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You may recall in one of my earlier posts I mentioned that Alex had the gift of "baptism"; i.e., she often "christened" us with her ... ahem ... "holy waters."
Well, yesterday, whilst in the midst of being scrubbed clean in her little bathtub, warm water lapping against pretty little skin, "holy waters" weren't the only thing she christened us with.
And that's all I'm going to say about THAT.
...when you can stand out?
Usually, when I'm out with Alex, she garners a lot of attention. People are always interested in how old she is, what her name is, and generally making kind comments about her. I've found myself trying to withhold the fact that Alex is adopted as long as possible, not because I feel her adoption is anything to be hidden, but more to ensure that I'm influencing people to relate to her as merely our "daughter," not as our "adopted daughter."
Every now and then, though, people ask enough questions that I'm forced to come clean. Today was one of those days.
Marcus, Alex and I went to a famous silversmith's (famous in Texas, anyway), because I'm such a dolt, I forgot that last week was "Administrative Assistants Week." I have wonderful support where I work, so I wanted to get some gifts, albeit belatedly. As we walked in the store, one of the attendants gasped.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, "Your baby is so beautiful! What's her name?"
"Alexis," I replied, "but we call her 'Alex.'"
"That's a great name -- how old is she?"
"She's 7-1/2 weeks," I responded. "She was born March 3rd."
"Oh my God!" she shrieked. "My baby was born that day, too! How long was your labour?"
Okay, see? Now, I have to struggle with how to answer this woman honestly, without using the dreaded "A" word. I gulped.
"We-l-l-l..." I started, "umm ... the delivery was about 7 hours."
Okay then. I didn't lie, and I gave her the information she wanted.
"Wow," she said, not skipping a beat, "mine was much longer. Where did you deliver?"
Sheesh. Fine. Okay. I can do this.
"Ummm... well ... she was born at St. Joseph's."
There.
"Oh! I was at Texas Women's. That would've been funny, if we were just down the hall from each other!"
I laughed weakly. I felt sort of dishonest, but still feeling pretty smug that I hadn't given up the adoption thing.
She came from around the counter.
"She looks just like you!"
"Thank you," I responded, and smiled sweetly.
She kept on: "Are you breastfeeding?"
Okay, really. Anyone could look at me and tell with a quick glance that I'm so obviously not breastfeeding. But at this point, I decided I needed to come clean.
"No. Actually, Alex is adopted."
And then, the woman said the sweetest thing. Without a moment's hesitation, she looked directly in Alex's eyes, smiled at her, and said:
"Oh, I see. Sweetie, you came from the heart, didn't you? You came from the heart."
God bless this lovely woman.
Back in the day, I admit to perhaps once or twice wandering down to a neighbourhood watering hole and charming a man or two. Needless to say, my days for captivating an unwitting soul are long behind me, and are merely distant memories.
I'm proud to report, however, that Alex may have picked up on a bit of my skill. Here's a Quicktime movie of Alex demonstrating her skills on her hapless Uncle Matt -- it's grainy and dark, but it makes the point. This bit of evidence is brought to you by the Onion Creek coffeehouse patio (Wednesday's steak-n-baked-potato night -- it's becoming a family tradition), Marcus' Canon ZR80 digital camcorder, and The Commodores. Give it some time to load, especially if you have a slow connection -- it's quite a big file.
The onset of a smile. Look fast -- it doesn't last long.
'Cause I sure as hell haven't. Not in a few days, anyway.
The baby you see above is a sweet, amiable, loving little baby. She coos, she smiles, she makes adorable little expressions and noises. That baby is Alex.
This is not the baby who is currently in my house. The baby in my house is willful. She's stubborn. And she fusses like it's an Olympic sport. This baby is Devil Child.
To wit:
A couple of nights ago, a new friend, Patrick, his lovely wife and beautiful little boy came over for dinner. I was particularly excited about them coming over because Patrick is a priest, and will be baptizing Alex next month. Besides the fact that Marcus and I really enjoy Patrick and his family, I think it's cool that Alex will develop a relationship with Patrick prior to her christening.
I wasn't worried about the meeting at all -- Alex tends to be an exemplary child in public, and around new people. She's engaging and amusing. She's just lovely. Besides, she'd met Patrick before, so I knew the evening was going to be really special.
So what do you think happened as soon as they walked into our house?
That's right. Hellspawn 2004.
