Instant Mom (14 page)

I felt this way. Before we got married, I told Ian I wanted to adopt. Of course, I thought we would have biological children first; I didn’t know I would have fertility problems. By the way, contrary to what a member of the Coven had once insinuated, I didn’t wait too long to start a family. I’d started trying at thirty years old. I always find that the most sexist thing that can be said to a woman is, “Tsk, tsk, you wanted a career first when you shoulda had a baby.” That’s a bizarre thing to imply. I suggest if any woman is worried about biology fighting them later on, just freeze your eggs now. Smash through that glass ceiling at work and have your kids later. I think egg freezing should be offered as a free option to women at their college graduations.

Because biological motherhood was dodging me like the popular boys at prom, I am grateful for every minute of parenthood. Yes, even the time Ilaria had a fever and threw up all over me, from my bottom lip to my swollen ankles. And Ian, upon walking into the room with the fetched thermometer and seeing me covered in a kaleidoscope of puke, ran out of the room so he wouldn’t laugh in my face. Now I don’t feel that oddly unsettled feeling I felt when I was in the pursuit of motherhood. When I met Ilaria, as I’ve described, it all went quiet. That whirring in my head is gone, like that moment you turn off the stove fan and realize that sound had been getting on your nerves. That’s what it feels like when you meet your kid.

The other thing I’ve noticed is that people who have not adopted congratulate me, while whispering out of the sides of their mouths about “those other celebrities who get foreign kids.” I get many kudos and commendations that I adopted an American child. People turn up their well-manicured noses at “those celebrities” who have adopted from other countries and I get a “good for you” that I got “one of ours.” I try to not blanch when I am applauded for what amounts to Buying American. Every child deserves a home, fer chrissakes. So if you’re interested in international adoption, follow the laws of that country to adopt from an orphanage. Or sign up with a credible agency to adopt an infant from your own country. Or to adopt via foster care, talk through your fears with a social worker at your local FFA. The social workers provide professional support services for foster parents, including crisis intervention, advice and counseling, liaison with schools, and referrals for everything from respite care to family counseling. If you feel your child is out there, go find her. Or him. Or both. Go find them all.

A few weeks in
, I see things are going well for Ilaria at the preschool. I found out they teach using the Reggio technique and Googled it so fast I chipped a nail. It is a unique process of kid empowerment. For example, the teachers understand Ilaria needs to talk a lot. But they don’t admonish her for it. They give her time to express herself, then help her “leave room for other people’s words.” I’d like to bring the Reggio technique into some studio script meetings.

I feel so lucky to have met Sara, the school owner and Ilaria’s teacher. Over the first weeks I see she has endless patience and sunny humor with all the kids. But this afternoon when I get to the school, she asks me about something I feel is disquieting her. Sara seems to be searching for words to describe how Ilaria got all the kids to gather all the dolls, then play a game where they put babies into an oven, bake them, and eat them.

I trip over my words, I turn beet red. I cannot explain fast enough that it’s a game we made up and that baking and eating each other was a way to kiss her. It doesn’t come out right. I almost pass out as I realize it’s Yom Kippur.

Sara placates me . . . the explanation seems all right with her. She just wanted me to know.

I give Sara a pallid grin and hastily head to the playground. I hang out a lot to observe the language they’re using so we can mirror it at home. Today, one of the kids throws sand in Ilaria’s eyes and she’s upset. The teacher calls the other girl over and asks her merely to look at Ilaria. The other girl will not do it. The teacher and Ilaria wait. Finally, the girl looks up. She sees Ilaria’s eyes are red from the sand and her face is tear-stained. I see the empathy immediately flush across the other little girl’s face. She blurts out that she’s sorry. Ilaria accepts the apology. The teacher now asks the other little girl if she wants to check if Ilaria’s all right. The other little girl wipes tears from Ilaria’s face and says, “Does it hurt?,” and Ilaria nods that it does, and then adds that it’s better. The teacher asks them to hug only when they’re ready. They hesitate. They wait. Then they do hug. They mean it. And it’s over.

