By Stacy Bolt
If you’re pregnant, you might think that nine months is a long time to wait for a child to be born. But trust me, it’s a good thing. I know, because I didn’t have nine months to prepare. I had 90 minutes. From the phone call from our adoption agency to the nurse handing me a seven pound human being for whom I would be responsible for the remainder of my days on earth: 90 minutes. In less time than it takes to make a lasagna, I was a mother.
My son is what the adoption agency referred to as an “instant baby.” That means that, rather than planning the adoption ahead of time, his birthmother showed up at the hospital in active labor and announced that she couldn’t keep the baby. So the hospital called our agency. And our agency called us. And just like that, this instant baby had instant parents who knew — instantly — that they were in way over their heads.
Dumbstruck as we were, my husband and I felt confident that between the hospital and the adoption agency, someone was going to tell us what to do with the baby when we got him home. Instead, the only thing we got that even remotely resembled official instructions was a bright yellow flyer with the headline, “Never Shake a Baby!” In the coming days, we’d often turn to the flyer for guidance. “What do I do?” my husband screamed from the nursery at 4 o’clock in the morning while the baby spewed fluids from at least three orifices simultaneously. “Don’t shake him!” I offered while hiding under the covers.
Convinced that we were doing everything horribly wrong, we solicited our friends’ advice and followed it like gospel. We slept when the baby slept. We cried when the baby cried. We drank when the baby drank. One friend told me I should keep a diary so I could remember everything about this “precious, precious time.” This is how far I got:
Day One: Black poop.
Day Two: More black poop, followed by green poop.
Day Three: I liked the black poop better.
None of this helped, by the way. Despite a Tivo full of mommy shows, the advice of my friends, and the Leaning Tower of Parenting Books next to my bed, I still hadn’t found anything that would tell me how to be a mother. And I needed that. After all, I hadn’t carried my son inside me. I hadn’t pushed him out of me. How could I have a maternal instinct when I’d never even worn maternity clothes? But a funny thing happened while I was trying to figure out how to be a mother: I realized that I already knew. It happened on the day my son barfed directly into my mouth and I laughed. That’s not the reaction I would have expected from myself. Scream? Yes. Cry? Absolutely. Run away and never come back? Hell yes. But I didn’t do any those things. I just laughed. And then he laughed. And right at that stinky, messy, funny moment, I knew — instantly — that I was a mother. Really and truly. No qualifiers needed.
Stacy Bolt is a Portland writer and mother who is mastering the art of raising her son, “The Pickle.” Read all about her trials and tribulations on her blog stacybolt.blogspot.com
