Half Way to Grown-up

Nine years ago today, nine pounds of beautiful showed up in my life and permanently messed me up for the better. At about 8:15 pm on January 18, 2002, after 17 rather nasty hours of difficult labor (which incredibly did not result in a c-section), Abra Elisabeth showed up in the delivery room. Slightly blue from having been stuck for a while, but otherwise just fine, thank you. They stuck her under the french fry warmer with an oxygen mask and it was all good. I called my mom to let her know that she had a granddaughter and all was fine. And then I got wheeled to my room, and for the first and so far only time in my life, I fainted. Well, it was kind of a hard day.

Flash back almost exactly one year earlier, to Martin Luther King Day weekend, 2001. I'd gone to a party, met this guy, and he asked me to dinner a couple of nights later. We dated for really only a few months. We had some good times but it wasn't really going to go anywhere so the romantic part ran its course by May. The end was amicable and we were friends for a while after, but eventually that went badly south for reasons I don't need to get into here. The relationship was pretty unremarkable and was quite short--basically, long enough for me to have a six-pack and a serious lapse in judgment. So, here I was, a badass (I always thought, anyway) criminal defense lawyer, 36 and very single, and about to become a single mother. Since the romantic relationship with the Other Party Responsible was pretty well kaput by the time I found out I was expecting, there was no question about the single part. By and large I felt prepared for it--I was, after all, raised by a single mom myself. I had a good job with a boatload of paid leave built up and a lot of fantastic and understanding co-workers. Still, though, I would occasionally get hit with weird random reminders of how much everything was changing for me. I remember one night, when I was about 6 or 7 months pregnant. I was getting ready to go to the annual Public Defender conference in Milwaukee, and my hair dryer had broken and I needed to get a new one. I'd gotten busy during the day, and so my only option was to haul my somewhat ungainly self, at 10 p.m., to the only place that was open, Wal-Mart. And I remember walking the aisles of Wal-Mart, being hit with a sudden, overwhelming sense of irrational panic. Right now, I can just pick up and go shopping whenever I want, but I can't do that once I have a kid, I thought. I CAN'T HAVE A KID, WHAT THE HELL AM I THINKING?????

It wasn't the last time I'd have that thought, either. I remember the morning after Abra was born, I looked over at the new baby in her little bin next to my bed, with her perfectly round head (did I mention the 17 hours of labor and her being stuck and me not having a c-section?) covered with thick dark hair. I thought, Wow, what a really beautiful baby. And then, Holy shit. That's MY beautiful baby, and I have to take it home and take care of it. WHAT THE HELL WAS I THINKING????

All that notwithstanding, I'd been prepared for a while to be a single mom. In fact, I'd been researching adoption for quite some time and had made something of a commitment to doing it when that got shelved due to my pregnancy. At one point when Abra was a toddler, and things were dark and ugly with the Other Party Responsible, I was at some New Age fair or something like that, and on a whim I sat with Abra on my lap and talked to a psychic for a half an hour. She told me, among other things, that Abra had a very special light around her and that although things were difficult right then, Abra chose me for a reason. I've amused myself on a number of occasions since then, picturing Unborn Abra In The Land Of Souls, patiently twiddling her thumbs waiting throughout my twenties, into my thirties, watching some opportunities come and go, maybe starting to panic a little when I start really looking at adoption. Then I hook up with this guy, and she looks over at her buddies and says, "OK, dude's kind of a bozo and this isn't really ideal, but she's not getting any younger and the window of opportunity is closing here, so I'm going in. See ya!" It's an amusing story, but I still like to think that she had a good reason for choosing me. I certainly hope so.

And so nine years have lapsed since I went from non-parent to parent. In that time period, I became a mother for a second time, and then hooked up with a fantastic guy and became a wife besides. The Other Party Responsible for Abra's appearance bowed out permanently, clearing the way for the fantastic husband to adopt both girls, which he did. Nine years doesn't seem like very long ago at all. Nine years from now, she will turn 18. The first nine have been a pretty good ride, the somewhat inauspicious beginnings notwithstanding. She's smart, beautiful, bossy but kind, talks and walks like me, and resembles me in many ways. But not in every way. She is slow-moving, patient, not easily rattled, and possesses an enviably high frustration threshold--all in definite contrast to me. She likes the spotlight, but doesn't demand it. I like to say that she's fine with being on stage, but what she really wants to do is direct. She's a pretty old soul, I think, but one with a sunny outlook on life. That's a good combination when you can come by it. I wonder if she'll still be that way in another nine years, after all the hormone poisoning of adolescence, smiling at the adulthood looming in front of her like she now smiles at the childhood she occupies.

Go get 'em, Sweetie. Happy Birthday.