It’s an astonishing thing to witness. There wasn’t recrimination in the teacher’s voice. It wasn’t punitive. It was simply about realizing you’d hurt a friend and taking responsibility. I wondered if maybe there’d be fewer lawsuits in my industry if people just had to face each other and say, “Hey, you stole my TV show idea.” Maybe they’d get back, “Yeah, sorry, here’s some money.” Maybe my industry would be less litigious if we’d all hug it out, get a snack, and take a nap together. Oh, wait, that actually is Hollywood.

One thing I discover during all the time I spend at preschool is how hard teachers work at herding all those kitty-cats. Their job demands an inordinate amount of serene fortitude. Another thing I realize is I am sticky all the time. In fact, that’s how I would describe motherhood. It’s dirtier than I thought. When I decided to write this book, I vowed I would stay away from the typical full-diaper stories. So that’s not where I’m heading here. But honestly, I never imagined my bra would be filled with so many crumbs. I never thought I would find a Tootsie Pop stick stuck to my arm hair as I walked into a studio meeting. There are other adjustments. The most appalling transgression being my TiVo didn’t record
Mad Men
because it was filled with ten million episodes of
Willa’s Wild Life
.

I can see what an influence the preschool is having because Ilaria is flourishing. She is calmer, more gentle. The crunchy-granola Sunshine Shack’s groovy hippie ways are helping. One evening, I am combing Ilaria’s hair and when a knot snags and pulls, she turns to me and somberly says, “Please respect my body.”

We use the Sunshine Shack expression at home—
safe hands
. As her vocabulary increases, Ilaria uses her words, not her hands to express herself. She is gentle and loving with the other kids, as are they. To be honest, I thought preschool was day care, but now I think of it as college prep. The kids are learning the two most important social skills I wish some adults had: politeness and chewing with their mouths closed. The Reggio technique is being used further to encourage Ilaria to be the leader she is and also help her understand to be open to a game someone else suggests. It’s allowing her to be the individual she is by nurturing her natural abilities and strengthening other facets to help her develop further. I love this environment and enjoy watching the kids interact. This morning, I read a book to Ilaria’s class and afterward I stay for a bit to watch the kids play. I should leave. I have so many pending work deadlines—commitments I made before I became a mother—but I write at night so I can be here during the day to watch them all play-act animal rescue scenarios and zoom around on little tricycles. Their energy and innocence is acutely and tenderly poignant.

Sara joins me at the edge of the sandbox and we chat for a bit. She tells me she feels simpatico, an affinity to Ilaria. She is truly amused by Ilaria’s huge, funny personality and her stories about her home life and how she starts morning circle time by imitating Manny barking at squirrels. I can see Sara truly gets her.

So, right here, I decide to tell Sara our story. I confide that we’re in the process of adopting Ilaria and it’s been a tumultuous and chaotic five months and how I feel such relief that Ilaria is adjusting to the transition with us. Sara gives me a sage look as if she now understands something. She pauses . . . then softly tells me she herself is adopted.

I don’t know what to say. There have been so many coincidences in this entire experience, I am no longer surprised at anything. I just feel comforted by it. We both turn and look back at Ilaria running across the play yard, the sunlight glancing off her hair like a million smiles.

• 16 •

Firsts

Here’s the thing about
parenting: no one tells you how tired you’ll feel all the time. No one tells you you’ll forget to brush your hair and even your teeth. And no one tells you how much fun it is. Actually, they do tell you all these things, but you don’t listen because no one likes a lecture.

When we’d first talked about adopting a child older than an infant, some friends, family, and even we were concerned we’d miss out on “firsts.” But there are still so many firsts. Even though Ilaria wasn’t an infant when we met, we get to do things like potty train (no details, you’re welcome), have that first dentist visit, and the best thing of all—we get to introduce her to Santa Claus. Now, as I’ve said, we don’t lie to her. But Santa is very very real, so be quiet, Scrooge. She comprehends the concept of Santa right away. Within days, someone in our neighborhood screeches car tires and runs a stop sign. Ilaria’s body goes indignantly rigid as she points a finger and screams, “You’re on the Naughty List!!” On Christmas Eve, I’m in bed with her talking about the reindeer and just as I say they might be landing on our roof at any moment, Ian goes under her window and jangles a set of jingle bells. Ilaria squeals, “They’re here!!!” and dives under the covers.

