Instant Mom (13 page)

But watching Ann parent, I realize most moms know—kids are kids. All children have moods, good days and bad days. If a kid doesn’t say thank you, it doesn’t reflect badly on how they’re being raised; it doesn’t mean the parents are trash. I see now that I can just let Ilaria be. I can just let her have fun on the playdate and, again, not everything that happens today has to be a teachable moment. So when I hear Ilaria ask Ann if she can keep the yellow princess costume she’s borrowed, I don’t cringe. Instead, I choose to see it as a representation that Ilaria feels so loved and accepted here—which is a wondrous emotion for a child to experience.

Okay,
fine,
yes I cringed. The Canadian in me is horrified that my daughter asked for a parting gift. But I let it go. I even try to smile with indifference. Ann tells Ilaria, yes, to please keep the dress. We leave and I don’t lecture Ilaria in the car. I just talk about our fun day and inwardly marvel at Ann’s calm parenting skills and demeanor. I’m really glad we went there today. (And I held my breath until we were invited back.)

Over the next while
, I relax even more and we do quite a few friend playdates and have a steady stream of visitors at the house. Ilaria has become more sociable. We often go to the shops close by, but are still worried about taking her out to public places like a street fair, not just because of paparazzi. She is flagrantly fearless and still tends to disappear. She moves so fast, I call it pulling a Houdini. I have never seen anything move as fast as a toddler can disappear. I’d seen this happen with my nieces and nephews; they’re just suddenly not beside you. Ilaria isn’t afraid; she is really independent. When we walk around the neighborhood, she walks ahead and almost forgets I’m there following. She is attaching to us really well, she is really sociable, but she’s not fearful; she just tends to be fine on her own. She’s like a little capable island. We have many talks with her about not taking off. We reason with her, try to teach her about safety and responsibility. That’s not working. This is another thing it takes me a while to process. Sometimes you just have to tell kids something 20,072 times before they get it. Every time I have to tell Ilaria something again, I want to call my mom to apologize for being such a jerk.

But to be candid, what we try works or doesn’t and we’ll try something else. Ilaria is developing at her own pace. Sometimes, she’s behind her age group and sometimes she’s ahead on certain issues.

For example, a colleague who has never seen Manny sends us a stuffed dog who actually looks exactly like him. Ilaria is delighted and calls him Baby Manny. He now goes everywhere with her and when she sleeps with him clutched against her chest, she looks like a Norman Rockwell painting. But a parent has never known cold dread down the spine like that moment when I realized after we got home from a playdate that the stuffed best buddy did not make it with us. The cool thing about Ilaria, however, is, sure, she has her toddler meltdowns now and then, but she is remarkably adaptable. She responds well to reason. Rather than flip out, she decided Baby Manny was on a sleepover for this one night. Ian and I notice when we explain things to her, she accepts facts and moves on. Is it because she had former living situations? We’re not sure.

This applies from sleeping in her own bed—we say she’ll get a better night’s sleep and have more energy for playing—to why a sundae in the morning will make her hyper—we explain what sugar does and she accepts the logic of it. It’s amazing to see how reasoning works with her. Sometimes. Often, it’s like trying to talk politics with that naked guy at Burning Man.

The sleep therapist hears our update and now tells us this is why we were not supposed to sleep in the same bed as our daughter—it’s time to move the cot.

I don’t wanna.

Things have been going so well, why would I upset everything now? I tell the therapist, we’re just going to continue sleeping in the cot for the next ten years, all’s good. She holds my gaze. Actually, she tries to make eye contact, but my head juts sidewise from the isosceles angle of my one neck muscle that still functions. I gotta get outta that cot.

“Two inches,” she tells me. She advises we get Ilaria to help push it toward the door, two inches at a time. Okay, so we make that a game too—in dissonant and inharmonious song we dance around her room as we all push the cot. We tell Ilaria she gets to choose which stuffed toy will sleep in that space on the rug left by the cot. She takes it pretty well.

