peeing with someone sitting on your lap – you do it because it’s worth the babies smiles and snuggles and giggles and the sweetness of their hot little breath against your neck as they sleep against your chest. You do it for them, of course – because nature programmed you to do it. And they are cute for a reason (we maybe would not do this for hairy, middle aged men with beer guts) and they bat their big eyes up at us and call us Mommy and we melt. So we do it. But when the nice mommy of the little boy who was kissing on Bell (and would later throw a block at her head) chatted me up and invited me to storytime – I just had an all over, total body response of “Nooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” No. I don’t want to do story time. No. I don’t want to do playgroups. No. I don’t want to find my tribe of other mommies and wile away our afternoons sitting on the floor, ready to pry open a tiny hand from someone else’s tiny hank of hair. I did this all once. I lived The Life. I did it with true dedication with baby Spike. When it was still novel and new and I had just learned that moms need other moms and that mothering toddlers can be tedious and that I could drink unending cups of tea. And it’s not that I resent the actual parenting part of all this – I am doing just fine Mommying my daughter. She’s got a good, committed, knowledgeable and happy mother, who is there for her every squeak and giggle. I mean, I’m only writing this now because she’s right next to me asleep on the bed. It’s not the mother part that I feel resistant to. It’s not my closeness or commitment to her that gets under my skin and itches. It’s the way the mothering thing completely engulfed my persona last time. It’s the way that I didn’t get a word (except for journals, I guess) onto the page for about two years after Spike was born. It’s the way that I actively, and excitedly, searched out all these other moms – and we happily spun our days out of veggie booty and nursing bras and wading pools. I - and maybe this is the cry of the second time mother (because I could see this same sentiment in Ellen’s eyes – herself the mom of two) – just can’t see doing it that way again. And I loved it the first time. I was happy in my Mom-pod. And I totally signed up for a mommy and me music class just this morning! But this time I want to charge forward with less dedication to my identity as a mother and nothin’ but a mother – and find a way to work, too. To visit with my dear mom friends (and Molly – I’m talkin’ to you) and spend my afternoons watching the kids play – but somehow also manage to… I don’t know – stir things together better? Allow myself to be as much of a mom as I was to Spike (and seriously –I was MOM) and still find some way to not just be MOM? I don’t know. Maybe I’m wanting something impossible – to be a fully there mom and still find time for other things, too. But when you have a second child, not only has the novelty of mothering disappeared (though I suppose it returns in a different form because you are, after all, parenting a different child) but it’s impossible to be as completely engrossed by the situation. Just by the nature of already having one child – you can’t fall down the same rabbit hole that took you the first time. Spike still needs me – and he has a fully formed life that I can’t (and wouldn’t want to) ignore. There is necessarily less catering to this second child – more of a wish that she will just come along on the ride, instead of letting her drive the whole dang car.

And I suspect that it’s equally beautiful both ways. I suspect there are negatives and positives to both versions of babyhood. And I suspect that, although a few things will be different, a lot of things I did with Spike will carry over to what I do with Fang Fang. And I can already tell that this time will go even faster than my time with Spike did. And I know that I will blink my eyes and have a 14 year old son and an eight year old daughter and a thriving career and maybe not the biggest crowd of friends who have children the same age as Bell.

Because I don’t think I’m going to Storytime, okay? I think I will hold off on that.

Managing

(This picture is from years ago - just after Spike was born. It's not quite so dire right now).

