(Before you say it, I’m well aware that all babies develop at different rates. I know this in my mind. Carly is also more advanced in other things — especially her independence. In my psyche, however, it’s a complete chaotic mess.)

My mother thought that maybe I got jealous of my friends’ kid because I didn’t want to admit that I truly do think my own child is the smartest, prettiest, strongest, nicest, and over-all highest achiever in the bunch. My mom thinks that once I saw a child acting “smarter” than mine, I became jealous.

My response was, “Of COURSE I did! Everyone does. They just don’t admit it.”

I was watching this little girl enjoying being the center of attention — talkative and babbly, singing songs, and following her parents’ directions (and as Carly was asleep, I couldn’t really look to my own beautiful, smart, sly, curious, stubborn, independent daughter for support) — and wondering, “Why can’t Carly do that yet? Is there something wrong with her? Should we be concerned?”

When the hostess saw through my nice-but-tinged-with-worry-and-envy comments, she noted to the group of moms & dads: “We’re all just jealous,” implying that since our babies — my daughter, her son — were sleeping, we were jealous that we couldn’t show off our wonderful children, too.

Yeah, that’s part of it. But I was also thinking, “How is their baby so much more advanced than ours? Is there something wrong with us? Is there something wrong with me? Am I a bad parent?”

Ah, now there’s the rub.

And that’s the part Dave doesn’t understand. There’s this heaviness assigned to the word “mother.” We’re thought of as the primary caregivers. Primary. Most important. First in rank. First to blame. So when I saw this toddler acting … well, perfect… I became jealous. And a bit freaked out, obviously.

What if I do a shitty job at being a mother? What if, as two of my former students — twin sisters — pointed out, she forgets how much I love her when she’s a teenager and we don’t get along. “How sad,” they agreed. What if she says that I’m not her “real mother” because I’m white (that and the fact that I didn’t actually give birth to her)? A good mother would know how to respond. What if I don’t have the answer? What if all my expectations for her — I call bullshit on anyone who says they don’t have them — fall apart?

What if she’s not perfect? What if she is?

Will I still be jealous?

Take, for example, the new Toys ‘R Us “Our Biggest Toy Book Ever!” that came in the mail yesterday (with “up to $5000 in savings!” — over what I don’t know, but there it is).

This “book” is really 80 pages of junk mail with two staples through its middle. And, boy oh boy — and girl oh girl — is it full of stereotypes.

Background: Yes, I love to analyze. But I also like to point these things out to my students — these slightly subliminal things we do notice but don’t take any note of. For example, gender. This catalog would be a great study on how gender stereotypes are perpetuated in our young children.

The usual suspects are of course there — boys driving cars, girls playing house; boys’ backgrounds in blue, girls’ in pink (even the tabs on the sides of the pages). But there are more, subtle ones.

The kitchen/cooking scenes are my favorites (pages 54 & 55). On first glance, you see (WOW!) boys and girls playing together on pink-tabbed pages. However, look closer at the four set-ups.

1) In the Step 2 50′s Diner, two girls and a boy play. One girl is cooking, while the other girl sits at the booth with the boy.

2) In the Fisher-Price Grow With Me Kitchen, there are three kids — a little girl in the inset whipping up something yummy at the kitchen, just like her bigger-sized counterpart in the main image. The boy is on a phone holding a shopping cart with one hand.

3) The third scene, around the Little Tikes Deluxe Wooden Kitchen & Laundry Center, features two girls — one ironing and the other talking on a phone over a pot with a spoon sticking out of it.

4) The final set — Little Tikes Sizzle & Serve Kitchen with BBQ — has a girl and boy cooking up fun. The girl’s holding a plate with a plastic hot dog (in bun) and what looks like corn; the boy stands at the BBQ, spatula in hand.

See a pattern here? All the girls are doing very domestic things. The boys are doing things that are less domestic. The only one that may buck the trend is the little boy with the cell phone and the shopping cart. But, he’s not really behind the cart, merely holding it with one hand as he stands off to the side of it.

Did I mention that ALL the girls — six of them — are wearing something pink, while the three boys are each wearing red?