Really. She thinks it’s superb that her stuffed animals line up on the floor in that wider and wider space left by the cot.

Three times over the next month, we move that cot two inches at a time toward the door.

By now we’ve gotten her a permanent toddler bed and there isn’t a lot of room to step around the extra cot. I tend to underestimate the width, step on a bouncy corner, and, arms a-flapping like I’m in an English farce, careen backward until a hard wall stops my fall. I’m bruised and tired.

But tonight, Ilaria says she doesn’t want to move the cot any farther because that would mean it’s headed for the hallway. She knows what we’re up to and flat out tells us she’s afraid to sleep alone.

A few days later at breakfast, I make up a story about magic super-round sleep kitties that protect children. Then, Ilaria and I go to the toy store and just happen to find the toy I’d scoped out before I made up the story—a big super-round stuffed kitty. Ilaria squeals when she sees the kitty I’d described. We buy that toy and she decides he protects her. We slowly move the bed two more inches away so it’s now halfway out the door (so now when we trip over it, we ricochet off the clothes dryer).

But here’s the thing. Ilaria is sleeping. Still only about six hours a night, but now without the cot jutted up against her bed. She wakes up and calls out to check that one of us is there in the hallway. We are. But she’s resting.

The social workers come over and I actually see them do a double take. Ilaria looks different. She is beaming, and it’s as if a sparkly light has gone on in her eyes. Her skin is caramel colored and her hair is ethereal blond wisps around her pink cheeks. To overdo a flower analogy ’til you groan, yes, she blossomed—truly bloomed—into a happy little girl. As we all watch her running around, I want to make a joke that I’d put her in a tanning bed and highlight-foiled her hair but since the social workers have DCFS on speed-dial I just don’t for once. The cot still has to move a few more inches down the hall, but all these nights sleeping on it have been worth it. Because the social workers now say, “Wow, she looks happy.”

I see the glow flash from their eyes. They’re so happy for this child. And us.

I wonder if these social workers know what an honorable profession they’re in. I hope they look in the mirror as they brush their teeth at night and think,
Hey You, nice going today
. Do they high-five themselves at night before they sleep? I really hope so.

I am in such a selfish industry of often needy and recalcitrant people . . . while these social workers find homes for children. They make people parents. I wish the media would do more stories on them rather than the occasional rotten social worker that’s out there. I’ve never encountered more selfless people in my life than social workers and foster parents. This experience has profoundly changed me in so many ways. As I watch the social workers smile at Ilaria, I start to think I really want to blab about these people. I’m not sure how I’m going to do it, but I’m thinking at this moment that one day I plan to talk about them.

Finally, about six weeks after we started, the cot is a little farther down the hallway, about halfway to our bedroom. Ian and I take turns sleeping on it but as noble as this sounds, we don’t mind. Because . . . we like to be close to Ilaria too. Our house is set up so her bedroom is down a long hall from ours. So, as much as the damage to our necks is quite permanent, I’ll say this: When she calls out . . . I like it, because I love to provide comfort to her. The reason she’s blossoming is because she is loved, thoroughly and unfailingly loved by us. I wanted to be a parent and I accept this side of the deal. That time of a full night’s sleep is gone. That’s okay.

Now that she’s sleeping better, it’s time for the next step: I have to get Ilaria accepted into a preschool. This is going to be more difficult than moving any cot.

• 15 •

The Kids Are All Right

It’s been an emotional
week for us. Just getting to take Ilaria to buy her first Hello Kitty lunchbox is a thing I never thought I’d get to do. So I bought two. Okay, four. I used to avert my eyes from the kids’ department at stores. Now that she’s not taking off anymore at stores, I cannot stop buying her little clothes. I cradle her mini-sneakers and wonder, will I ever get used to this parent thing? I hope not.

Ilaria starts today at a little preschool called the Sunshine Shack. None of the kids can pronounce the name.

