OmegaMom

Contrary magic is when you have a picnic planned and, just to be sure, you have a rain date.

Or, say you have the picnic planned, and don’t have a rain date.  Then it is sure to rain cats and dogs (at least, this is what happens in the Midwest).

So, imagine there’s a blogger.  This blogger goes on a long, lyrical description of how adoption issues are just a small part of life, and mostly it’s just background that you have to think about now and then.

Of course, as soon as that blogger hits “publish” on that particular post, the Gods, in all their wisdom and snarky humor, start tossing out adoption issues.  Oh, nothing major, mind you.  Just something to keep that blogger, filled with hubris, on her toes.

The OmegaFamily has a routine on weekday mornings.  OmegaDad, who has to be at work at 7:30 and has a boss who gives him the hairy eyeball if he’s five minutes late, wakes up, dashes into the bathroom, and Does His Stuff.  Ever a man who goes against the flow, he doesn’t follow the typical pattern for male showering.  In other words, he stays in there a long time.

Then he dashes out, cajoles a hug and kiss from the dotter, gets a hug and kiss from me, and dashes out the front door.

This leaves me doing most of the morning stuff with the dotter.

Our routine has developed into mommy selects dotter’s clothes for the day.  Mommy puts them in a pile.  Mommy places the pile on the dining table in the living room.  Mommy informs dotter that the clothes are there.  Mommy goes to get her own clothes.  Mommy goes into the bathroom.  Mommy plops her clothes on the toilet seat, brushes her teeth, declothes, and gets into the shower.

At this point, dotter barrels into the bathroom with her clothes heap, announces, “May I go potty, Mommy?!”, mommy coaches dotter (for the umpteenth time) to remove her (mommy’s) clothes from the toilet seat, and for Gawd’s sake, just pee.  This is a daily routine.  Honestly.  By now, you’d think she’d realize (especially since I tell her) that she doesn’t need to ask my permission, and that, to pee, she just has to move my clothes.  I’ve stopped asking why she won’t use Daddy’s bathroom (maybe because I wouldn’t use Daddy’s bathroom, either…).

This morning, while mommy was dousing her hair with shampoo and dotter was on the pot, dotter asks, “Was I in your tummy, Mommy?”

Blink.  Talk about deja vu.  Wasn’t I just mentioning this in one of my blog posts?  Like, say, yesterday?

“No, sweetie, you grew in your Chinese mommy’s tummy.”  (I wasn’t in the mood to go into the long explanation about uteri again.)

“Oh.  What’s her name?”

“I don’t know, sweetie.”

“Is she nice?”

“I don’t know, sweetie.  I think so.”

“Can we go see her?”

“Someday, baby, we’ll go back to China.  I don’t think you can see her, because we don’t know where she is.”

“Was I a nice baby, Mommy?”

At which point, I open the shower door, poke my head out, smile at her, and say, “You were an awesome baby, sweetie!”

She grinned at me.

It all went by fast.  No audible angst, just conversation.  But I thought it was a very interesting connection–talk about birthmother, then question about what kind of baby she was.  Sort of a little subtext going on there.

Okay, Gods, I give.  Stop whapping me over the head.  I get the point.  Sheesh.

Technorati: Adoption (again)