After she’s asleep, Ian and I get to do the other fun things: eat the cookies left for Santa and leave a boot footprint in the fireplace ashes. Honestly, I am not sure who enjoys all this more—Ilaria or us. I now know Kathy Greenwood and my siblings and friends must have been holding back on all the cute kid stories all these years. Daily, I try to not bore everyone, from the magazine stand guy to a studio executive, with the cute things my kid says. My own mom dutifully listens when I call to describe everything from the six peas Ilaria ate to her sighing to Ian one morning in the car, “Oh Daddy, I just want to find a good guy.” My mom listens endlessly. That’s actually one of the firsts you get to do—testing your own mom’s patience with the cute kid tales.

Here are more firsts we get to do.. . .

Birthday parties:
It doesn’t matter what age you start at, planning kid birthday parties is fun. However, Ian and I share a dislike of all torture devices in the trampoline family after years of seeing some kid roll out of the bouncy house holding her friend’s front tooth. But good luck talking your own kid out of a bouncy house. We’ve so far managed but only by trading a princess. For a fee an actor playing a Disney character will show up at your kid’s party and entertain with games and magic. Added bonus: the revealing Ariel costume is an inch away from coming with its own stripper pole—but it’s worth it to not have that inflated bouncy house in my yard. Plus it’s fun to watch the dads pretend to not look at her bedazzled navel.

Books:
From the first week we meet Ilaria, we get to introduce her to books and we read a story every night. She loves the pictures, loves the stories, and loves to sit in our laps to turn the pages. We get misty-eyed re-reading all our old favorites like
Green Eggs and Ham
and
Everybody Poops
. We also experience an extraordinary moment during a barbecue with Core when Ilaria is three and a half years old. At her bedtime, in her bossy way Ilaria gathers everyone into her room to “read” to them. The book she chooses is
Are You My Mother?
It’s sweet to see various Core adults squatting all around her room among the stuffed animals and princess tiaras. Although she can’t read yet, Ilaria has memorized the book. As she flips through each page to tell us all the story, she asks, “Are you my mother?” It comes out as, “You ma mudder?” and Ian and I look around the room at our friends . . . everyone’s soft and kind eyes are saying, “Yes.”

Ice cream:
Very early in our relationship, I get to see my daughter’s face when she discovers ice cream. We’re at the mall and I hand her a strawberry ice cream cone. I can see from her expression she doesn’t know what it is. I wait. She looks it over, sniffs it, then licks the creamy perfection that is ice cream. The delight on her face is pretty cool. She loves it.

So now I have a secret weapon—ice cream. Since this is in that time period when she would wake up from her stroller nap and kick me in the face, I hatch a plan. Now after she’s asleep, I quickly run that stroller home. When I see her begin to wake up, I zip to the freezer, rip the wrapper off a Fudgsicle, and throw it into the stroller like raw meat to a lion. As she licks it, I see her look me over and decide to not drop-kick me. Progress.

Haircut:
One day as she naps, I do the quintessential new mom mistake: I trim her hair. With her head hanging at that Sleeping Pope angle it just comes out catastrophically wrong. When she wakes up and moves her head, I see I’ve given her a bona fide Monster Truck Rally mullet. As she sits up and stretches, I see actually the bangs hang not unlike Hitler’s. I try to fix them. The bangs get shorter and more crooked and are now in a style that would best be described as Trendy Meth Addict. Ian comes home, takes one look, and pries the scissors from my hand.