Boys seeing this know that it’s ok to play with the girls’ toys as long as they’re not really doing “mom” stuff like cooking or ironing. Sitting and eating is ok. Grilling is “man’s” work. And “I guess if I HAVE to go over to Wendy’s house for that play date I can be near the shopping cart, as long as it doesn’t look like I’m actually using it.”

Meanwhile, the girls know their “places” — behind the counter at the diner, in the kitchen, and in the laundry room.

Now, what if I was a girl who actually LIKED to build things? (In my day it was Tinkertoys, Legos, Lincoln Logs.) Nope, can’t do that, girls. At least not according to Toys R Us. Imaginarium’s Marble Mania Genius looks SO COOL — and a boy’s playing with it (page 15). Magnext’s iCoaster? For boys (page 21). Toys R Us even touts their “Largest Collection of Megal Bloks! [and] America’s Biggest K’Nex Selection!” (pages 22-23). Three boys are playing with them. Sorry, girls. “America’s Biggest Selection of LEGO!” on pages 24 & 25. One little boy plays alone. Star Wars, Super Heroes, TV/Movie Heroes — all tabbed blue for boys. It’s like that fort — No Girls Allowed. Stunt sets, robots (ROBOTS — how cool is that?!), and cars? Just for boys. Oh, and anything that runs on a track (including trains). Boys. Boys get the Razor scooters, too. Damn.

You may think I have it in for boys. Not really. I just like to play with trains, cars, trucks, and blocks. And scooters.

Damn.

Girls get such cool stuff though — pink editions of Scrabble, Ouija, Monopoly, UNO, Life, and Twister! They can even get a pink cash register and a pink ATM — because, really, all girls want to do is spend money, right? They, of course, get lots of doll houses and princess houses to choose from — all in various shades of pastel and (you guessed it) pink. Not to mention the baby dolls, ponies (with pink manes), and princesses. Talking nurseries. Barbie, Barbie, and Barbie. And everyone’s favorite: Bratz Magic Hair Color Torso (page 60) — ages 6 and up — complete with hair coloring, glitter, streaking tool, curling iron, and exposed navel. Project Runway design cards. Everything Hannah Montana (if there is a god, HM will be GONE by the time my Carly is 5). And a FREE High School Musical 3 Cheerleader Dress (with any HSM purchase of $40 or more).

Oh, to be a girl!

So let me get this straight — my daughter can’t be a superhero, but she can be a hair stylist for people with bad hair and worse fashion sense? She can’t build things, but she can color in other people’s designs? She can’t use a scooter, but she can play house with plastic babies? And if she wants to play a board game, it should be pink?

And her boy friends — friends who are boys — can’t like baby dolls because they’re too busy building the nursery? They can’t play a (pink) board game because they’re having too much fun riding scooters? And they can’t use the ATM (again, pink) because they’re trying to save the world from Darth Vader?

No fair.

I call bullshit.

I hope my Carly rides over that trampy-ass Bratz head with her Razor scooter on her way to play Star Wars with her boy AND girl friends who play red, blue, yellow, green UNO.

And there’s no way in hell she’s getting into a HSM cheerleader dress.

Free or not.

We went upstairs to meet the social worker, our daughter — who still didn’t have a name — and the discharge nurses. We learned how to clean her soft, delicate skin, how to clean her umbilical stump, and how to aspirate her tiny nose. We received diapers, formula, alcohol swabs, and the clothes she had been wearing earlier. In all, it was two huge bags of stuff. As we got ready to leave the hospital, Dave decided he’d drive the car around for the baby and me (the baby and me!) and meet us downstairs. He took a load of stuff with him, leaving me with the little girl, our diaper bag, and the car seat.

As we (the baby and me!) got ready to leave, the nurses said that I couldn’t walk out with her — I had to be taken out in a wheelchair. What?! Even though I didn’t give birth, I still had to be wheeled out with the baby — hospital policy. How cool was this?! As Dave had the camera in the load of crap he took down to the car, the nurses snapped a picture with my phone — me, sitting in a wheelchair, holding our daughter in her little pumpkin seat. It was an amazing moment.