There aren’t many preschools we could have gotten into and we had trouble finding one with better security than Do Not Cross police tape separating it from the liquor store. In Los Angeles, the exemplary preschools have waiting lists and a kid’s name is put on at birth. Since we didn’t have that benefit, we couldn’t get into a good preschool. We tried everywhere to no avail, and were panicked Ilaria would be missing out on vital aspects of socialization. When we’d just been advised to make a hefty donation to a sought-after preschool plus buy the owner a fancy gift (yep, really), we heard about one spot being open at the Sunshine Shack. This is the only pre-school we could get into.

On the drive over, I’d sung and clapped out a little song with Ilaria: “No hitting, no biting, no scratching, no fighting.” We still try to make everything a light-hearted game. She’s doing so well, but because she can still play a bit roughly, I worry about what’s allowable behavior at this age. I wonder if it’s normal to worry your kid will get expelled from preschool and become a social pariah.

We walk in.

We’re warmly greeted by Sara, the owner of the school and also Ilaria’s teacher. She is very pregnant. Ilaria stops to touch Sara’s round tummy and now asks her if she is going to keep her “baby or give it to someone who needs it.” I shoot a weak smile at Sara and pretend to get fascinated by some paintbrushes.

All the parents are looking around the adorable little playroom and there’s a scream—two little girls engage in a knockdown fight. Phew, it’s not my kid. Ian and I raise an eyebrow at each other, relieved Ilaria hasn’t punched anyone. Yet. It’s not that we don’t trust her; it’s just that we’re still working through some issues. When we applied to the school, we did not tell them we’ve only known our daughter for a few months. Yes, Ilaria did hit,
like toddlers who are not adopted
. But it’s so infrequent now, we don’t want to mention to her new preschool that she has a mean right hook.

To be honest, we like how tough she is. We like how she takes care of herself. About a month ago, we were at a public playground. As Ilaria was about to go down the slide, we saw a big rough boy about eight years old, climbing the wrong way up the slide. His clompy feet were about to stomp on Ilaria. We ran toward the slide while looking around for his parents. The dad was across the yard, texting. You know those parents. Smoking, oblivious, looking elsewhere as their brute steps on your small child. Ian and I called out and started up the slide to help Ilaria. But she didn’t need us. She didn’t even look for us. She just kicked the crap out of the boy. She kicked him hard. Six times. He slid back down so Ilaria could take her turn. She did. Ilaria is capable. She can handle herself. I admire her.

I tend to work with the same talented people because of our gratitude of the good fortune of our lives. Similar to hosting a party, I like my film sets to be happy places where everyone has a good time and knows they’re not going to get yelled at. Many people in the entertainment industry feel the same way, but then . . . there are some real whiners. I really have seen the ultimate cliché—a dieting actress scream at an assistant because her seaweed-wrapped tofu lunch wasn’t cold enough. I truly have seen a crabby crew member, wearing shorts and no shirt, rage like a baby about the hot weather as he sucked back an iced coffee. While here’s my baby, with new parents in a new home, and she’s doing just fine. So I had low tolerance for petty gripers before and even less so after meeting my daughter. She’s just cool. And the bravest person I know.

I watch her boldly greet her new classmates with ease. We see no need to tell the preschool right away that Ilaria is adopted. It’s not a secret; it’s just that we want them to get to know her as her. We don’t want her to be endowed with any preconceived notions.

Of course Ilaria knows she’s adopted—she remembers. She’d pointed to Sara’s pregnant tummy because like a lot of kids her age, she knows where babies come from. She’d asked us and we just never lie to her so we told her. Yes, we told a sanitized version of the gruesome facts; no need to freak her out. Because like all kids want to know about the night they were born, she wants to hear and re-hear the story of how she met us. We tell her: a man had a seed and a lady had an egg and they put them together in the lady’s stomach and Ilaria was grown. Those people loved her but couldn’t take care of her, so she got to choose new parents and she chose us. She is immensely satisfied with the story. One night she asked us how we found Manny and when I explained he’d been at a pound, she sat up in bed, hugging him and squealing in her helium voice, “Manny, you’re adopted too!”