Professional haircut:
I take her to a place that caters to kids. Balloons hang from the ceiling and the kids sit in giant chairs that look like airplanes. The lady trims and fixes Ilaria’s haircut, sprinkles sparkles into it, and affixes a multicolored glittery barrette. My daughter now looks like a demure little girl. We walk out, and, feeling victorious, I dig for my camera to record this mommy-daughter moment; but Ilaria yanks out the barrette and chucks it across the street.

Embarrass your mom:
One day we are in an elevator at the medical building, and it fills with people in business attire. I look down, lock eyes with Ilaria, we nod as in,
yeah, this would be a good time for our new trick.
She takes my forearm and blows the biggest fart sound ever heard. The people in the elevator gasp. Ilaria and I laugh our heads off. As people give me a “grow up” look, it occurs to me that someone might recognize me and this story might be retold in a less-than-flattering manner. I guess I should think of these things before I teach my daughter that a loud flatulent sound in a close space is funny. But it just is. Then, she keeps doing it, over and over. I move my arm away and tell her to stop now. Nuh-uh, it’s funny and she knows it. The elevator stops at many floors, new people get on. While I look at the ceiling, Ilaria grips my calf, blows farts, and waves her hand past her nose, wailing, “Mom, did you have a burrito?”

Christmas gifts:
After months of appealing to our friends and family to stop spoiling our child, Ian and I completely lose our minds at Toys “R” Us over a toddler-size pink Barbie convertible. Upon discovering this pink jewel under the tree on Christmas morning, Ilaria immediately gets in, turns it on like she’s sixteen with a learner’s permit, and drives it straight into the living room wall.

Easter:
On our first Easter together, I’m explaining my somewhat limited knowledge of the Easter Bunny to Ilaria. Greek kids don’t receive a basket full of chocolate ears to bite off. Our Easter celebration consists of fasting for a week while attending nightly church services after school, then feasting on roast lamb on Sunday at one
A.M.
after another long church service. Sunday afternoon is another church service in another itchy dress, then a day of getting kissed by itchy-cheeked relatives only broken up with the excitement of clacking the shells of dyed-red eggs against your cousins’ to see whose is strongest. Not exactly the same as waking up to a giant basket of sugar. Determined to give our kid the North American Easter experience, Ian and I organize a hunt on our front lawn. When I try to explain to Ilaria there is chocolate out there, she looks skeptical. I ecstatically bleat that the Easter Bunny hides kids’ favorite thing: chocolate eggs! But she’s not buying it. She gives me a wily wink and says, “So for you he hides new purses?”

Halloween:
As I’ve described, like a lot of kids, Ilaria likes being a cat. Therefore, all three of us are cats on our first Halloween. We have matching fuzzy ears and tails Ilaria and I made out of itchy boa-ish material we bought at the fabric store. Ian’s scalp sweats under the man-made fiber ears, and we affix the fluffy tail to his jeans. He’s not quite feline—he looks more like Head Bear of the Gay Pride parade. We’re sitting out front of our house with always-game Core dressed in outlandish costumes, handing out candy. Manny menacingly paces behind the gate, barking at werewolves. Ilaria isn’t really into trick or treating. She’d rather stay out front of our home with all the adults. As each person goes by, Ilaria pours candy into their baskets, then lustily shouts, “Thank you for coming!” as if she’s hosting Halloween.

Going out:
Anna has been our sweet housekeeper and friend for ten years. She is a mother and grandmother . . . of sons and grandsons. She absolutely adores Ilaria, and the feeling is mutual. So naturally Anna becomes our babysitter. Anna urges Ian and me to go out for dinner for our anniversary. We’re hesitant to leave Ilaria, but we read her a book, tuck her in, and after she falls asleep, we get in the car and try to decide where to go for dinner. I mention that Ilaria needs sneakers . . . so we detour to our local mall first. We walk the aisles of the kids’ store, filling our cart with teeny T-shirts and socks. Ian and I never get to dinner, but we do manage to stay out for ninety minutes.