When we arrived downstairs, we loaded everyone up in the car — I’m sure all the newly discharged moms who saw me jump right out of that wheelchair were a bit confused and jealous — and headed back “home” (our hotel). We still had 7-10 days of waiting for the interstate compact agreement to process before we could go to our real home and start our life as a family.

The interstate compact agreement is drawn up between the two states in which the adoption is taking place — in this case, Colorado and Florida. Since we weren’t the legal guardians of our little girl yet, Florida had to get assurance that all the legal necessities would be taken care of on Colorado’s end. Once Colorado agreed that they’d follow through with us, Florida would let us go home. Otherwise, we’d be kidnapping. Not so good when you’re building a family. So we had to wait, again. But this time, we were three!

Our first night in the hotel was pretty comical. Little girl — who still didn’t have a name — didn’t want to sleep in the portable crib. We (thankfully) brought one of those mats with the two wedges on it that holds the baby in place — sleep positioner! that’s what they’re called — so she could sleep on the bed with us or the couch (with us, too). We took turns sleeping — while one of us slept, the other watched her sleep. Also, she was deeply freaked out by any amount of poo in her diaper. So freaked out that she almost flipped fully over screaming the first time we discovered a pea sized poo in her diaper. She’s like the princess in the story “The Princess & the Pea.” We felt like we had no idea what we were doing, and no one was around to help us. But she ate, peed, and burped like a champ.

She even tried to latch onto Dave’s nipple. Never again has he held her without first putting on a shirt.

After a couple of days, we were still overwhelmed and sleep deprived, but we felt much better about everything. The hotel staff all signed a card for us and sent up a big pink balloon. We took walks with her. And we all took numerous naps a day. We also settled on a name — Carly Althea. I had originally wanted to call her Charlotte, but every time I tried, it just didn’t fit her at all. Carly is for her two grandfathers — both named Charles. Althea is for Althea Gibson and a reference to The Grateful Dead.

When she was 8 days old, we got an early (very early) phone call from our social worker — we were cleared to go home! HOME! In fact, we could leave today if we wanted to. TODAY! I immediately called our travel agent and got us on a flight that afternoon. She told us that if anyone asked, baby was two weeks old. Just in case. We furiously packed all the crap that had accumulated in our room over the past week or so. We actually had to run over to Walgreens and buy a cheapo duffel bag to store all Carly’s things for the flight. Somehow, we did it all — including cleaning out the little kitchen in our hotel — in time to return our car, check our bags, and make our flight. We called our folks from the airport to let them know we were all set to return home. As a family.

The flight itself was pretty uneventful — thank goodness. Carly ate on the way up and on the way down, and she slept for the rest of the time. She just rested in our arms, swaddled in her blanket, with a little baby cap on her head. Precious.

When we arrived home, we installed the car seat into our own car — our own car seat for our own daughter! — and made the trek home. Our dogs were SO excited to see us, and they sniffed EVERYTHING we brought home — including Carly. They didn’t know what to make of her, but that was ok; they’d have plenty of time to figure her out.

Skip several weeks, so I can get back to the process of the adoption. (We can discuss the details of all the fun stuff at home later.) Our social worker back home had to make sure we weren’t swinging Carly from the rafters and beating her with sticks, so we had a couple more interviews with her. We also kept in touch with our social worker in Florida. Just over three months later, we finalized. We had the option of “going” to court by phone, so we did. I met Dave at his office with Carly, and we had a conference call with the judge in Florida. The call seriously didn’t last more than 10 minutes.

Congratulations. We were parents. Parents. Carly was officially ours. In the eyes of the law, it was as if I had given birth to her. Amazing.

Several weeks after that, her new birth certificate arrived in the mail. It was true. She was ours! Our daughter Carly Althea.

Ever since (and I know it will sound cheesy, but whatever), I can’t imagine my life without her. She is my daughter. She is Dave’s daughter. We are her parents. She doesn’t know anyone else as Mommy and Daddy. She loves us as if she was our blood — which as far as I’m concerned, she is.

