Again, rambunctious Punch, and again, I’m so ready to rest and dream!
Her kind therapist—we have been seeing her since Punch was 6—has told me not to take the disrespectful behavior personally but to know that when the little brunetti sees me now, she sees NOT MOM, NOT MOM, almost a reflex.
It’s fallout because her birth mom did not give up maternal rights and thus, we cannot adopt Punch. It must be a very confusing place for a young girl to be in.
It’s not as though there are calls or cards from birth mom on birthdays or holidays, or attendance at soccer, gymnastics, dance shows, anything.
There are two sides to every story, I know.
I adore Punchy and do not like the disrespectful comments she throws my way.
I think she thinks we somehow stole her from her birth mom. I recently came right out and told her we had nothing to do w the state taking her. All we knew was that a beautiful baby girl was delivered to our home straight from the hospital, at about 4 weeks old, by a caseworker for the state.
I remember thinking that March night that the nurses in the baby ward must have cuddled and comforted her, sang lullabies, sent her off with prayers and good-fairy wishes. She looked pampered and loved, freshly bathed, baby hair neatly brushed. I thought of the peers I had known—especially a pretty, silky-haired colleague in the marketing department at Seventeen Magazine, who used to hold and rock AIDS babies in a NYC hospital.
Punchy was not an AIDS baby but did have to stay in the hospital for weeks for another reason I do not want to write here.
She could have landed in many places, but Fate brought her to us.
And how naive were we to think there wouldn’t be lots of bumps in the road?
It’s like falling in love. You see the sweetness and joy, feel the impulse to care and love.
You look at the apple of your eye, in this case wearing a lavender fleece onesie, accessorized with a baby bottle and smelling powdered and pure, and go all in, losing the clarity of mind to consider possible roadblocks ahead.
That she might profess to hate you years later. Yet you know she loves and counts on you, that you are a steady rock on her journey. So you are not going anywhere, even when it’s hard.
On that note, sleep beckons, to recharge and renew us for a fresh tomorrow.
Good night.
Her kind therapist—we have been seeing her since Punch was 6—has told me not to take the disrespectful behavior personally but to know that when the little brunetti sees me now, she sees NOT MOM, NOT MOM, almost a reflex.
It’s fallout because her birth mom did not give up maternal rights and thus, we cannot adopt Punch. It must be a very confusing place for a young girl to be in.
It’s not as though there are calls or cards from birth mom on birthdays or holidays, or attendance at soccer, gymnastics, dance shows, anything.
There are two sides to every story, I know.
I adore Punchy and do not like the disrespectful comments she throws my way.
I think she thinks we somehow stole her from her birth mom. I recently came right out and told her we had nothing to do w the state taking her. All we knew was that a beautiful baby girl was delivered to our home straight from the hospital, at about 4 weeks old, by a caseworker for the state.
I remember thinking that March night that the nurses in the baby ward must have cuddled and comforted her, sang lullabies, sent her off with prayers and good-fairy wishes. She looked pampered and loved, freshly bathed, baby hair neatly brushed. I thought of the peers I had known—especially a pretty, silky-haired colleague in the marketing department at Seventeen Magazine, who used to hold and rock AIDS babies in a NYC hospital.
Punchy was not an AIDS baby but did have to stay in the hospital for weeks for another reason I do not want to write here.
She could have landed in many places, but Fate brought her to us.
And how naive were we to think there wouldn’t be lots of bumps in the road?
It’s like falling in love. You see the sweetness and joy, feel the impulse to care and love.
You look at the apple of your eye, in this case wearing a lavender fleece onesie, accessorized with a baby bottle and smelling powdered and pure, and go all in, losing the clarity of mind to consider possible roadblocks ahead.
That she might profess to hate you years later. Yet you know she loves and counts on you, that you are a steady rock on her journey. So you are not going anywhere, even when it’s hard.
On that note, sleep beckons, to recharge and renew us for a fresh tomorrow.
Good night.
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I recently read that LeBron James cries at the ep of the Fresh Prince of Belair when Will’s father who abandoned him shows up, and then abandons him again. The episode ends with Will veering from bravado to wailing “Why doesn’t he want me?” and falling into his uncle’s arms. I watched it on YouTube, and it is incredibly powerful. So, your role is hard, but so necessary. Kisses.
ReplyDeleteLiz
Oh thanks, I’m going to watch that! Great tip!
DeleteI watched it...right on point. Thanks again
Deletemany many kisses. You're doing God's work, loving when it's hard, even when you feel distinctly ungodly (because, you know, hey, we're not Her). ok. I'm babbling, but I'm loving the honesty of this post. And just HEARING Liz's recap of the Fresh Prince episode made me teary.
ReplyDeleteKim, thank you. Kisses to you, too!
DeleteOh my, Alice, I love so many of your posts, but this one really got me. Made me cry. I'm sure she was an adorable baby. Your kind heart noticed how "pampered" she looked. <3
ReplyDeleteHi friend..... yes, I did notice.,,,and who knows, maybe someone very close to her had done that, you know? But that is not what occurred to me. Hope all is well and thank you for reading. Xoxo
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