“How old are your kids?” Even as she asked it, Sara was already nodding.
“Four and two.”
“Those ages can be tough, especially because they can’t verbalize their needs as well as an older child can,” Robert said with an authority that brought some much-needed peace to the room. “It’s a myth that babies don’t remember trauma. They do—and so do the parents who care for them. Where’s your head at right now, Peter?”
At that one carefully asked question, Peter broke, his words choked on a sob. “I don’t know how to fix it. The kids, my marriage, any of it.”
Tears gathered in my eyes and slipped down my cheeks as Sara’s husband, Sam, moved to sit next to our newest member. He placed a firm hand on Peter’s shoulder. “We’re here for you, man. For all four of you. You don’t have to walk this road alone anymore.”
“I’d love to help you and Melanie,” Karen said.
“Us too,” Sara added.
My heart thudded in my chest. “Me too. Any way I can.”
As I watched this grown man grieve for his hurting family, a sudden and convicting clarity washed over me. Whether I was single or not, my child would have needs beyond what my limited life experience could offer him or her. There would be moments I wouldn’t know what to do, moments I’d need to reach past my comfort zone for help, moments that would stretch me as a mother and as a human being.
Because in the end, that’s what all of us were. Human.
Just like my family.
The Bailey clan may not be known for saying all the right things at all the right times, but they were mine. Complicated as they were, they were mine. And even more important, they were my child’s. If tonight was any indication, the two of us were going to need all the help we could get.
No more excuses. I would tell my family everything at Thanksgiving dinner.
chapter
eight
I lay awake after the support meeting for most of the night, my subconscious mind refusing to join the slumbering sheep I’d forgotten to count. The waiting had finally caught up to me. All the stress eating and obsessive email checking. All the highlighting of must-dos and must-haves from the adoption binder I kept on my nightstand. All the late-night YouTube watching of Gotcha Day videos filmed around the world—those first face-to-face moments between adoptive parent and child. Some were seamless unions of open arms and smiling faces; others were tear-filled and tantrum-full. But it wasn’t those fear and grief-based reactions that had my stomach knotting like a pretzel as the clock ticked on. Rather, it was Melanie Garrett’s gut-punching statement. “And before you know it, everyone in your life—even those Positive Pollys who patted you on the back for making such a selfless sacrifice—they’ll be gone. And you’ll be all alone. Married or single, you’ll be all alone.”
Sometime around five-thirty, I pushed myself from the bed, padded my way down the stairs to the kitchen, and brewed my first—but far from last—cup of caffeinated confidence. I needed to pull myself together before I melted into a sappy puddle of maternal hormones. Ironically enough, I texted my mother.
Never one for pressing the snooze button, she’d likely already be mowing the lawn or hammering on a loose baseboard at this hour, but I needed to get this over with. The sooner the better.
Good morning, Mom! What time is Thanksgiving dinner this year? Would you like me to bring a dessert and a side dish?
Spilling my secret while my mother slopped green bean casserole on our plates during a chaotic holiday meal may not be the most socially sensitive plan I’d ever devised, but it was definitely the most sensible. My mom’s ears worked best when her hands were occupied.
True to form, my mother didn’t text back until the afternoon school bell had rung and I was busy directing the volunteers for Wednesday’s all-school Charlie Brown Thanksgiving Feast. Today and tomorrow our school would be full of volunteers, all working together to organize food, string up Thanksgiving decorations, and assist kids with their line memorizations for the gratitude portion of the event. Between handing off a stack of autumn-colored construction paper to our PTO leader and dodging eye contact with a certain male teacher across the room, I slipped my phone from my pocket and spared a half-second glance at the text screen.
4. Dessert. SYATD.
Unlike Lisa, my mother’s replies were rarely longer than five words. And on the occasion her message was getting too lengthy, she’d just create her own unique abbreviation to sum it up. For instance, SYATD = See you at Thanksgiving dinner.
“Miss Bailey.” Millie Connelly, mother to Tabitha Connelly, waved me over to the volunteers’ crafting station near the bottom of the stage. She sat among eight other parent volunteers from various classes. Brighton had the best PTO on the planet. “How many of these turkey centerpieces do you think we should make?”
I worked quick math in my head, accounting for all the classrooms between kindergarten and fifth. “There’ll be eighteen groups.”
“Perfect, thanks.” Millie rocked her baby in his car seat carrier with the toe of her boot. Such a normal mom thing to do, and yet I couldn’t take my eyes off her little guy. His dark lashes and smooth ebony skin were mesmerizing.
“How old is he now?” I asked, forcing my eyes to stop misting at the sight of his chubby cheeks and doughy fingers. His toes played peekaboo under his blanket as he blew tiny bubbles between his lips. She did a silent calculation. “Wow, it’s hard to believe, but Cade will be ten months next week. He’s definitely my chunkiest baby by far.”
“He’s adorable.”
She turned back to me, gaze full of kindness. “Would you like to hold him? It’s rare he’ll fall asleep for me in this thing anymore. He’s a bit spoiled by all the extra sets of arms in our house. You’re welcome to take him—unless you have too much to do.”
No amount of work would ever prohibit me from holding a sleepy baby. “I’d love to hold him.”
With two quick release clicks of his car seat, Millie slipped him from the harness and handed him to me. She draped my shoulder with his fuzzy blanket. I breathed him in, unable to ignore his sweet baby smell or the way his warm squishy body snuggled into mine. His hair coiled in tight dark curls atop his head, and it took every ounce of my willpower not to plant kiss after kiss on his forehead.
How old would my child be when I finally got to snuggle him or her? Just one of a million questions I had pondered since I’d first applied. But exact age and gender would remain a mystery until that blessed match email arrived in my inbox. Having taught both genders for nearly a decade, I truly didn’t have a bias. I adored boys and girls equally and could envision either in my arms, at my table, in my heart. But the age boxes I’d checked on my application had ranged from infant up to four years old.
“If he fusses, his pacifier is attached to the corner of his blankie.”
“Okay, thanks.” I repositioned the sweet-smelling bundle so I could wave his pudgy hand at Millie. “Bye-bye, Mommy, I’ll see you in a little bit.”
He responded with a coo that made my ovaries swoon. “We’re off to find Mrs. Pendleton.” Luckily our school’s principal adored babies as much as I did. After all, she was a grandmother four times over now.