When S made her original birth plan (as it was told to us by our social worker), she wanted us to be in the room either next to her or down the hall so we could begin bonding with the little girl as soon as possible; she was still undecided if she’d hold the baby or not.

However, once the hospital — or should I say the hospital’s legal team — got wind of this, they decided this plan was not an option. Apparently, since this was a closed adoption (at S’s request), and we weren’t part of S’s family (and she didn’t know us from Adam & Eve), the hospital completely balked at the idea of two strangers (us) having control over a baby that they’d be legally responsible for. What if, they thought, we just walked out of the hospital with S’s baby before S was discharged and had signed over her parental rights? I could understand their point of view, but learning this while standing at the terminal minutes after getting off the plane was a bit jarring to say the least.

Dave was furious. We had both taken an extra day off work, we’d pay for an extra night in a hotel; the least they could have done is told us this ahead of time… blah, blah, blah. We couldn’t both be upset or nothing would get done, so I had to be the voice of reason (scary) and try to make the best out of a difficult situation. Of course, what we both were thinking and too scared to say at the time was, “What if we’re not at the hospital, S spends more time with the baby, and she changes her mind? What if we lose this little girl?”

We rented our car, found our hotel, got a bite to eat, and settled in. Regardless of what happened, we were there and would make the best of it.

The next morning, we got the call that S was at the hospital and would be induced. Of course, we were terribly nervous, excited, scared, happy… and of course, we had to wait. When we finally got the call that the little girl had been born, and that she and S were both doing very well, the nervousness changed. Now, we were almost parents. Maybe our baby girl was in the hospital. Hopefully, she was our daughter. Cautiously optimistic.

Did I mention that it was our fourth wedding anniversary? We just didn’t want to believe everything could happen so wonderfully. That we could get this gift. That she could be ours.

Then our social worker came to the hotel to visit and show us a picture — the little girl was amazingly beautiful. So delicate and soft. We were both completely in love. But we still couldn’t see her because of the damned hospital! That was very frustrating. We went out to celebrate our anniversary that night thinking about that picture and the happy (cautiously optimistic) thought that at that very moment we could be parents.

While we were celebrating (in a cautiously optimistic way), we had no idea what was going on at the hospital.

Early the following morning, one year ago tomorrow, we got a phone call from our social worker: S wanted to meet us. In person. At the hospital. S. And us. And the social worker. Holy shit!

My first thought was, “Does she know we’re white?”

It was a valid thought — we had never met, never spoke; she didn’t even want to see the profile we’d created. Our social worker carried it around in her trunk just in case S changed her mind. But she didn’t. She just wanted the agency to choose a family that was “stable” and “loving.” The agency, since they had worked with us closely through those two failed placements (and knew about the third), knew us, and thought we fit those requirements. Race never came into it.

Our social worker went back to S and told her what I’d said. Her reply: “That’s fine, as long as she knows I’m not!” I breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

This is why S changed her mind about meeting us: Apparently, S had asked the nurses to place the baby in the nursery so she could get some rest. They agreed. However, S woke up and the baby was still in the room. So she repeated her request. They, again, agreed. S woke up again, and the baby was still in the room. This happened throughout the night. Every time, S called the social worker. Since the social worker can’t get involved with what happens at the hospital, she just told S to repeat her request. But every time S woke up, she would see the baby in her “cheap” (not my words) hospital clothes, looking “cold” and “abandoned.” S was distraught. She knew she wouldn’t be able to care for another child, but the nurses kept this beautiful little girl in the room. So she wanted us to start bonding with her ASAP; the only way the hospital would allow that was to have her in the room with us.

That’s how we got to meet Carly’s birthmom. The incredible, mature, wonderful, loving S.

We got dressed as fast as we could and drove to the hospital. The whole time, I was worried about how I looked, what S would think of me, if she would trust these two white geeks to take care of her beautiful little girl. What if she changed her mind right there? What if she hated us? I was so glad the social worker was going to be there. I was scared shitless!