So, today is the first day Ryan is back at work, and though I spent a fairly sleepless night (helped along by Bell kicking me in the stomach every so often) fretting over it, so far things haven’t been a total disaster. I managed to get Bell up and dressed and fed, and then Spike up and dressed and fed (he’s on spring break – which allows me to ease into this new Mama situation a little more than if he was in school) and then I even got me up and fed and dressed (no mean feat – Bell had to hang out on the bathroom floor for my two minute morning shower). I even did the dishes (a fact that is probably making my husband gasp in astonishment right now, and say “Wait a minute! If she can do dishes with the baby in the room – how come I did all those dishes these last two weeks??”). After we all ate and put on clothes, we bundled up even more and took the dog for a short walk (she can’t handle very long walks anymore because she tore the ligaments in one of her back knees. Poor doggy). It’s almost spring. We’re so close. There was that classic mixture of mud with flowers of ice on the ground – and the air was just warm enough not to wear gloves. I love walking in the woods with Fang Fang – I love thinking about the fact that all this nature is new to her (I’m not sure there was any kind of outside play space for the kids in Changzhou, and I suspect, from the way she beams whenever we get outside, that she basically never got out of the orphanage). After our walk, we came back here and had lunch (my life is a never ending series of meals) and read Hand, Hand, Fingers, Thumb! a few dozen times, and got the mail and received three HUGE boxes of hand me down clothes from the inestimable Emme Lu and her dear Mama SBird (seriously- it was like Christmas. Totally insane) and then I put on Stevie Wonder, and somewhere in the middle of Isn’t She Lovely? Bell fell asleep for her afternoon nap. Which is the only reason I am writing anything right now. Because the girl is sleeping.

Y and I are meeting with managers this week. We feel like it’s time to be managed. It is not ideal that I am here, and Y and the managers are in L.A. – but I am making phone calls and standing around in my downstairs bedroom trying to sound mildly professional while Ryan tickles the baby and manages the boy in other rooms. We have great people we’re meeting with (which is good, because they are meeting with us because they like our work) and I’m excited to find just the right person. Someone who not only knows the business and can guide us through our careers, but someone who, (as Y put it) I would want to have over for dinner as well. We have been very lucky so far in our choice of agents and lawyers – and this manager should complete the triad we need to have a long and successful career. It’s amazing to me that we’ve come this far. This time last year we were putting the finishing touches on our first script – wondering if we were deluding ourselves, wondering if anyone would even like it – and here we are a year later, talking with our agent about managers, punching up our second script, and halfway deep into our third. I love my work. I love working with Y. I can’t wait to see this all really take off.

With spring around the corner, I feel like there is a million things to get done. The gardens need to be cleaned out and fed, the house needs cleaning (oh lordy, does it ever need cleaning) and airing, there are various projects and necessary fix-its that need tending to, friends I haven’t even had a chance to see since we got back from China, thank you notes to write, doctor and dentist appointments to schedule.... Easter this weekend and then Fang Fang’s second birthday the weekend after that! And of course, it is time for me to start working again soon. Not just taking meetings, but actually getting back down to putting words on the screen. And it’s like I’m doing all this left handed with my eyes closed, it’s like I’m rusty and squeaky and need to figure out how to begin again, because there is this new little person in the house – one who looks up at me so imploringly and claps so cutely to get my attention – one that I just can’t resist when she signs “More Read Book”, one who seemingly needs to eat every five minutes, one who throws out her arms for hugs and giggles. And sometimes I think I could just cast everything else aside- the hell with work and cleaning and responsibility! I’m going to spend all my time snuggling with her sweet face! But that would be unwise, to say the least. And I honestly not only want to work again – but need to work. And I know I can find a way to get in those snuggles and still write a good line of dialogue here and there. I did it before. I can do it again. Babies and writing are not, as some people might have you believe, mutually exclusive.

The first golden crocus opened yesterday. Spring is right around the corner. And it is the year of the Rat – which is my year. And my daughter sleeps sweetly next to me as I write. And my son is bumping around in his bedroom upstairs. The dog snores. I can see a patch of blue sky from here. It is time to jump back into things. It is time to start working again.

