8:35 a.m. - 2005-05-25
Baby Rant
So we entertained the social worker from the adoption agency. I actually dug up the parkway with my own bare hands to put in ice plant just to impress her with our manicured lives. I made a wallhanging out of burlap and colorful yarn portraying children of the world in various native costumes holding hands and smiling. I purchased tiny clothes and blankets and toys. Lions, tigers and bears, oh my! Life was purposeful, expectant. The pink tree scattered its buds on no one in particular. No sullen poet huddled on the porch these days. I carried the promise of new life within. It clung like a fetus to the very core of my being. I looked at Fred differently. I looked at everything differently. I found myself singing as I performed domestic chores, transformed by the joyous task of feathering my very own nest. Life was more e.e. cummings than Sylvia Plath. Patiently we waited, scaling each formidable hurdle set before us. Interviews as a couple. Interviews indivdually. Unannounced random visits by ladies with clipboards. Somehow we convinced them that our marriage was solid and that we would make responsible and caring parents. I know that Fred was not lying. I don't really even think, looking back, that I was consciously lying. There are times when wanting something enough takes on a tangible form, a life of its own. The seed of a long held wish spun about itself a wispy cocoon that eventually took on an undeniable substance. I was of a Tinkerbell mind back then, that if you believed hard enough and perhaps clapped your hands for good measure, it would certainly be so. In my own defense,I was immature, yes, but not actively evil. Finally one day like any other, the call arrived. Our baby boy was waiting to be picked up. I wore a matching outfit of periwinkle blue. Although it was the heart of a California August, Fred wore a tweed suit and conservative tie. We drove to the city in my '70 VW bug the color of cafe au lait. We were accompanied by our son's prospective Godparents, Maryjo and Ty. She brought along a squeeze toy to charm her new Godson. He was six weeks old, Native American and had the shiniest eyes I had ever seen and a full head of silky black hair. He fit neatly in the crook of my arm and as I remember, although it very well could by now be urban legend, he smiled that first moment I held him. Back at home, he was visited by his proud grandparents, my mother and dad. I rocked him to sleep, softly singing Simon and Garfunkle, "I'd rather be a forest than a street ...yes I would, if I only could, I surely would". He was the kind of baby you could bring with you to the library. He would smile and coo for the librarians, never complaining or violating the 'shhhhhhhh' policy. Softly I would read "Where The Wild Things Are", bringing it to life for him with my expressions. He seemed to resonate with the learning environment, even as an infant. I would take him along as I registered for my classes in Child Development at the community college. If there is anything to osmosis, it is no surprise that he turned out to be a gifted kid. Everywhere he went, he was a star. Smart and handsome, he grew thick black curls and the longest eyelashes a boy should ever be allowed to produce. He was amazing. The thing I didn't count on was me. While I loved him unreservedly, I was not prepared for the fact that having a child would not fill that empty spot within. Would not repair the marriage that wasn't. Over time, the poet re-emerged.
�
�
