Humbugged & Bothered

In lieu of my 2018 holiday card, I posted a mostly light-hearted blog on December 20. Seven days later I’m writing a post in progress on how much this time of year sucks. (Thanksgiving is and will likely always be my favorite holiday.) Funny how the emotions of a woman in her mid-40s can fluctuate. 

Label it hormonal. Label it middle age. Label it the holiday blues or seasonal affect disorder. Label me Ebenezer Spice or the Grinch(ette), but right at this very moment I don’t give a flying fruitcake. 

Because what I’m labeling it is real. 

Maybe it isn’t real for you, you or you over there in Everything’s Coming Up Rosesville, but it’s real for me … again at this very moment: Thursday, December 27, 1:44 p.m. (EST). And for the record, we even got a puppy for Christmas! (Okay, maybe technically not for Christmas, but the weekend of Thanksgiving, when the pressures and preparations of Christmas were already beginning to bubble and roil.) 

A new puppy is only one of the many things (living and nonliving) I have to be thankful for. I am not a religious person, but I do my best to count my blessings every day for all that I have and have been given—especially the amazing people in my life. (Some of whom will possibly keep reading and still probably like me. Somewhat.) And yes, if you must know, I often look to the heavens while expressing said gratitude. The point is, I am cognizant of and respectful of how lucky I am. 

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It's Friday, December 28, 3:09 p.m. (EST) and I’m feeling a touch less glum ... grumpy ... gweduck. (Gweduck is a word. It’s an alternate of geoduck, but nevertheless a word defined as a very large, burrowing, edible clam. Nails my present mood!) What I probably need for continued mood elevation is a good-natured talking to or a spinach salad with a light vinaigrette. Maybe both. Yes! What I need is somebody to constructively criticize me while my mouth is stuffed with leafy greens. 

Or maybe what I really need is Bob Ross on roids. Because let me paint you a hasty picture of what’s on my mind:

I need a vacation to anyplace sunny. Not necessarily warm, but sunny, or I'll settle for one one-hundredth of a percent less bleak than the filthy tube sock of a sky I’m gazing at through the den window. Then again, who needs vitamin D when you’ve got an artificial Christmas tree adorned with several tangled strands of multi-colored lights, crowned with a single strand of purple lights your daughter insisted absolutely, positively must top the whole festive business? Tradition or protocol be damned, I might go right ahead and leave ‘er up ’til March. Or maybe, per tradition or protocol, I’ll rejoice in the opportunity to take down the sweet old gal all by myself this year! Why the fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la not?! I am quite skilled at single-handedly dismantling, organizing and hauling shiny-happy-heavy decorations to my basement. Sure, it’s a far cry from trekking Antarctica solo, but some might say I am truly winning the race at putting the wrap on Christmas. 

While we’re on the subject of vacations, let me say how much I love hearing about your trip-of-a-lifetime travels to Maui, Melbourne, Milan, Madrid, Mumbai and more! The pictures are truly stunning. (Seriously, I do appreciate the globe-trotting posts and pictures, but forgive me when I say if I have to see one more shot of you snorkeling with a pod of baby orcas or you dining on espresso and cheese croquettes in gay Paris, I might blow up your feed with pics of me in yoga pants ingesting our remaining stash of holiday truffles and eggnog. All the way from our beautiful, over-budget shower in Portage, Michigan!)  

Now that I’ve rained on your vacay humblebragging, I’ll pivot to gifting. If I tell you my husband and I don’t buy each other Christmas gifts, I mean my husband and I don’t buy each other Christmas gifts. Repeatedly asking me about it isn’t going to change that fact or guilt me into buying him Hugo Boss Bottled Tonic. If you want to buy your significant other something for the holidays—tiny or monumental, tailor made or off the rack—by all means, spoil him or her rotten. Please don’t chuckle nervously, laugh outwardly, tsk-tsk, avert your eyes, hint at a head shake, or otherwise worry your pretty little heads privately or publicly about our empty stockings. 

Re: our daughter’s holiday haul, Santa and our entire family delivered! Four minutes and twenty-six seconds later she asked if she could look at our phones. Or watch these two darling siblings on YouTube make tub after tub after tub of glitter slime. The good news is, she’ll have a ton of brand spanking new stuff to play with by summer (give or take). 