First play:
Ian is traveling so I look up weekend things to do and find out there’s a new kids’ play in a local theater. I call up to reserve tickets and the man assures me it’s recommended for preschoolers. Ilaria and I get there—it’s a nice theater and the smell of the musty upholstery is very familiar and comforting to me. I’m thrilled to be able to share this experience with my three-year-old daughter for the first time. As the play progresses she looks around at the heavy curtains and rows of seats, then back to the stage, and giggles at the “dog.” A guy in a costume is doing a very good job of scampering—wait . . . something’s wrong. Ilaria is agitated, and I am not sure if what I think is happening is actually happening . . . oh yes, yes it is—in this story the dog dies. Dies. In a kids’ play. Ilaria flips out. I comfort her that it’s just make-believe but she keeps saying, “Why did the dog die?,” and I’m pretty sure I could choke the person who decided it’s okay to kill a dog in a kids’ play. It ends soon after and we wait in the lobby for the actors to change their clothes and come out. I walk straight up to the guy playing the dog and, not unthreateningly, tell him under my breath he must show my daughter he played the dog and he is actually alive. I firmly request he get down on all fours. He does. It works. Ilaria believes him and is relieved he’s okay. I think the actor is afraid of me because he lets her pet him for about twenty minutes.

Concert:
Ilaria, Ian, and I are dancing our butts off surrounded by other parents and preschoolers packed into chic Club Nokia on this Saturday afternoon as the Imagination Movers rock the house. They’re a group of nice guys who teach kids life lessons through creativity and song. And they’re hot.

Movie:
I’m with Ilaria at a matinee of our first-ever movie. We’re sitting here waiting to see
The
Pink Panther
and I’m really excited to bring her to a movie. As the lights are going down and the previews play, she is covering her ears, saying how loud the sound is. It dawns on me—surround sound is deafening to a child. Plus it’s very dark in here. She doesn’t like it and I try to calm her. Beside us the cranky octogenarian who smells like varnish, after spending the last ten minutes loudly crinkling open a bag of from-home popcorn until I wanted to tear it open and feed it to her, complains about my “crying kid.” Now first off, Ilaria isn’t crying. But second—I’ve been in a movie theater and been annoyed by kids whining to their parents that they didn’t want to be there. Clearly, Ilaria doesn’t want to be here. My big clue is she keeps saying, “I don’t want to be here.” So what am I doing here? I gently pick her up and we walk out. And the look of relief on her face in the lobby is so worth it. We smile at each other and I tell myself again and again—good things come when I listen. Now I hear “Miss?” and a nice manager is leading us to the side. He has seen what happened and is now refunding our tickets. And Ilaria’s eyes record the entire event. I can see the lesson in her expression—“If I speak up, I will be heard.” It’s a good message for both of us. I spend the money on concession candy and we go home.

Ladies’ day:
I take Ilaria to our local salon for her first manicure and pedicure. Across from me, I can see her modeling the stance and behavior of the other ladies in the chairs. She is self-assured and chatty as usual. The manicurist leans in to begin on her hands and asks, “So this is your first manicure?” Ilaria shakes her head side to side and assures the woman, “I give myself a manicure every day. Do you know how? I pick it!”

Lost tooth:
I get a call from the preschool. When I see that number come up on my cell phone, my hair goes gray and I get a chin zit. What, what could it be?? I answer and Sara tells me Ilaria has lost her first baby tooth. My throat aches as I race for my car. It had been loose for a week. I’d been lucky because I had seen Ilaria’s face the moment she’d discovered it loose. She’d bitten into a cob of corn and sheer delight crossed her face. I was overjoyed that she excitedly looked right at me as she gripped her bottom tooth. She wanted to share this moment. This was huge news at our house. Everyone in Core cheered her on as she went right to work on that loose tooth wiggling and jiggling it for days. This morning, we could see it hung on a promise but she didn’t want to yank it out or let Ian or I do it.

Now it’s out. My mind is a jumble of thoughts as I get to the preschool and as I run up, Ilaria bolts out of class. Right before she throws herself against me, I see the look on her face: triumph. She is so proud of herself because she’s not a baby anymore. And that’s why I can’t stop crying.