After parking, going to security for visitors’ badges, and finding her room, we nervously knocked on her door. I heard our social worker say come in, and we did. S was on the bed by the window, and the little girl was in the bassinet next to her. S was beautiful — dark skin, huge dark eyes (Carly’s got them), and gorgeous long dark hair. We introduced ourselves, and she told us we could hold the baby. We didn’t have much conversation with S; she mostly spoke with the social worker. Dave fed the little girl, and I changed her (Dave had never changed a diaper and was worried that S would notice his ineptness). We also brought clothes, so the baby wouldn’t look so “cold” and “abandoned.” We stayed about an hour.

When it was time to go, I asked S if I could give her a hug. She agreed, so I leaned in, and we held each other tightly. She whispered to me, “Just take good care of her.” I told her we would. She and I both tried not to cry.

Dave and I left the hospital feeling a little more optimistic and a little less cautiously. We went to the Babies ‘R Us down the street and got our car seat and some other things we’d need later that afternoon when S and (almost) our daughter would be discharged.

Back at the hotel, we installed the car seat and waited. And waited. When the social worker called to say S would be discharged around 3, we knew it was real. S could sign the paperwork once her doctor discharged her. We went to the hospital around 3 and waited in the lobby until the legals had been taken care of. Just before our social worker let us know we could come up, we saw a nurse wheeling S out of the hospital. We didn’t know if she saw us, and we didn’t want to say anything — what do you say, really? But just before she was out the door, she turned around, waved to us, and smiled.

We were about to be parents. For real.

(Part 4′s coming…on the anniversary that Carly came home: tomorrow.)

We finally got a call the Thursday before Memorial Day: a young woman who was on a student visa from the Bahamas was about to give birth. Could we be in Florida this weekend? Ummmm, DUH?! We were told to stay put but to be on call 24/7. We crazily looked through name books and called our parents. We were completely thrown by the short notice, but we were so excited!

We didn’t hear anything over the weekend, but we trusted our agency. On Tuesday, I went back to school with cell phone in pocket. We’re really not supposed to have cell phones at school, but this was obviously a special circumstance. During my morning office hour, my phone rang. I ran outside to get a better signal. I could hardly stand it — she was in labor and at the hospital! They would call me when baby was here. I immediately called Dave and, again, went back to waiting.

I heard nothing for the rest of the day. Then, with about 15 minutes left of 8th period — the last class of the day — my phone rang. I told my kids it was a family emergency and stepped out in the hallway. Baby and mom were fine, but mom changed her mind — she would be keeping the baby. While I knew this could happen — and some statistics say it happens about 30% of the time with domestic adoptions — it was still a very hard blow. I just said, “Ok,” and listened to the social worker — apparently, the young woman’s aunt had tried to control her and told her she had to place the child for adoption. However, when it came time, she couldn’t do it. It was in this way that our first placement failed.

We took it all in stride. We only had a few days to get excited, so it was a short-lived blow, especially since a few weeks later, I got a call from my aunt in Ohio. She had been getting her hair done when someone mentioned that the salon’s former receptionist had left them, in part because she was moving back home to have a baby she would then place for adoption. My aunt, being the wonderful person she is, immediately got what information she could, called the family, and then forwarded me the information. Soon, I was speaking to the young woman’s attorney. The story, as we received it — V had a rocky time on and off of drugs; she became pregnant and stopped using drugs when she found out; dad wasn’t in the picture; she was getting good prenatal care and living at home; baby would be bi-racial. All of a sudden, we had a second possibility! We told our agency, but we kept things open with them, as we hadn’t received V’s medical records.

Meanwhile, life was moving, literally — we planned to put our house on the market to move over the summer while I was out of school and would have time to deal with unpacking. Amazingly, our house sold in nine days! NINE days! So we were dealing with packing and searching for a new home while all this was going on. It was a really good distraction, but it also felt pretty overwhelming.