Before I bid you fare-the-well and hap-hap-happiest of New Year’s, let me add I respectfully decline your leftover baked goods, your perfectly prepared roast beast, your hot dips (because none will compare to my book club’s), your jellies and figgy puddings, and your candied yams. Do NOT take it personally! (Really, don’t.) It isn’t you. It's me. Trust me when I say I can always eat another bite and it pains me to waste food. If possible, donate to those who really need your surplus bounty. 

Negative Nancied or Debbie Downered out yet? I promise my next post will contain at least one ample serving of unicorns and rainbows. 

I give you unicorns and rainbows. (For real, this was awesome.)

The older I grow, the more I’m beginning to understand how this season isn’t chock full o’ holly jolly for one and all, and sometimes that one and all includes me. Stress, anxiety, depression, insomnia, loneliness, sadness, loss, or as lame as it sounds, I’m-So-Over-It-Ness are legit side effects. And you or someone you love shouldn’t have to simply lighten up or get over it or grin and bear it, or nod and wistfully wink your cares away. 

If you’re experiencing I’m-So-Over-It-Ness (or any or all the above realities), hang in there. Consider this a fist bump followed by a Christmas tree followed by a wrapped gift followed by a Mrs. Clause followed by a thumbs up from me to you.

Happy (really) Almost New Year! 

Xoxo,

Amie

In Lieu of Your 2018 Holiday Card, Please Accept This Ramshackle Post and Photo of Us Wearing Semi-Nautical Attire (Not Pictured: Ava [Daughter, Age 7], Charlotte [German Shorthair Mix, Pushing 11], Squirt [Terrier Mix, 6-months-ish]

A few words of gratitude, gibberish and gripe: 

1.) There may be nothing more terrifying than finding a latex unicorn mask dangling from the end of your flag pole. Yet this unexpected gift has brought oodles of magic and joy to our household. Cheers to our thoughtful neighbors! (You know who you are.) 

Totes adorbs. 

2.) Puppies aren't the same as babies, but they are still baby animals. While they’re adorable, they also keep you up at night, put everything in their mouths, and urinate and defecate on your floor (sometimes peering over their haunches at you with something resembling a smile).

3.) Elegant twinkling lights. Gaudy decorations. Snow on Christmas. No snow in April. Holiday gatherings with friends and family. A few precious moments alone locked in a bathroom with boozy eggnog (I may be coming around a smidgeon on eggnog). Chestnuts roasting on an open fire. Almonds you burnt in the oven for the damn appetizer you were supposed to bring to your in-laws.

4.) A minor stomach bug before (not during) Christmas. Fingers crossed.

5.) Broken pinky fingers on young children heal quickly. They also stink (literally [I dare you to smell your kid’s hand after three weeks of snug enclosure within a cast] and metaphorically [no swimming for three weeks]). 

6.) YouTube videos of kids opening presents, eating food or making slime. Dolls or stuffed animals hidden inside glitter, gelatinous substances, bath bombs and various sizes of plastic orbs. I don’t get it, but recognize I’ll be sad when my daughter a.) moves on to INSERT “MATURE” ALTERNATIVES and b.) stops caring whether I get it. 

7.) I love running outdoors when it gets cold outside. My 46-year-old body doesn’t love running outdoors when it gets cold outside. #oldladyrunning 

8.) Speaking of cold outside, “Baby, It’s Cold Outside”: Okay, I get it, antiquated, creepy, sexist—a pretty meh song on the whole—but where does one draw the line on music, art and book banning? Then again, I have vowed to never eat at Chick-Fil-A(ssholes) and it isn’t like McDonald’s is a Champion of Ethics. 

9.) Pizza.

10.) I’ve nothing against Pearl Jam. In fact, I have great nostalgia for the album Ten. But an entire channel on Sirius XM dedicated to this band? Tom Petty, yes. Pearl Jam, no. Bruce Springsteen, yes. Pearl Jam, no. 

Eek! How did this get here?!!

11.) I belong to a book club where we meet regularly and talk about books we’re reading, podcasts we’re listening to and shows we’re watching—sprinkled heavily with things you probably shouldn’t discuss in most group settings: politics, religion, murder plots, raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens. Plus, some of us drink alcoholic beverages and all of us eat hot dips. The point is, we don’t demand everyone read the same book and then come together with salient and succinct observations about said book. Did I mention we eat hot dips? (Sorry, we’re currently not recruiting additional members.) 

12.) If you resolve to achieve a single thing in 2019, make it leaving one space after a period. Because giving up carbs is overrated. 

