A Weekly Offering of This n That

Rainy Day is my alter ego. She is the little angel that sits on one shoulder and whispers in my ear to forgo that 6" piece of triple chocolate fudge with the four scoops of ice cream on it; she is also the little devil who sits on my other shoulder and convinces me that I can eat just one bite of each and be satisfied, and then laughs with such great abandon when in fact, I eat the whole thing, she falls off my shoulder. Mostly, Rainy Day helps me see the humor in living and, mostly, she encourages me down the right path. Not necessarily the straight and narrow one (how fun is that?) but the path that offers the most adventure and fun.

Wednesday, October 19, 2011

Rainy Day and the Adoption

Many years ago, when Rainy Day was a very small girl, she and her Mommy and Daddy lived in an apartment complex in Klamath Falls, Oregon. It was here that Rainy Day played with Granddaddy Longlegs as pets. Rainy Day is happy to announce she no longer plays with spiders. But, that's another story.  It was while she lived in this complex that Rainy Day's Mommy had Rainy Day take a bath in the middle of the day, when she wasn't even dirty, and get all dressed up in her best party dress.

"Where are we going, Mommy?" Rainy Day asked, excited at the prospect of ice cream or other worthwhile adventures.

"We're going next door to see Mrs. Smith. We're going to give her a present."

"Why? Is it her birthday? Will there be a party? With ice cream and cake?" (Can you tell, Rainy Day has a thing for ice cream and cake?)

"No, Rainy Day, we're going next door to welcome her new baby boy."

"But, Mommy, she was never fat in her tummy. How can she have a baby?" Rainy Day, also known as the Question Kid, knew that babies grew in Mommy tummies, and that Mrs. Smith was skinny and always had been. At least since Rainy Day knew her.

"They adopted a little boy. Hurry now. And take this present to give her."
Mommy and Adopted Girl

Whoa. Not so fast, Mommy. "What's doption?" That must have been a good question because Rainy Day's Mother stopped walking, turned, and looked at Rainy Day. Rainy Day could tell her mother was thinking because her face was all scrunched into her thinking face.

"Sweetie," uh-oh, it was going to be one of those conversations. Even at age three, Rainy Day could tell about those conversation, they always began with 'Sweetie.' "Sometimes Mommies can't grow a baby in their tummies, so they go to a, uh, special place, and choose a special baby to be theirs."

"You mean, like a Baby Store?"

Rainy Day's Mommy relaxed, "Yes. That's it. Like a baby store."

African Peach Faced Love Birds at the Baby Store?
Now, Rainy Day thought that sounded great. Some babies went to the Baby Store, and parents who really wanted them came in, looked around, and said, "Oh, we'll take this one! She's perfect."

"Am I dopted?" Of course, what Rainy Day wanted to know was, well, was she really special. Did her parents really want her, or were they just stuck with her because she grew in her Mommy's tummy and they had to keep what they got.

"Oh, no, Rainy Day. Mommy grew you in her tummy."

It was years before Rainy Day recovered from that shock. As she went through school, and met kids who were adopted, she was always secretly jealous. Now, of course, she has a bit more understanding of what adopted children go through, but when she was young, she had no such understanding. And every time some kid in her class said he or she was adopted, Rainy Day turned bright green with envy.

As Rainy Day went through two pregnancies, she often thought of that mythical Baby Store, and wondered if perhaps that wasn't a better way. She wondered that most especially at the end of the pregnancies when it was impossible to get comfortable whether she reclined in bed, or sat on the sofa. She wondered that most especially when her labor pains began.

Rainy Day now has two grown children, and one grown grandchild, and she wouldn't trade any of them.  Not after all she went through to have them and raise them. She wants to enjoy the fruits of her labors;-)

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