So it’s all quite open. But the subject of adoption is not something we bring up all the time to everyone we meet. For example, when someone at a playground tells us Ilaria looks like Ian and me, we just agree. We do look alike. (Yes, I sat her in my lap at the hairdresser’s so I could get her highlights I covet.) We’ve decided we don’t have to blurt out “She’s adopted!” every time to strangers. There’s no need to make it a part of her identity. It’s a part of her past but not something that needs to be discussed ad nauseam. We make sure she remembers everything she wants to talk about. We make absolutely sure she knows she was not abandoned. We make sure she knows she was not a mistake. We explain when she was born there was a different plan for her. We make sure she knows the birth parents tried—they really tried—to have enough time to take care of her. To put it simply for her, we explain they were too young to be parents.

I sometimes think about the couple who placed her for adoption. I admire them and feel a kinship to them for saying, “Hey, I can’t do this.” I now know there’s no shame in admitting you’re not able to do something, to acknowledge when it’s not the right path for you. I get that now. Again, it’s about taking control.

One day we are in my car, Ilaria is looking out the window and quietly thinking. Then she says, “I love them.” I ask who, and she says, “My first parents.” My lungs collapse as I pull over, turn to her, and manage to say, “I love them too, because they made Daddy and me parents.” She is very satisfied with that. Ian and I do love these two strangers who got together to make Ilaria. I hope they know they did the right thing in letting us be her parents. They were not ready. We are. I hope they don’t have guilt; I just want them to live good lives, and maybe we can meet when Ilaria is an adult. We will thank them. I know all this sounds naive and a tad earnest. I’m just saying, when you go through something like this, you kind of lose your cynicism.

I wonder if I am doing everything correctly. I presume I overprotect Ilaria and am overly sensitive to the situation. Perhaps I do it because we humans say weird things.

For example, one time we were at a play center when Ilaria was still exhibiting rough behavior, again
like a lot of kids who aren’t adopted
. . . she yanked a toy from another kid’s hand and the kid started to cry. I rushed over to help them work it out and the other mom got right in Ilaria’s face and rudely said, “You’re tough.” She looked up at me and snarled, “Hey, tame your kid.” Imagine if we’d announced Ilaria’s adoption in the press. Imagine the vitriol that might have spewed from that woman’s mouth. In front of an impressionable child. My child. I might have shoved that toy into that woman’s nostril.

There was another man who could’ve benefited from a scholarship to Couth School. We were at the swing set at a park and he’d heard from a mutual friend that Ilaria was adopted from foster care. He asked, right in front of my daughter, “Aren’t you afraid she’s damaged?”

Truthfully, this man’s only crime was saying such a dumb thing within my daughter’s hearing range. I actually don’t judge the question because I myself once had these same prejudices about kids adopted from foster care. I worried they’d been through so much that they might not be affectionate or would have trouble bonding or would be violent. It’s ironic that we’d all be more likely to bring a stray dog into our homes than a child. A stray dog has fangs and can eat our faces as we sleep. An innocent child just needs love. I’ve done adoption fundraisers and have met children from abusive backgrounds who were raised in loving foster homes—the kids are doing just fine. They’re well adjusted and doing average things like you and me—graduating from college, getting married, holding down jobs. Many of them become social workers and help kids much like themselves because they were raised by kind foster parents who treated them with the respect and kindness all children deserve. Sure, many kids live in not-great conditions in foster care and group homes. But I’ve met inspiring families: parents who adopted kids from terrible backgrounds. The kids then became happy, well adjusted and do well. Loving kids, providing them with comfort and safety, is what it takes. Plus a lot of patience. And so many people do it. So many adults have changed kids’ lives. You will rarely hear these stories portrayed in the media. But I have met them at the many adoption fundraisers I get to be a part of now. I have met adults who were willing to get into these kids’ lives and let them know they’re loved. They’re the most valiant people I’ve ever met. To be honest, they’re also quite average. They’re not superhuman. They’re just people who stepped up and said to a kid: hey, you deserve better. So no, the kids are not damaged goods. They’re just kids looking for guidance and love—like all of us.