Over the next few weeks, more information started to trickle in about V’s pregnancy. We received her mental health records just before we went on our annual family vacation with Dave’s family. The records were not good news. Although her attorney told us that she had quit using drugs, that wasn’t the case. There were at least two times during the pregnancy that she blacked out and ended up in the emergency room because of drugs and alcohol. Apparently, this was just the beginning of the bad news. We later found out that her own doctors had prescribed her medications that were contraindicated for pregnancy. This was too much for us; we called the attorney and told him we could no longer consider taking the child. We went on family vacation without getting her physical records, but we knew we had seen enough to know they wouldn’t be positive.

I was immensely depressed. V’s child seemed like the one for us — it was so serendipitous. However, we soon discovered we had made the right choice. When we returned from family vacation, there was a FedEx package at our door. The attorney’s office had sent V’s records just prior to our declining the child. Even though Dave said we didn’t need to look, I had to. The final page of the thick file confirmed my suspicions: her doctors recommended tests for “fetal abnormalities.”

Although we felt like we made a good decision for our family, it was still painful. I was alone in a new house, and there was no child on the horizon. Meanwhile, other couples and singles in our adoption classes seemed to all be getting their babies. I was bitter and jealous. I began having trouble sleeping.

Then, we got a call from our agency in Florida. They had a birthmom for us. Back on the rollercoaster! P was healthy. Birthfather was supportive, family was supportive, but P wasn’t sure. However, she kept in touch with the agency, and the agency kept in touch with us. It all seemed very positive. We sent some money to help P with living expenses. It seemed like this one would work out. Life was good, and Dave and I tentatively started planning for a baby (again). But within weeks, it all started going downhill. P began missing appointments with her doctor. She’d fail to return phone calls from the social worker. Pretty soon, no one knew where she was. As her due date came closer, she was nowhere to be found.

At this point, it was mid-August. I was thoroughly depressed, I wasn’t able to get regular sleep without medication, my husband was completely thrown by my behavior, and I just couldn’t seem to deal. I wondered where she was. Why would she treat herself like this? Why wouldn’t she just call the agency and tell them that she couldn’t do it? Just let us know! But nothing. I went back to work for all those before-school teacher meetings, and, of course, everyone wanted to know how the adoption process was going. I was snippy, angry, and felt completely psycho. Some of my favorite kids were in line for schedule changes, and they asked me about the adoption. I just broke down in tears and said, “Girls, I need a hug.” They, this great group of new seniors, just hugged me and listened to my horrible summer, assuring me that it would turn out alright. Kids really are the best. They always seem to pick me up when I’m down.

Two weeks into the school year, we got another call from our agency. There was a woman, S, who was about five or six months pregnant, and she couldn’t keep the baby. She already had four kids, three of whom were school-age, and one who was a year old. This pregnancy was a complete accident — and a surprise. I didn’t know how to react. I was actually pretty cold inside. I just thought, “Whatever. Here’s another birthmom, and for some reason, it’s not going to work out. But, whatever.” I called Dave, and we both tried to be positive but uninvested. This was becoming emotionally draining to say the least.

We kept this one pretty much to ourselves and our parents. We just didn’t want to deal with all the heartache publicly again. The summer was almost too much for me (and because of that, for Dave as well). If this didn’t work out, I was seriously considering just abandoning the process. I didn’t know how much up and down I could take.

But soon, August turned into September, and the agency put the money we sent for P to use for S. We were assured that S’s attitude toward adoption was very positive. She knew she couldn’t physically, emotionally, or financially care for another child. But still, I was very guarded. The agency understood this and supported me through the process.

As September became October, it came more clear that we would have to start some serious planning. S was due at the end of October. We began working in what we called “the second bedroom” — setting up a dresser, crib, and bookshelf, and keeping the dogs out of the room entirely. Pretty soon, we were buying our tickets to Florida. And making hotel reservations. And listening to S’s birth plan for her time at the hospital. We chose possible names for the little girl — we had been told when we received the sonogram picture (!!!) — and we allowed ourselves to get excited. “Cautiously optimistic” is what we said. Cautiously optimistic.

Stay tuned for Part 3!

