Not an Angry Blog

I’m a wanna be writer not a wanna be fighter, but yesterday I received a bitter taste of the Mommy Wars, the age-old battle between the working and the SAHMs (stay at home moms), the breast-fed versus the formula-fed, the co-sleepers versus the crib-sleepers, and the socially competent versus the just plain ignorant (JPI). I also discovered, quite inadvertently, that I have a newfound role as adoptive parent ambassador. It’ll be a daunting appointment, for my natural inclination is to throttle the JPIs.

The story: I was in Target with baby Durian when I quite literally ran into an old acquaintance who was visibly startled by the writhing, furrowing newborn perched atop my cart. (Note: all members of our close circle of friends have been given a “fruit identity”. Eli is currently a durian for reasons related to his pungent scent. If you have yet to receive your fruit identity, please contact me immediately).

Is that your baby? the acquaintance asked.

Yep!

Wow, how old is it?

Six weeks, I say proudly. (Proud, also, because I’ve managed to make my way to Target, hair combed, lip gloss in place).

You don’t look like you had a baby, she says rather suspiciously.

That’s because he’s adopted. Easier to lose the baby weight, I confess.

Oh, wow! she responds. From where?

From the USA, I answer, annunciating each letter of the acronym.

You can still do that? she says incredulously.

I hope so, or we’re in a lot of trouble.

Was it expensive?


My blood begins to boil. Always with the money business. It’s tempting to inquire about the cost of her jeans or the hospital bill for her own children but I refrain.

Less than you’d think, I answer. We tried international, and it just didn’t work for us. Too much corruption in Kazakhstan. We were part of the African bi-racial program and then we got a call last October about this little tomato…and then…

Her eyes look hazy. She’s not really interested in these tidbits, only her line of interrogation. And this is frustrating, because it’s the story of our pregnancy, our paper pregnancy; the same way bio Moms share tales of morning sickness and food cravings, we talk fingerprints and home studies and blood tests.

So did you get to name it?

It? Oh, you mean the baby! (I pause for instructional purposes. She’s treating him like he’s a puppy, something that needs to be underscored). Sure, of course we did. Pretty great, isn’t it? There are still a lot of kids in the US who need homes.

Yes, I heard. But I always wondered if the bonding process would be harder. Is it?

She’s relentless. But I’ve had 7 hours of sleep and am feeling strong, feisty enough to handle this like a university mascot. Well, no, actually, it’s not. And how would we know otherwise? I add, cheerfully. We adopted our puppy from the Humane Society, and sometimes I feel like she’s my own flesh and blood.

She doesn’t like the canine-human comparison, which pleases me more than I admit. Maybe she’s a cat person.

A woman with two kids passes, glancing quickly in our direction. I wonder if there’s a look of horror on my face because she gives me a wry smile until her eyes dart back to her own children, thrashing about in the red cart with a Raggedy Ann retro doll.

Well, good luck, she says, almost nostalgically, punctuated by a polite smile. I say thank you, we part ways, and as I wheel off toward the pet aisle, I realize that in our conversation the woman never once said the obligatory “congratulations” due to all newborn parents.

I look down in the cart, surprised to see Eli frowning up at me from his perch. The experts say that right around this time you may see a newborn smile, some of them gas-induced grins, some sincere, or ebullient, but nobody mentioned the frown reflex. The kid is an old soul, and I love him for his furrowed brow.

Congratulations, Eli, I whisper with a smile, as we wheel the cart over to the pet aisle, in search of a gift for the other adoptee back home.

And still, the boy frowns. Maybe it’s the bright lights of Target but I love this baby for being so dubious at such a young age.