Bell Gets Comfortable

Though the jet lag continues to kick our asses - things are getting better and better.  Bell is relaxing and maybe even seems to know that she is home for good now.  Today she spent the day exploring her new environment.  She played her brother's drums (I think she has exquisite rhythm) enjoyed her brother's bath (apparently baths are great if she is fully dressed and having one from outside the tub) met one of her brother's best friends Mattison, and generally spent the day busy and happy and cheerful.  She is babbling non-stop.  She now has a vocabulary of four signs ("More, Eat, Milk, and Water") and is adding more every day.  She slips into sleep easily.  She eats and eats and eats.  And smiles and smiles.  And laughs and plays and hugs and kisses.   I don't want to jinx anything by saying that it's all going so incredibly smoothly, but... 

Oh, and I think that what I assumed was a fistula in her palate repair is actually a hole left there on purpose that will be fixed when she gets the cleft in her gums done when she is four or five.  Apparently surgeons generally leave a space at the front of the child's mouth so that her gums are able to grow as she grows.  Of course, I won't know for certain until we see the plastic surgeon next week - but this could be great news indeed.  It could mean that her repair was entirely successful!

 

She really is the most joyful, smart, funny little girl. 

I want to add, because I haven't had time to answer many emails or make many calls yet - that we have so, so appreciated everyone's great comments and emails and words of support that have been pouring in as we have gone through this process.  Every morning in China we would wake up and read all the wonderful things that everyone had to say.  I save every word and I know that someday Fang Fang will read them all and it will be such an amazing thing to see how many people out there were watching this journey, and cheering her on. 

Also, special big thanks to Aunties Gina and Ren who stayed through the weekend and cooked and cleaned for us and held Fang Fang's hand as she went up and down the stairs fifty million times, and doted on their nephew, and were just generally fun to have around.  I am very grateful to have sisters (all of them - even the ones who couldn't be here yet).  And even bigger thanks goes to Auntie Ren for all her devoted posting to the blog while we were in China.  We couldn't have made our way around the Great Firewall of China and shared the journey with everyone if Ren hadn't been willing to receive our emails and pictures and sort them all out and post them to the blog - all while she was being a busy college student - so big huge huzzahs to devoted and faithful Auntie Ren the Tireless Blog Poster!

  

When I have the time, I will write a post on the differences between adopting a child and having one biologically - and, obviously, there are some - especially on a purely practical level - but I just want to say now that, for me, emotionally - there is no difference.  I am being as plain and honest as I can possibly be when I say that the moment this little girl was put into my arms I was overwhelmed with all the same familiar feelings that came to me when her newborn brother was placed squirming onto my chest eight years ago.  And that the instant, ferocious, all consuming mother love washed over me just like it did back then.  Ryan and I were talking about this today - I asked him if he felt any differences between our two children - how the process is going for him - and he said, "Loving her?  That's the easiest thing in the world." 

 

HOME

I am lying here in my own bed, in my own home, there is a foot of new snow on the ground that fell last night, the morning light is filtering soft gold through my curtains, and my daughter is sleeping right next to me.

Her hair is damp and her face is flushed – I think the nightgown I put on her is a little too warm - but her breathing is peaceful and even, and when she woke up last night (at, er, midnight – we have been up for hours) she gave me a beaming smile, patted my face, and then crawled over and tweaked her baba’s nose.