13.) Poems. Love songs. Your kid’s first or six-millionth words. Tacos on a Wednesday (Tuesdays are for suckers). Losing someone monumental in your life. Gaining an amazing new friend. Sunsets. Sunrises. The ocean. Lake Michigan. That one Parks and Rec episode where Ron goes to Scotland. It’s a Wonderful Life. Love Actually. Bambi. A news story about anything, negative or anywhere in the hemisphere of positive. Don’t be ashamed or embarrassed or stubborn or strong. Let whatever moves you move you to tears.  

14.) I’m thankful for you, even those of you who’ll never read this or think it’s stupid or would prefer a traditional holiday card with a family photo of us all wearing navy shirts and khakis. 

15.) David Sedaris’ Calypso. I think it’s his best in a while, but maybe it’s just my current frame of mind or stage in life. Either way, it doesn’t matter. I will always carry the Sea Section in my heart. #props 

16.) Not everyone will love or like or give shit about what you do. If you love or like or give a shit about what you do, keep doing it anyway. 

17.) This year I celebrated 20 years of marriage. I’ve been with my husband for the majority of my adult life. I wouldn’t have it any other way or trade what we have and are to each other for all the tea in China or all the pizza in my past, present and future. That said, you can groan when people say marriage is work or “a work in progress,” but they aren’t wrong. If you’re unwilling to bend, odds are you’ll break.

18.) Robert Mueller: How much longer must we wait to Make America Great Again?

19.) and 20.) The hope of another year. 

Isn't she magical?

Warmest holiday wishes to you and yours! 

Xoxo,

Amie

For Al

Romance isn’t dead, at least not in our home. 

But let me start again. 

It’s a little over seven years ago. Picture us driving to pick up our baby, a safe delivery, a little girl born in a hospital in Southfield, Michigan. Picture me crying most of the way there. Yes, happy tears, but also tears for fears. Wow, I finally understood the meaning behind the silly name of that 80s English pop band. 

Speaking of names, my husband and I didn’t have one. We’d planned on calling a girl Harper Lee, but the birthmother asked if the baby she carried and brought into this world could have a name beginning with A. Her name began with the first letter of the alphabet. Her other two children had names beginning with the first letter of the alphabet. 

Such a small request considering the weight of her gift. Plus, our names started with A, too. What’s in a name anyway? Most would view this as mere coincidence. I don’t know that I’d label it fate, but I would deem it poetic.

Speaking of poetry, I don’t read nearly enough. Still, I do have poems I turn to again and again. Seven years ago on our drive to Southfield we listened to Marie Howe read and talk about her life on "Fresh Air." (I wholeheartedly encourage you to click on the link and listen to the program in its entirety.) I haven’t found the words to describe how much her interview and reading moved me. Toward the end of the program, Howe says, “Poetry holds the knowledge that we are alive and that we know we're going to die.”

I didn’t have one of those aha moments. I had one of those Holy Shit experiences. 

Picking up a new life and those words, combined with her own story of becoming an adoptive mother late in life, and oh by the way, her poems—accessible, mystical, illuminating—they filled me with such hope and gratitude. Hope that it was possible for me to tiptoe down the plank blindfolded and plunge into motherhood. Gratitude for the privilege of being able to at last do so, and maybe most of all, for being alive in that very place and space in time, for being able to feel every bit of that roller coaster rise and fall of joy and terror. 

Without listening to Howe, without sitting in that car beside my bundle of bouncing energy, without signing your shaky signature on the paperwork, without stepping through the whoosh of the doors of that sterile Catholic hospital, without laying eyes on itty-bitty sleeping Ava—the nurses both happy and sad to see her go (these days there aren’t many babies rooming in hospital nurseries for them to ooh and ahh over)—without feeding her for the first time (How do you hold a bottle? How do you burp a baby?), without driving away with the sudden responsibility of this living and breathing being next to you in the back, nestled in the car seat you quadruple checked was snapped in place, I realize probably none of this seems earth shattering to you. Forgive that last run on. If only you could’ve rode shotgun the day our daughter came into our life. That same day Marie Howe sparked the reassurance I so desperately needed. 

I bought two of her books, What the Living Do and The Kingdom of Ordinary Time, within days of returning home with Ava. The title poem in What the Living Do about the death of Howe’s brother struck a visceral chord with me. It continues to strike that chord. To this day I can’t read or hear it without the hairs on my arms standing at attention or my eyes welling. Two hundred and thirty-nine words that together pack such a heartbreaking punch. 