Most of us have been around kids from many varied backgrounds. We’ve seen that ten-year-old boy who stomps toys into pulp. We’ve met that six-year-old girl who eats snot. We’ve known that fourteen-year-old girl who entertained the football team behind the bleachers. Were any of those kids adopted? No, they’re being raised by their biological parents.

Additionally, I see now in preschool all the kids are going through something, from hitting to learning disorders to anger issues, to shyness to crying fits to overassertiveness . . . because kids are kids. The lack of labeling is my favorite thing about Ilaria’s preschool. It’s fortuitous this is the one that had a spot for us because it is so nurturing and gentle, and they know kids go through phases. We all did. I’ll just say it out loud—I was weird and so were you.

Yep, we’re all kind of strange. Can any of us really be defined as normal? Nope. Therefore, I’m not afraid my daughter will display issues
because
she is adopted. She may have issues, sure. Just like any kid. Just like I did. Just like you did. Uh-huh—yes, you did. And so did I.

The fear of the unknown can be a powerful deterrent from anyone adopting. Again, I am not suggesting parenthood is for everyone, so if you feel it’s not for you, I agree your life will also be wonderful without kids. But if fear is stopping you, please don’t let it. I’m wondering why as a society some of us are afraid of what an adopted child might do to us, when it was the Menendez brothers who shot and killed their biological parents. Not adopted. Shot their parents while they slept. Shot them. Sleep tight, everyone.

But I am not judging anyone for the questions and concerns about adopting. I had fears too, and it’s one of the many reasons I want to tell this story. When it came to adoption, I’d read the bad stories too. As I told you, I was scared. As was my family.

Before and after we adopted Ilaria, my own family was worried about saying the wrong thing. They worried that saying Ilaria looked like us might be too shallow. As if that mattered to them or us, which it didn’t. They worried about giving books, gifts, and advice, as if that implied we didn’t know what we were doing. They worried if they didn’t ask about her past, it would seem like they didn’t care, but if they did ask, it would come off as nosy. I am touched by the sweetness of these concerns from my siblings and parents and think it’s better they said something, sent too much, cared so much, than did nothing at all. Our family and friends handled it all perfectly. It’s as if they were all waiting, catcher’s mitt out, letting me do my thing but still there for me. None of us was looking for drama, none of us wanted trouble in our lives. We were all scared of what this situation might be. Then this bright little toddler made it all okay.

At social gatherings, Ian and I meet many people who have adopted their children. We all tend to gravitate toward each other with a dreamy expression in our eyes, as if someone just whispered to only us that there’s actually no fat in carbonara. There is an immediate understanding among us of our shared providence, as varied as our stories are. We convey ways to deal with dim queries, such as, “Who’s her real mother?” (Uh, me.)

We disclose to each other that occasionally we find the questions invasive and don’t know how to respond. The thing is, anyone who has ever played poker with me knows I am a terrible liar. If I have a good hand, I get overly chatty and players quickly fold. My friend Tracy has pointed out even if I am trying to cover up information, my neck grows. I cannot lie. It’s also not my thing to make anyone feel awkward for asking. So “I dunno” is my new suave mode of vanquishing the Marauding Inquirers. Now any question from “What was her name before?” to “How much do you weigh?” gets an “I dunno,” which is middle-child Canadian speak for “None of your beeswax.”

By the way, the only term I disagree with some on is “adoptive mom.” Why the qualifying adjective? Why not just “mom”? I’ve been introduced on talk shows as “
adoptive
mom Nia Vardalos.” Um, once you’ve wiped a butt, you’re a mom.

Anyway, we all confide we feel so lucky that we got to be parents against the odds. Many parents feel we were chosen for this unique path. Many divulge they always knew they were going to adopt.