The trip home started out a little less than ideally. We had a very early flight out of Guangzhou. We needed to leave the White Swan by 5:30 a.m. (which meant a 4:30 wake up call. Ugh) and for reasons I still don’t entirely understand, we didn’t have the transportation we had arranged with the hotel the night before, plus we didn’t have our guide to help us fix things. So we, along with little Mia’s family, ended up scrambling around – finally hiring a van and a taxi to take us (and our mountain of luggage) to the airport. Luckily, our van and taxi drivers were speed demons, and we made it to the airport in plenty of time. The rest of the journey home was incredibly wearisome, but uneventful. We traveled out of Guangzhou to Hong Kong, where we switched planes. Then we had a long slog of a fifteen hour flight back to Newark. We were lucky and were assigned bulkhead seats (ask for them, my soon to be traveling friends! They were invaluable!) and so we were able to make a little makeshift playpen at our feet by piling up our carry-on bags (once the plane had taken off) on either side and filling the space in between with toys and drifting cheerios. Because this girl? She does not like to be restrained in any way – and fifteen hours on our laps might have been crazy making (we did buy a seat for her- but that was a total waste because we were traveling with four, and apparently our seats weren’t reserved - so we were basically given three seats together and a fourth seat three rows back in the middle. Grrrr. Total waste). Fang Fang did really well – slept for about six hours at first, and then woke up and was generally cheerful and happy to hang out in our little play space – but the last twenty minutes, when we descended into Newark, were terrible. I think her ears really hurt, and she wouldn’t take a bottle (and all the people surrounding me who were giving me well meaning advice like, “She needs to suck on something!” did not help) and she screamed inconsolably. Poor little bunny. Anyway – after that was the 1 and a half car ride home – which she actually did very well with. I thought she would hate the car seat – but actually, she seemed to enjoy the view, and as long as I handed her either food or toys, she was content to be strapped in.

Before I write about her actual homecoming, I want to touch on our American consulate appointment the day before. We were all herded into a big room (which reminded me of nothing so much as it reminded me of a bank. Or maybe a post office.) and a young, earnest, I think maybe lonely, Midwestern American man got up and started what honestly sounded like a supper club comedy routine along the lines of, “How many of you folks are from Missouri today? No Missourians? How about the Midwest? Yes, raise your hands folks!” etc etc. It was a little strange. There were about fifty families in that room, all with their new babies in hand and their coveted paperwork (don’t open or break the seal!) in hand and we all patiently listened to his strange little monologue while dandling our babies on our knees. Eventually he stopped monologuing and got to the point – we all stood and raised our right hand and swore that all the information we had provided was true and factual (somehow in my mind I had thought that this was the point where we would be taking an oath of loyalty to the USA for our children – but it was nothing of the sort, and actually we never did any such thing) and then he said, “Okay – your work here is done!” and we all applauded and some people got a little teary – but I have to say that moment actually came for me later – after we finally made it through Newark customs – when I was holding this exhausted bundle of child and we were pushing our mountain of bags and I was so tired I could hardly see straight – and they broke the seal on the envelope, and then waved us through. Then I got tears in my eyes. Then I felt like the whole process was over.

The first thing that greeted us when we finally arrived at the house was our cat Fluffy. The aunties were off grocery shopping and all our luggage was piled in the driveway (we took a car service home) and our cat popped out of the garage window and came running toward us at full speed. (I think he thinks he’s a dog with all a dog’s attendant duties). Bell, who loved to look at his mao picture in the photo book we sent her at the orphanage- absolutely froze in my arms. They had told me that she had never seen a live animal before, and I think she was totally flabbergasted to see this rolling (he rolls on his back when he sees us) fluffy, weird looking thing meowing up at us. We knelt down, and he jumped into my lap, and started to lick Fang Fang’s hand and she jerked it away like he had sunk his teeth into her finger. But she didn’t cry. Nor did she cry when she saw the big, friendly Rottweiler who came wagging out of the house, or the two other cats, or even, ten minutes later, her two completely beaming aunties (who did an amazing job of greeting Spike first and fawning over him before they even got to Fang Fang). She just clung to her mama like the water was rising around us – but she didn’t completely shut down or freak out – and actually, within fifteen or twenty minutes, she had worked up her courage to run her hand over the cat (and would graduate to shoving them away if they got too close later) had briefly been held by both aunties, and a couple hours later she was basking in auntie attention and laughing and smiling (but still wanting Mama to hold her) and throwing cheerios at the dog who was so funny because she eats everything you throw at her, Mom!

We showed her her room (she loves her baby dolls! She totally sat down and poured over each other their faces – poking eyes and nose and mouth over and over with her little fingers) and Spike’s room, and before I knew it she was cruising through the house like she owns the place (which, let’s face it, she does) insisting that someone hold her hand so she could climb the stairs one more time. Oh Lordisa – I forgot how babies love stairs. And repetition. And repetition. And repetition. I really never should have bought that elliptical machine because keeping up with this child will be work out enough for certain. She was quite taken with the woodstove and the roaring fire within – but after a sharp “Yao bu yao! Bu! From me (and I know that means more like “I don’t want that! No!” than “don’t touch” but it seemed to do the trick. Or maybe she just froze in place because she was pondering what the hell her mother was trying to tell her about the blue chicken and the price of grain…) she stopped trying to put her hand on it.

 

The aunties cleaned the house from top to bottom (and I will be forever grateful for this kindness) and made us delicious sandwiches, and doted on their niece and nephew and did the dishes after we all fell asleep at various points in the evening (Bell fell asleep so quietly in my arms while I was talking to my dad on the phone that I didn’t even realize it for a good ten minutes or so). There was a small pile of presents waiting for us on the dining room table – treasures for Bell and Spike and even me (late birthday present from Singing Bird) and it was like a tiny xmas as Bell held on to her new spinning light up princess wand (thanks Auntie Mary!) and I admired my new earrings, and Spike tore through paper to get at his new science experiment. Later we unpacked some of the piles of things we brought home from China and I gave the aunties their gifts – which was satisfying and fun (and there will be gifts going out to all sorts of people over the next couple of weeks. We did some extremely fun last minute shopping on Shamian Island). Then Bell and I went to sleep at 8, and Ryan and Spike made it through to 10:30, and then Bell got back up at midnight – and so did I. And Spike was up by 2 in the morning, (just when the aunties were going to bed, actually) and then Ryan got up around 4:30 or 5 – we spent the day sorting through stuff - Ryan cleaned off her little wooden oven (used to be Spike’s and I was using it to store cookbook overflow) in the kitchen,  and Spike chatting on the phone to his best friends- so happy to be able to tell them about China (or maybe describe what great levels he conquered in video games. Sigh), and feeding the kids (Bell finally got a chance to sit in a highchair and make as much of a mess as she liked double fisting her spoons and dipping into her food with her hands and face. Hooray for no longer being in a hotel where some level of appropriate manners are expected!) and traveling to the grocery store (she hates the car seat now. Sigh. And she was totally awed by the store – just sort of wide eyed and silent as I pushed her around in the grocery cart – like, look at all this food!) and napping on and off, and now, as I write this (a day or so has passed since I started) it is 8:30 at night and everyone, including the aunties who are dozing in the living room in front of the Yao bu yao! Fire – are fast asleep again. We’ll see if we have a repeat performance of the midnight awakening tonight. Ladies and gentlemen, jet lag is a bit of a bitch.

I had a moment of clarity in the midst of the muddle headed toddler mama jet lagged brain sizzle I’ve been in since we arrived home, when, after the umpteenth million time helping Bell climb the stairs (build those little leg muscles, child!) we went into her little room, and she squatted down on the floor to play with some blocks, and I sat down next to her, and I realized that I was sitting in the same spot I had sat so many nights in a row – thinking on this elusive daughter of mine who was across the world from me, trying desperately to connect with this little being through the room I had made for her, filled with longing, and wondering what she was doing, what she was like, what she smelled like, if she was okay – and then all of the sudden – here she was! Right in front of me! In the room! Stacking blocks! It practically made me swoon. Because of course, it was all better than I had ever even imagined. She was more lovely, more loving, more my daughter than I ever knew she could be. She was more real in all her demands to climb the stairs one more time – in her dislike of apple sauce – in her hilarity at throwing food at the dog, in her fierce little fit of anger at being strapped into the car seat, filling out the little clothes I had carefully chosen and hung up for her while I was waiting to hold in her in my arms. All the things that have been waiting for her – suddenly brought to life by her tiny body and huge and overwhelming spirit. The house has changed. Our lives have changed. She is finally here.