And boy am I a sucker for heartbreaking punches. My husband of almost twenty-one years knows this painfully well. He’s not a bring home flowers on a random Tuesday kinda guy. He’s not a gush about his spouse on social media kinda guy. He’s not the kinda guy who proposes to his girlfriend of eight years by popping the question with skywriting at halftime or a diamond ring buried in a chocolate soufflé. 

For this I say thank God. 

He may lose his wallet or his phone on the daily. He may leave drawers hanging open like dumbfounded mouths. He may be enthusiastically devoted to clutter. His mind may be burdened with fantasy football, buying and selling cars or “House of Cards.” (Damn you for being an asshole, Kevin Spacey!) He may hate to fly and to put up the Christmas tree. He may love Jell-O salads and Phish jams lasting fifty-nine thousand minutes. (Are there any other kind?) He may forget the key ingredient for the soup and the casserole, but recall an urgent need for underwear and canned corn. All first-world struggles. All what the living do. 

For this and more I say thank God. 

But let me circle back to the beginning. 

It’s mid-to-late October, 2018. Picture What the Living Do pulled from the shelf, innocently stacked atop my husband’s New Yorkers, right there next to his glasses and hair tie and water bottle and iPad and discarded socks, and my interrogation regarding said discovery. What’re you reading? Why are you reading this now? Have you read it before? Do you know how much this book means to me?

Yes, I know and I have, he says. I remember. I always like to read it around this time of year. 

Picture me nodding and then returning to the everyday business of life, the retrieval of stray socks and empty water bottles, or the unpacking of half-eaten apple slices or half-exploded Go-Gurt in Ava’s lunchbox. All the while my husband prepares and plots for my birthday gift … what I’d intended to be the trip we recently took to Mackinac Island. 

Despite my best intentions—I’m not a “make a big fuss over my birthday” kinda girl—Al says he has an errand to run one early November afternoon. I'll be home soon. I’m picking something up for you. 

The “Something He Picked Up for Me”: Not only did he go to the trouble of having some of his sweet coworkers orchestrate the layout (thank you), but also called Marie Howe at Sarah Lawrence College to tell her our story. She graciously agreed to sign the poem (thank you, thank you) and Al had it framed. “What the Living Do” now hangs in our living room. 

WE WERE ON A BREAK

I stopped myself from tossing out a black squiggle left on the kitchen countertop. What first appeared to be a disconnected piece of felt was actually the abandoned yet determined smile of a hand-crafted froggy drinking cup. 

On the second day of first grade my daughter brought home a poster. “I have a growth mindset” it reads, the letters colored in a deliberate pattern of green, royal-blue, green, royal-blue, green, royal-blue for “growth,” and purple, sky-blue, purple, sky-blue, purple, sky-blue, purple for “mindset.” There’s a little girl with yellow hair and a red dress at the bottom of the page. Three thought bubbles surround her. In Ava’s lopsided but improving print, they proclaim: “I can keep trying!,” “I can ask for help!,” “I can work together!!” and “Take a break!”

I don’t know what happened to the “I can” in the last proclamation, but I admire its candor. What first grader—hell, what 45 going on 46-year-old—doesn’t need to take a damn break every once in a while? Even that froggy cup sought fit to take a hiatus from its creepy perpetual grinning.  

Breaks replenish the mind, body and soul. Breaks boost creativity and productivity. Breaks provide the perfect opportunity to grab a smoke, throw in a load of laundry, fill your cup with tepid and terrible break room coffee, stretch, meditate, power nap, cartwheel, watch 15 minutes of Dynasty, eat two or three almonds or two or three Kit Kats, compile a list of to-dos or to-don'ts, read a book, play fantasy football, play catchup on your feeds, stare longingly out the window as the sky shifts from the color of a dirty tube-sock into the most beckoning shade of blue… If you’re not getting the gist of this list, you're not giving yourself the mindless downtime you deserve. 

Now go forth and do nothing. Or something different from the something you’re doing at present (unless—*insert shameless plug*—it’s reading THIS). 

Just please don’t smoke. Cigarettes. I know, I know, I smoked (and wore lipgloss) back in my 20s, too, and I brought it up (up there, like a couple paragraphs ago). Smoking is the quintessential excuse for taking a break. Whatever. Do anything else (I gave you several semi-decent ideas), as long as it isn’t vaping. Because friends, I guarantee whatever trendy-flavored shit you’re puffing on is going to kill you faster than the 69 known cancer-causing chemicals in cigarettes. 