Alex lost her ever-lovin' mind. For a solid 45 minutes, she was fussy, and cantankerous, and obstreperous. The kid was unmanagable. And you could tell that nothing was really wrong with her either, because every now and then she'd pause and look around, like she was trying to decide whether or not she'd caused enough damage, and then she'd re-engage. It was a calculated, military operation. At one point, I think Patrick was seriously considering performing an exorcism. And I would've let him, too. Actually, I was secretly trying to use The Force to will him to do it.
Okay, the truth is, Patrick and his wife took everything in stride, and gushed over her like she fell from heaven. They were incredibly gracious. But still, I suspect they said a special prayer for us that night.
So, if anyone sees the child above, please return her to our custody immediately. We miss her. And whoever owns the child that is currently wreaking havoc in my house is more than welcome to come pick her up anytime.
My husband Marcus is the fittest person I know. It's enough to make you want to smack him. He's the type of person who can eat an entire cheesecake and never gain an ounce -- primarily because he's just as likely to go for a 75-mile bike ride right after he's swallowed the last morsel. Me, I merely walk past the cheesecake, gain twenty pounds, and collapse on the bed in a diabetic coma. It's not easy being married to someone who is healthier than most men a decade younger than him, especially since I break a sweat running to the bathroom. Occasionally, he'll inspire me, and I'll head to the gym and lose a few pounds. But then I turn around, and I find them again. Usually they're sliding down the back of my legs.
Anyway, Marcus is bound and determined to instill his passion for exercise in our daughter, even at her tender age of 5-1/2 weeks. The other morning, and I'm so not kidding, I walked into the bathroom to find Alex lying on her stomach on the bathroom mat, and Marcus doing push-ups next to her. "See, kid?" he was shouting in his most encouraging, if slightly breathless, voice. "It's easy! Come on, you can do it!"
Inevitably, disappointment set in when he discovered all she could do was turn her head from one side to the other and then crumple on her little face with a tiny yelp of frustration.
Not one to be easily discouraged, Marcus has taken to doing what he calls "floor work" with her every day. While I question his prediction that Alex will be G.I. Jane by four months of age, I have to admire his tenacity. She's already showing signs of marked improvement:
And, I must admit, she really enjoys the time.
Houston, we have a smile.
I go to work at 6:30 a.m. now, so I can leave work at 3:15 p.m. to relieve the nanny. Needless to say, I am officially very, very tired. Very, very tired. Yesterday, as I hugged someone hello, I tried to burp them. I'm not a well person.
Anyway, this morning at about 5:30 a.m., as I was stumbling around getting ready for work, Marcus was in Alex's room, bleary-eyed, giving her a bottle. I wandered in to watch them.
"Hey, Alex!" I said.
She stopped sucking, and just looked at me.
I came closer.
"Hey, sweetie!" I said.
She kept staring. Still no sucking.
"Hey, my favourite of all my daughters!" (Well, she is. The fact that Marcus and I have no other children is really quite beside the point.)
More staring. No sucking. Marcus pulled the bottle out of her mouth.
"Hey, most beautiful of all women everywhere that ever lived!"
And she cracked up. If she could've, she'd have given me a dismissive wave of her hand, and said, "You're so STOOPID."
I couldn't believe it. I shrieked. "Is that a smile?!?!" I shouted. "Marcus, that was a SMILE! It WAS!" I yelled, smacking poor Marcus on his chest, just for punctuation. He laughed.
"Yup. Looked like a smile to me."
So needless to say, I'm on cloud nine. I'm sure that will probably be the last smile I see for a couple of weeks, but I don't care. That was a SMILE.
Tonight is Date Night for Marcus and me -- our first night away from Alex. I'm really looking forward to it, but somehow I think all we'll be thinking about is that smile.
... I'm being petty.
When Alex sleeps, she gets these big, huge gummy grins. They're so beautiful. For the briefest of moments, her whole little face lights up. I can't help myself: I smile back. I try not to, but I can't help it, I do.
But this is when she's sleeping. When she's awake, nothing. Oh sure, I can tickle one side of her mouth, and I get the sort of half-hearted little smirk you see above, but nothing like the full body-smiles when she's dead to the world.
And frankly, I'm feeling a bit gypped. I mean, I love this kid. I kiss her, I sing to her, I wake up at all hours of the night to change her diapers (some of them truly diabolical). I'm OWED a smile, by gum. I've EARNED it. The baby books say that around 5 weeks, I should get a smile. She's 5 weeks tomorrow. Still nothing. She's not playing by the rules.
I realize, perhaps, that I'm being a bit childish. It's not like she's a badly behaved baby. She doesn't really fuss. And she does get these sort of happy expressions when we play with her. And we can tell when she's in a good mood, or when she's amused by us.
But I want a full on, no-holds-barred, all-out smile.
Dammit.
