She's On the Loose

Again, I've been remiss in posting on motherhood because I've been busy chasing a toddler who now can walk -- fast -- without the use of the walker (pictured) that she needed a month ago.

When did this all happen? She's transforming from baby to girl right before my eyes.

Only four months ago found me in China with a daughter placed in my arms against her will and sobbing in grief and fear (see photo, top, of Gotcha Night). Although I'm smiling in the photo, my heart is breaking for her.

Only four months ago, Ari didn't have fine motor skills and was immobile from the waist down. She could move her legs, but not in a purposeful way.

Now she's into everything, as a toddler should be. To my horror, she ate some soft cat food when my head was turned the other direction for a mega-second. And she liked it because she went for a second scoop. I stopped her, and for the rest of the day I was hesitant for her to kiss me with her cat-food-tainted lips.

And I wouldn't have it any other way. She's curious, inquisitive, active, and almost always happy. Her laugh is infectious, and her wide smile makes me love her more each day. Each day I discover a little more about who she is and wonder about the person she will wind up being.

I have also discovered through my motherhood journey that I'm not a typical mom, whatever a typical mom is. I love (and encourage) Ari's banging on pots and pans. The louder, the better. I love noisy toys; the more noise, the better.

I don't bring holiday treats for all the kids in day care, and I don't go to my day care's social functions. That will change, I'm sure, as Ari gets older, but right now, I'm the center of her world, so why bother sharing my time with her with others? When she's older and realizes her mother is fallible, then it'll be time to camouflage my mistakes by having us socialize with others.

Most importantly, I take care of myself. I get up early to write and oil paint, get together with friends (with Ari), get a monthly massage (without Ari; friends have been babysitting) and generally make sure my needs are met. Because when momma's happy, baby's happy. I think it's vital that mothers take care of themselves, as it is the hardest job in the world.

And I still spend a lot of time with and savor each moment with my precious girl. Because when all is said and done, I treasure the every day moments with her. I take nothing for granted and live each day, slowing down the moments and, in a Zen-like state, paying attention to the way she does everything: from the way her eyes shut in moments of glee to the way she sounds when she eats. Videos and cameras can't capture that feeling, so I have yet to videotape her (did I say I wasn't a typical mom?). But I've taken oodles of pictures.

I've captured the moments in my heart, but I need to capture the moments on tape (to embarrass her in her teenage years, of course!!).

Come to think of it, I'm going to get that camcorder soon.

Beth L. Gainer is a professional writer and has published numerous academic and magazine articles, as well as an essay on her breast cancer experience in the anthology Voices of Breast Cancer by LaChance Publishing. She writes about medical advocacy at www.bethlgainer.blogspot.com, and her cat Hemi blogs at www.catterchatter.blogspot.com. Beth teaches writing and literature at Robert Morris University in the Chicago area. She can be contacted at bethlgainer@gmail.com and gainercallingtheshots@gmail.com. She also blogs on the adventures of her cats, Hemi and Cosette, at http://www.catterchatter.blogspot.com./.

A Baby for Me

Day 1

I am learning that I’m a mother.

I am on the phone with Jane, my adoption agency’s Director of the China Program. I feel a mix of awe and humility when she tells me my 11-month-old girl’s referral has arrived and is being translated into English. Jane has Fu Wen Pei’s pictures in hand, and joyously describes the baby’s cheeks as the chubbiest she has ever seen.

We laugh.

During the four years I’ve been in the China program, I’d imagined this joyful moment when I’d get this phone call. I had also been fantasizing about holding her for the first time, with the first words I speak to her being "I love you" in Mandarin -- the way I practiced during my Mandarin lessons.

Now, finally, it’s happening, and her existence is being confirmed on the other end of the phone. She no longer is a figment of my imagination: she has a name, birth date, and history.

And I think back to the obstacles that to my dream of motherhood – a miscarriage, divorce, breast cancer, major surgery, and infertility. With steely determination, I relentlessly pursued my goal. And, now, after a four-year journey that seemed longer than the Great Wall itself, I am finally a mother who will travel in about six weeks to get my daughter.

I get off the phone, relieved. Now I can fall apart without Jane knowing.

I am terrified.

Now that the time is drawing near, so is self-doubt. I can barely take care of my two cats, let alone a child, I surmise. I can't imagine turning in my card-carrying membership of the Come-and-Go-as-You-Please Club. I must say farewell to all the late nights out with my other single friends, and, oh yeah, uninterrupted sleep.

And worse, I feel I’m the only person in the world who is scared of motherhood. I feel alone and lost. And then I feel guilty because I feel alone and lost when this was what I wanted all along.

Still, I’m hoping this is all a dream, so I pinch myself. It hurts.

Day 2

Sleep deprived, I break down before I collect myself and start breaking the news to family and friends, who ecstatically congratulate me. I pretend I’m as happy as they sound.

But as I describe the pictures I haven’t yet seen – the chubby cheeks are a hit -- I am starting to feel a little more proud of her and more curious about this baby from afar. I know we were randomly matched by Chinese officials. But there is this small part of me that wonders if she and I were destined to be together. I also wonder what talents she inherited from her birth mother, and suddenly I have a pang of sadness that she will never know the woman who birthed her.

Despite my numbness, I tell my elated co-workers, and I smile. But inside, I find myself hoping all of this is a mistake. Sure, I want a baby, but I could use another six months to a year to accomplish my goals: I feel I’m not well-versed enough in Mandarin for the trip – even though a translator will be with us. I feel unprepared to be a mom. I am worried about balancing work and motherhood and getting day care in place. I still feel like I’m the only one in the world who is going through this, even though I know the opposite is true.

Day 3

I’m in denial. This can’t really be happening. The documents are getting translated from Chinese to English quickly, but I convince myself that it will take a few weeks, perhaps. After all, it would take me years to do such a translation! In the meantime, I can continue learning Mandarin and continue with oil painting and guitar lessons.

And why is everyone happy for me? Can’t they see I feel like I’m imploding?


Day 4

I start the day online seeing the unopened file attachments – the referral translation and the photos – sent by Jane. Denial doesn’t cut it anymore; I realize that this is it.

I cringe as I open the PDF file. I’m so curious and so afraid. I scroll down slowly, reading the report. With a sigh of relief, I’m reading good things: she’s seemingly healthy, she likes bells and seems like a sweet baby. I know I’m going to be seeing pictures of her in a nanosecond, and I tense up. I’ve seen her face in my dreams and imaginings, but I’ve never seen my daughter up close and, well, sort-of personal.

I stare at the pictures for a half-hour. I don’t know what I’m feeling. I don’t feel this overwhelming love as I had imagined. I study her face carefully. She has an expression that seems to indicate defiance…or maybe she needs a diaper change.

I send the pictures to family and friends, who send their congratulations and compliments about having such an adorable, chubby cheeked girl.

I’m numb with disbelief.

Day 5

I bring the photos with me everywhere. I feel they are my good luck charms. I’m hesitant to show them to co-workers, but I eventually do – to the sounds of “oohs” and “ahs.” I get hugs and congratulations, but I am a walking zombie.

As I keep showing the pictures, I start feeling pride and happiness. This is my daughter, after all. The panic has subsided…for now. At the end of the day, I even show my daughter’s picture to the lady at the parking garage where my car is. She is ecstatic for me. I am starting to feel a new emotion toward my daughter.

It is love.