Wow. You’re mom called, she wants her soap box back. And while we’re at it she wants her crocheted afghan back, too. The rose and cream one. It’s September, and the air is growing crisp. Don’t forget to pack your galoshes! 

Pardon that interruption. Where were we again? Oh yeah, interruption … a synonym for … break. And breaks are pretty important. Despite what Rachel says, they’re healthy and you should take them whenever possible, as long as you sow your oats responsibly.

Even when you’re a writer. I can’t speak for other writers—I can only hope to one day play them on a sitcom called “The Write Stuff”or “Something to Write Home About” —but for me, writing is rewarding and exhilarating and challenging and soul crushing and hard as fuck. It sucks when the work is absent from your life, but it also sucks when you feel tapped out and uninspired. 

Me and Writing, we were (and somewhat are) on a break. I admit, I’ve been unfaithful to Writing, with Doubt, with Parenting, with Working (for Pay), with Random Lame Excuse, with Running, with Quest for Perfection, with The Current Political Landscape, with Discarded Crafts on Kitchen Countertop, with Cooking Around Discarded Crafts on Kitchen Countertop, with Television, with Dog Walking, with Angst, with Insecurity, with Quest for Validation, with Procrastination, with Facebook, with Candy Crush (not really), with Instagram, with Toilet Cleaning, with Dwayne Johnson (nice enough guy, but nope), with Camping, with Crocheting Afghans (haven’t threaded a needle since the throw pillow resembling a turtle I sewed back in middle school). 

The point of this tortured and overwrought ramble is not to showcase my promiscuity. (I remain an ardent fan of monogamy.) It’s to highlight the stuck in a rut struggle is real, at least for me this past summer. Maybe much longer if I’m honest. That confessed, I’ve already noted the perks of pressing pause, so what of it?

I don’t feel refreshed. I don’t feel recharged. I don’t feel more productive. I don’t feel more creative. I don’t feel ready to seize the day or the hour or the next thirty-five seconds. What I feel is pretty much meh. 

I’m not an ardent fan of meh. In fact, fuck meh. 

“The only way around these things is through them.” It’s a simple line, but one of my all-time favorites from one of my all-time favorite books, The Undertaking. While the line speaks to mourning and grief (and the book is about the business of death and dying), it applies to my current state, call it writer’s block, midlife malaise or some whiny lovechild of the two. 

No matter how I label my feelings, it’s become clear the last thing I need is a break to resolve them. The only way around Midlife Writer’s Malaise Block is through it. 

Thus, here I am, giving my best fake froggy-cup smile, naked in front of my keyboard for all the world to see and judge. Well, I’m technically still in a version of my pajamas and the corners of my mouth aren’t upturned, but I am slowly and surely releasing the brake. 

Next break: Recycling some of my kid’s artwork. (Because recycling is environmentally responsible and sounds better than throwing away.)

Pointing Fingers

I don’t like to point fingers, but rest assured, it was me who gave my neighbor the finger. 

Ava was buckled safe in her booster, blissfully playing with a hand-held fan that with the push of a lever also happens to—voila!—spray you with water. Something that can blow air and water into the face is the definition of heaven to her, especially when used on anybody unsuspecting. 

Per our normal drill, we were late. Probably because my daughter insisted on gathering and bringing this hand-held fan along with seventeen stuffed animals, various containers of slime, and random kitchen utensils from our home to her grammy’s for the day. We waited to turn right at a red light marking one of our neighborhood’s two exits. It’s an odd, poorly engineered intersection where you can turn right and proceed straight onto a thoroughfare or turn right, then hang an immediate left onto a somewhat less traveled street. 

I find it more than a tad intimidating to step outside of my comfort zone, but when it comes to driving, I will veer toward the road less traveled. Plus, this street has fewer traffic signals. Its only downside is the funky left of death you’re forced to make in order to reap its obvious advantages. 

Did I mention this same signal also has a “no turn on red” cycle? 

All of this information probably adds up to the majority of you glazing over like canned ham by now, but for me, it almost always equals waiting for green to go right.  Keep in mind, there’s no law stating you MUST turn right on red. From what I’ve gleaned, turning right on red was established for energy conservation, but I’m guessing most view it as common courtesy. Basic human decency. Like covering your mouth when you cough or not trimming your toenails with your teeth. It’s inconsiderate to hold up traffic, forcing people to idle for longer than, say, twenty seconds? Thirty? Sixty? 