Yesterday, Carly and I went to Costco for our monthly diaper, wipes, cheese block, and miscellaneous stuff run. She absolutely loves going to the store — any store. Come on, she gets to ride in the cart, have Mommy all to herself, and be smiled at by dozens of adoring strangers. Who wouldn’t love this? It’s like her own parade under bright florescent lights.

When we were heading over to the baby stuff, two women crossed our path, and I heard them say, “I LOVE her hair! It’s so tall!” Of course, I knew they were talking about my daughter — who was (at that time) probably the only African-American one-year-old with “tall” hair in the store. I turned around, saw that they had adoring looks on their faces, and replied, “Yeah, and it gets taller every day!”

Dave has started calling her “mushroom head.” I’m not sure how I feel about this. You see, she’s got all these amazingly beautiful curls all over the top of her head, but the sides (and of course the back) haven’t filled in that well. After a long day of playing at day care, playing with Mommy & the dogs, and taking a couple naps, those curls, well, have matted a bit. And her hair, as an entity, gets taller. (NB: When we go out — not just to the store — I do make a serious effort to re-do her hair during the day.)

I know, and Dave constantly reminds me, that I need to take her to a Black salon to learn more about it. I’ve researched a little, so I know where I do and don’t want to take her — and there are several very good ones in the Metro area; however, once I do take her, I admit to the world that I need help taking care of my daughter’s hair — despite all the reading and researching I’ve already done. Despite the great products I’ve already found (like this and this and this). I understand that this is the best thing for everyone — after all, her hair is different from my hair. Of course I’d do what’s best for her self-esteem and make sure this part of her is treated well. So why am I so worried about my own ability to parent this beautiful Black child?

Hair Pix (L to R ~ “tall” hair; after a bath; pretty for a party):

It started in December ’06 when we called an agency here to find out more about the whole adoption process. We initially wanted to go international — more on that later — but we weren’t sure; therefore, we made sure to get info on both international and domestic adoptions. We then went to an informational meeting at another agency to get some questions answered and find out what the whole process would entail. We, like most people, found out we had more questions after these two preliminary meetings than when we started. And as it was near the holiday season — Christmas and New Years — we waited to make any decisions until after the first of the year.

In January ’07, we started our official home study! At this point, we were still undecided about domestic vs. international, but we were heavily leaning toward Guatemala, as I speak a fair amount of Spanish, and the time/cost ratio was pretty favorable.

Here’s what our home study entailed:

• Meeting with social worker as a couple
• Meeting with social worker as solos
• Tour and inspection of house
• Tour and inspection of bodies — yes, we had to meet with our respective doctors and get physicals & letters stating we were mentally & physically able to care for a child. We also had to have a nurse come and do a blood draw and take urine samples (isn’t it fun to pee in a cup?) for lab tests. At this point, we realized fucking around would have been easier and much more fun.
• State and federal background checks, including fingerprinting
• More meetings with social worker

Then we had to start taking classes. In our state, we needed 20 hours that included topics ranging from child development to issues in transracial families. Most of the classes were long and BORING. However, they did give us a chance to meet others who were enduring the same processes that we were; we all were searching for our children (and peeing in cups). Meeting with other potential adoptive parents on a monthly basis was the best part of the seminars.

During all this, we were also trying to choose an agency. This was terribly difficult because there are SO many out there. Really, it’s a daunting task, and I don’t know how people did it before the internet. Some things we learned really fast (in no particular order):

• Think twice about advertising if your state allows it, as it can bring out the crazies (read adoption forums for insights on this).
• Know the difference between agencies and facilitators (facilitators aren’t legal in our state)
• Don’t pay money up front to anyone before you truly question how desperate you are (you’re not). No one — NO ONE should ask you for thousands of dollars when the fine print says “maybe” there’s a birthmom out there for you. There are never guarantees, but most reputable agencies won’t ask for this kind of cash from you up front.
• Reading forums and blogs can make you feel better and crazy at the same time.
• Patience is truly a virtue that you’ll wish you had.
• Phone calls & emails can clear up your questions quickly.
• Learn the laws in your state and the state of your agency (if it’s different) BEFORE you make a decision to use them.
• Trust your instincts.