Forty(ish) seconds. I’d estimate that’s how long we sat waiting, and about the time the horn blared (not beeped). In my rearview I observed a woman behind me waving her hands in the air like she most definitely cared. 

Instead of option A—taking the higher, albeit passive-aggressive road of ignoring her and proceeding when the light damn well turned green—I leapt for option B—doing my best indignant runway pivot, punctuated with my middle finger and a mumbled “stupid bitch.” Stupid wasn’t fair.

I discuss word choices quite often with Ava. Stupid and hate top the list of words I’ve repeatedly told her aren’t good choices. Bitch, on the other hand… I’ve perhaps mentioned “bitch” isn’t something we should call anybody. 

And the aforementioned finger? 

Somewhere between five and six, Ava asked what extending one’s middle finger meant. I recall it being another car ride. Does God control the weather? Why do people fart? Who is my real mother? What is yacht rock? What are cemeteries? What are farts? When will you and Daddy die? Why can’t I use regular shampoo? Why, why, why, why, whywhywhywhywhy? This is where life’s big important questions just seem to come up. 

I do my part to provide her with honest answers, but that doesn’t mean I don’t ramble or grasp for something/anything resembling the “right words.” Inarticulate isn’t a foreign concept to me, particularly with respect to childrearing. Needless to say, Ava understands the intended meaning of the gesture I gifted my neighbor. 

After I both symbolically and overtly said “fuck you” to this woman behind me, I turned right. On red. (Boom, the sweet smell of acquiescence!) I drove to the next light on that thoroughfare I prefer not traveling and coasted to another quick stop in the left turn lane. Lovers Lane. (No irony there.) Betty Horn Blaster pulled up in the lane beside us, her journey leading her in a different direction. (Phew.) Fifteen(ish) seconds later I summoned the courage to side-eye her, and that’s when I realized with eighty-five to ninety percent certainty she not only lived in my neighborhood, but I had also spoken with her on several occasions, usually on my walks or jogs with Charlotte. (Charlotte is our dog. I wouldn’t flip her off if she squatted and pooped in my cereal [this has yet to happen].) 

I’d like to divulge that I didn’t drive the neighborhood at least three times for no other reason than to verify this was, in fact, said neighbor. 

For fuck’s sakes, there was no doubt. Wow, I mused, I wouldn’t have pegged her to be such an aggressive driver or impatient person. I wonder if she would’ve pegged me to be the kind of middle-aged mom who would react to a horn honking with a loud and proud middle finger, with her about-to-be first grader in the backseat as a star witness. 

The green arrow summoned us left. I sighed and apologized to Ava, explaining I shouldn’t have reacted that way, that essentially when “they" go low, “we” should go high. (Shout out to Michelle!) When I finally had the opportunity to regale my husband with Fingergate, I apologized to our six-year-old daughter a second time. (Teaching moment!) She shrugged and responded, “Well, you didn’t do it to me.” 

Oh, snap. Damn kids these days for their acute and astute observations. 

Forgiveness normally flows with relative ease for me, I’m not a holder of grudges, and the older I get, the more I seem to miraculously have the capacity to let shit go. That said, during the last several weeks life’s everyday irritations have felt more palpable and I’ve struggled to put my finger (middle or otherwise) on the root cause of this lingering cloud of pettiness. 

Am I perimenopausal? Is it because my husband doesn’t shut cupboards or drawers, or my kid refuses to pick up her shoes? What about my running schedule? I decided to break from a formal training program this summer and have been yogging unstructured for “routine maintenance.” Do I need to run greater and greater distances with friends and acquaintances and total strangers in spandex to sweat out my rage? I don’t meditate. Should I be getting my om on? Could it be Donald Trump’s policies, combover, tweets, mannerisms, voice, budding friendship with Kanye, absent moral character, MAGA hats (in red or white)? Have I been eating too much spinach? Have I been drinking too little gin? Have I been spending too little time alone? Reading too much into headlines or lack of likes on social media? Not writing enough or writing enough of the stuff that fulfills me? Was it all those bags of Doritos I drained back in July? Was it all those hours I binge-watched shark week? 

What is The Universe and/or Tom Cruise trying to convey? Should I simply surrender and embrace the Megalodon Bitch within? 

It’s been over a week and I still don’t have a clue. 

What I do know is this: I haven’t seen my neighbor since that fateful Thursday morning, but when I next lay eyes on her, I’ll be ready. I will trot over, raise my daughter’s stupid hand-held fan, and give my fellow suburbanite a gentle breeze with a fine mist. 

Or maybe I’ll take a deep breath and say I’m sorry. 

In The Name of Gratitude

Lily. 

Our relief swelled at hearing the birthmother’s preference. It wasn’t her call, but we’d planned to honor her wishes. Thank God we didn’t have to consider heaven spelled backwards. Or a weather pattern. Or a random fruit. 

Al and I had hoped for a girl, and although not on our radar, the name Lily sounded lovely.  

It’s been over six years. Lily wouldn’t be much older than our six-year-old daughter. Did she love the water and purple, too? Did Lily shun all vegetables? Was she mule stubborn? A night owl? Could she count to a hundred? Ride a bike without training wheels? Dive? Did Lily’s laughter send ripples through your soul? Was her smile punctuated by a front-tooth gap?

I don’t remember much about what Lily’s birthmother Ana looked like. I didn’t pay close attention to her features, maybe because our connection felt awkward and strained from the start, and by the end, became so painful and humiliating that I blocked out the length of her hair, the color of her eyes, the function versus form of her maternity clothing. 

I’ll never forget what Ana ordered the moment I knew the adoption was in serious trouble. A hot turkey sandwich on white bread with gravy a synthetic shade of tan. I wore something casual for the meeting, a button-down plaid shirt from the Gap: teal and white, colors too optimistic for early spring in Michigan. 

Ana had brought a surprise guest, the kind friend who’d provided a roof over her head, who she insisted wasn’t Lily’s father. The subsequent ambush went like this: 

How did we plan to help Ana after she had the baby? She was handing over her child, after all. She had entrusted two people with zero parenting experience with something we could never truly repay. 

Did we know she had dreams of going back to school? 

Or that she could use a decent pair of shoes for her throbbing and swollen feet?

She’d sure love to make her mother’s tamales, but that required special ingredients. 

How could she be expected to get a good job without reliable transportation? 

Help with rent, medical bills, prenatal vitamins. Additional necessities for the birth mother, as deemed appropriate and legal by the adoption agency. This wasn’t in the ballpark of sufficient. Keep in mind, Ana was relinquishing all rights to her child.  

Ana’s friend had an aunt with a car. Nothing new. Nothing fancy. He didn’t mention the make or model, but said she’d sell it for three grand. No need to contact the agency, he continued between bites, and Ana nodded. Other than to eat her sandwich, she’d scarcely opened her mouth.  

He promised any compensation would be our little secret. It would stay between me, Al, Ana, and of course, this man willing to negotiate with us at Russ’, a family restaurant since 1934.  

Al and I must have nailed the part of suckers, our certified pre-owned BMW parked in plain view from the booth. When we paid the bill and left, I told Al if the adoption fell through, next time we’d rent a Pinto to drive the birthmom to her doctor’s appointments.

It wasn’t funny, but I assumed our stupid yuppie wagon made Ana and her friend see green. I assumed the worst about her, that she never had an abusive husband, that her five other children didn’t exist, that the man she brought with her that afternoon was some kind of pimp, that she took us to the ultrasound before Russ’ on purpose, that for her, this was all a transaction. 

#

I thought about baby Lily again when I came across the affidavit. This is to confirm that we, ALAN and AMIE, in mutual agreement with THE AGENCY, wish to no longer be linked with ANA as birthmother. I’d unearthed the paperwork in an unlabeled manilla folder along with a few greeting cards congratulating us, the date of one of Ana’s doctor’s appointments handwritten on a torn-out sheet of notebook paper, our original placement agreement, and a color-coded timeline for the domestic adoption process. 

There it was in black and white, t’s crossed and i’s dotted, tucked away in the same cupboard with the mountain of forms and training materials that eventually led us to the daughter who officially became ours one year, six months and twenty days after Lily’s adoption fell through. 

Why I kept Ana’s paperwork I’ve no idea. All I know is my assumptions about what transpired with her aren’t as certain anymore. I still believe she lied on some level. I’ve no proof, but I still believe the friend who escorted Ana to Russ’ that afternoon was, in fact, the birthfather. I still believe it was wrong to ask for money outside of the legal adoption parameters. Yet what I feel about the situation has softened. 

I might owe this change to the minute-to-minute, hour-to-hour, day-to-day reality of mothering. The role of mother places you in a remote and exotic emotional hemisphere. When you are responsible for the wellbeing of another human, your hardwiring rearranges itself in terrifying and exhilarating ways. The shift is tectonic. 