Getting back to the domestic vs. international debate we were having at home. There are a TON of myths about domestic adoption — note that I said MYTHS — and we started to learn about them. The more we learned, the more clear it became that maybe we did want an infant — a freshie straight from the hospital (or damn close to it). This was one of the reasons we had thought about Guatemala — we had been told we could have a child younger than one year (though most would be between 1 year and 18 months). I preferred younger. However, it soon became clear we wouldn’t have a choice in the matter after all. Due to a medical condition, I would not be able to adopt internationally. (Every country has its own requirements; basically, I didn’t meet them.) So, domestic it was! Sometimes, the universe just forces you to go down the path you’re supposed to.

Anyway, agencies. Domestic only. Lots and lots of agencies. We finally, through a thorough vetting of agencies from Utah to Michigan to Indiana to Texas to Washington (and pretty much everywhere in between), we settled on one in Florida. We wanted a non-religious agency — especially since I’m not religious, Dave’s Jewish, and many Christian agencies require statements from pastors and/or a commitment that the child will be raised in the traditions of the Church. We also wanted to work with people who really knew their stuff — best case scenario would be well-established with in-house legal. And, we wanted an agency that was small enough to be personal but large enough to have clients — both birthmothers and experience placing with families. Oh, and we wanted a semi-open or closed adoption. Ours was perfect for us.

Now, all we had to do was our profile. If you’re not a scrapbooker or a creative type of person, this will seem overwhelming. But it was really fun to put together a book of our lives together. Dave and I chose our favorite pictures, took nice photos of the house, wrote about our favorite things, and were basically ourselves. Then we packaged it all neat & pretty in photo albums and sent them to our agency — hoping that someone would look at us and deem us baby-worthy.

Stay tuned for Part 2…

…the small bundle I held on my lap while being wheeled from the hospital after she’d been discharged — despite the fact that I’ve never given birth — will turn one.

…the peanut that fit into her new daddy’s hands so gently will turn one.

…the girl I tried for days to call “Charlotte” — and ultimately became Carly — will turn one.

…the infant the hotel staff in Florida welcomed with a pink balloon (“It’s a girl!”) and a card signed by everyone will turn one.

…the baby who was born on our fourth wedding anniversary will turn one.

…the beautiful child who tried to latch on to Daddy’s nipple on the first (and last) day he held her without wearing a shirt will turn one.

…the bright-eyed, dark-skinned love who screamed so violently that she almost flipped over when she had a pea-sized poop in her diaper will turn one.

…the charming infant who, at eight days old (not two weeks like we told people on the plane) flew home (home!) with her new (and permanent) parents — and slept all the way — will turn one.

…the baby whose beautiful birthmother we got to meet — and who told us to “just take good care of her” — will turn one.

…Carly Althea, who helped make us a complete family, will turn one.

One.

One.

We moved to the middle level of the house (we’re in a tri-level — ’bout as suburban as it gets) where there’s a long span of space from the entry hall to the kitchen. I plopped her down at one end and cheered as she walked (and pushed, of course) to the other end. When she hit the sliding-glass door to the backyard, we turned around and did it in reverse. When she hit the front door, we turned around and did it again. This happened for about 30 minutes — a long time to follow an 11.5-month-old down the same hallway. Wheeeeeeee!

The dogs — now THEY were just as excited as she was. Fez — the husky — kept going up to her and licking her face (we can’t call them kisses anymore; Carly licks us now), and even Luke — the tempermental one who can’t decide if he likes her or not — was walking along side just watching her have a blast. I have to say, it was pretty damn cool.

So, Carly, congratulations on your sort-of-first steps. And thank you, Mischa, for the wagon.

When Dave got home from work, we, of course, had to surprise Daddy and let him see her “walk” across the kitchen. He was a proud Poppa for sure!

This, combined with the fact that the stubborn girl is into EVERYTHING at this moment, prompted the title. Dave just looked at me and said, “She’s gonna be a menace!”

Let’s see: she’s curious, smart, pretty, and stubborn. Yeah. Menace for sure!