Being somebody’s mom has widened my empathy net, especially toward other parents. Who was I to speculate about Ana? Why did I sprint to such judgment? 

Ana could’ve had five other children she lost custody of due to an ex who beat her.

Ana is hispanic. She had gestational diabetes and didn’t own a car. Achieving gainful employment could’ve been complicated by her health, her lack of transportation or her ethnicity.

Ana could’ve had nowhere else to go. Her friend providing her with a so-called safe haven could’ve been manipulating or abusing her.

We didn’t know Ana’s last name. Ana didn’t know our last name. We didn’t know the whereabouts of Ana’s other children. Ana didn’t know where we lived. We didn’t know the identity of Lily’s birthfather. Ana didn’t know we were scared shitless of screwing up her kid.  

Favorite colors, pastimes, TV shows. Food dislikes, hot-button issues, world views. Family history. There were plenty of unknowns from which to make baseless assumptions, not just from our perspective, but from Ana’s, too. It’s innate to fill in a story when presented with blanks.   

Ana may have seen our BMW as a badge of entitlement. 

Al and I are passive. We aren’t easily given to public displays of affection. Ana may have taken this as a sign of detachment, toward each other, toward her, toward her baby. 

The first time we met Ana we brought her a mixed bouquet of flowers from a grocery store. She may have viewed this gesture as insulting, as if a cheap bunch of wildflowers would somehow make the weight of her decision lighter. 

After our exchange at Russ’, we terminated the adoption, without any further discussion with Ana or her friend. She may have assumed the termination was because we thought hispanics were drug-dealing thugs, and while we said we were open to all races, what we really wanted was a white baby. 

#

Our daughter is black. She is beautiful, willful, impatient, resilient, hilarious and shy. Our hearts beat with hers. The blood we don’t share flows with hers. 

Since September of 2016 I've been shuffling next door in rumpled sweats to watch her climb aboard her beloved yellow school bus. Rain, sleet, thundersnow or shine. I bring the dog with us. Sometimes Al joins us. Sometimes we argue and rush and run. I snap and yell. Ava whines and cries. Goddamn it, there’s no such thing as the perfect parent, I remind myself. 

Each of these mornings I’m astonished at both her ability to go it alone and my ability to let her go it alone. People say kids grow up fast, but the truth is, child rearing scurries and crawls simultaneously.  

The early hours of having our daughter in our life are a blurry chapter now. Back then those same hours, days and weeks felt static, endless circles of bottles, burping, diaper changes, and too many infomercials and lame sitcoms at three a.m. Our happiness was palpable, but so was the pull and drain of anxiety. Scads of ovulation detectors, two hysterosalpingograms, three unsuccessful aritifical inseminations, one miscarried in-vitro fertilization and one broken adoption had finally delivered our six-pounds and eleven ounces. 

Post-Ana, my husband had made our position clear to the agency: 1. there would be more vetting of our next birthmother or 2. there would be a baby with less red tape and/or strings attached. Yes, we were sick and tired. Yes, we were presumptuous. Yes, we understood there were no guarantees. 

Six months after that phone call a girl was born in a Catholic hospital in the suburbs of Detroit. A safe delivery. Per protocol, we would not meet the birthmother. The agency granted us twenty-four hours to prepare for our new arrival. 

When we at last reached our daughter, her birthmother had already checked out of the hospital. Her name began with an a. Her son and daughter also had names that began with a. Could Baby Doe possibly have a name beginning with a? This was her only request. 

In our fantasies of becoming parents, our little girl’s name didn’t start with the first letter of the alphabet, but on the way to making her ours, I grabbed my phone and scrolled through baby names. Behold the power and magic of Google ...  

Aardvark. 

We still joke about naming our daughter after a somewhat cute, termite-slurping “earth pig,” option number one on the “Baby Names Beginning With A” list. 

Two days later, the social worker called to tell us the birthmother loved our choice. I don't know if we’ll ever even have the chance to shake her hand, but each year I send her a letter and at least ten pictures of our Ava, the amazing daughter she gave us. Selfless and kind and generous don’t do her sacrifice justice, but I sprinkle in adjectives like these anyway. I’ve considered writing a letter to Ana, too, because as destiny or kismet or happenstance would have it, if it weren’t for her and Lily, we wouldn’t have Ava either. With any luck, what I struggle to compose on paper and in my imagination will express the depths of our gratitude.