Smoking

So Hugh smokes. (Cigarettes, that is--other stuff? Lord, I dunno.)

He started smoking at least a couple of years ago. We first began to suspect because he was spending a ridiculous amount of time in the alley. There's not a lot to do in our alley, unless you're really into garbage cans or stray cats. Then came the air fresheners in the car. Finally one night he came in and when he asked me a question, the stench of stale cigarettes on his breath almost knocked me down. "When did you start smoking?" I asked him. "I'M NOT!" he howled in outrage. Sigh.

As if I don't know tobacco breath.

I grew up amidst clouds of cigarette smoke. My dad smoked constantly and four of my five older brothers were smoking by the time they hit their teens. To see the tv I peered through a smoky haze;  washing the dishes at home meant scraping the cigarette butts out of the ketchup puddles in which they'd been extinguished during dinner;  crumpled-up Kool packets littered my life; I just assumed everyone stepped out of the car reeking of tobacco. And of course, almost everyone did.

Then, as I hit my late 20s, the smoke began to dissipate. This amazing cultural shift took place. Bit by bit, the ash trays, the omnipresent butts, the smoky clouds, the acrid-smelling clothes, all disappeared.

Until Hugh hit his teens.

When I mention to friends that Hugh smokes and that, apart from not allowing it in the house, we're not responding--no "consequences"--they recoil in horror, as if I'd casually mentioned my son was a serial killer or a child molester. But I pick my battles. Lord knows, Hugh and I fight on many fronts.  This one, however--geez, this one I'd lost long ago. While just a toddler, Hugh became amazingly adept at finding the one single cigarette butt on the sidewalk. Before I could pounce, he'd have it in his mouth in a spot-on imitation of a serious smoker. At age 4, he pronounced he was going to be a Bad Guy when he grew up because Bad Guys smoke. At age 6, he declared my brother JT his favorite uncle. "Why?" I asked, somewhat mystified, since Hugh hardly knew him. "'Cos he smokes," he explained.

So Hugh smokes.

And you know, he's still as beautiful as when he slept, smelling of rising bread dough, in the cradle beside my bed.

Tho' he doesn't always smell so good.

"Pause"

Three of my friends have become grandparents. Good lord. I'm rather miffed, to be honest. I mean, no one consulted me; no one thought about my feelings or needs. These couples just go off and procreate without considering the ramifications of their actions for the wider community. For the friends of their parents, for example, who just might not be ready to move in grandparent-y circles. I"m not asking for much. I'm not asking that these young people eschew offspring, for pete's sake. I just want the power to hit "Pause." I promise to press "Play" eventually, you know, when I'm ready. Tho' that "Fast Forward" function has simply got to go.

Fertility + Dementia

Oh for pete's sake. I've got my period. A full-blown, bright red, flowing, I am fertile too bad you didn't inseminate me a few weeks ago period.

My mom had a friend, acquaintance really, who got pregnant at age 52--back in the Dark Ages, before artificial insemination and test-tube babies and surrogacy and the rest of our Brave New World. Mom always talks about this pregnancy in a tone of horror. I think it'd be kinda cool, really. Shoot, I like babies and little kids and now I'd actually have some sense of what I was doing. And by the time said baby became a horrid teenager, like the one clumping through the house right now, well, I wouldn't really notice much, would I? I'd just shake my head, the one with no hair left, and wave my arms, the ones with the extendable skin, and hobble back to the sofa to watch another episode of Doctor Who.

Supernanny

regret (verb) : 1)to feel sorrow or remorse for; 2) to think of with a sense of loss.

I'm watching Supernanny. I love Jo the Supernanny. Tonight she's dealing with a poor, lost, clueless young Houston widower and his three out-of-control little boys. (All with shaven heads; they look like concentration camp kids.) One hour. Total transformation; complete healing. Screaming, biting, hitting, kicking, emotionally autistic, junk-food addicted, horrid hellions transfigured into banana-bread-baking, mom-remembering, veggie-adoring, well-disciplined little troopers.

OK. A bit unrealistic. Yet, watching Jo, she does make sense. You can see the hows and whys and what ifs.

Damn. If I'd only had had a supernanny. I didn't feel the need, actually, with Owen. I could read and he conformed to the baby books. You stuck Owen in timeout; he jumped out; you put him back; he got it: "Oh,right, here I stay." You gave him a reward chart with stickers; he thought, 'ooh stickers! nifty-keen!'; he performed accordingly. But then came Hugh. You stuck Hugh in timeout; he jumped out; you put him back; he jumped out; you put him back; he jumped out; you put him back; he jumped out; you put him back; he jumped out; you put him back; and on and on and on until you're screaming and you realize you're about to throw Hugh out the window. You gave Hugh a reward chart with stickers; he thought, 'who gives a shit about stickers?' and careened on to his next act of destruction. So, given the data at hand, I concluded, umm, ok, timeouts and reward charts don't work with this kid. Umm, now what?

And then, years later, I watched Jo the supernanny cheer a mom on through four hours--four hours--of firmly but gently placing a toddler back in timeout. If only I'd had someone like Supernanny saying yes, yes, you're doing it right, it's ok, you can do this, yep, this is it, this is what moms do. I watched that episode with Hugh, Hugh, who kept saying, "Gosh, a kid like that would drive me nuts."

I could do it better now. Really. I'd be really good at it now.

Early signs of genius

I have a nephew, Teddy. Actually, he's my grand-nephew, and also my godson.

He's two and he's brilliant. And, I think, a budding surrealist:

Knock, knock.

Who's there?

Interrupting fish with a gun.

How bizarrely wonderful is that?

Baby Love

A couple of days ago, I found out that a friend of mine, who's older than I am, has just adopted a newborn baby. I'm happy for him and his partner. Really. So very very happy. Honestly.

Excuse me, it is possible for one to be be genuinely happy for someone while at the same time consumed with jealous rage. One is a complex being. One is capable of multi-tasking one's emotions.

One really wants a baby.

Ridiculous. One is a menopausal mother of two teenaged sons.

So--Babies? Done and dusted. Shoot, I've even done it both ways: the birth-via-my-body thing and the adoption-via-massive-bucks thing. (Tho'--full disclosure here--I didn't actually go thru with the entire birthing process. I tried. I did. 24 hours of labor before the doctors jumped in with great glee, wielded those knives, and C-sected that baby outa there.)

And I have so many friends who've been unable to have a baby either way. I've hoped with them, screamed with them, cried with them. And I've mourned with friends who have lost their babies and agonized with friends who struggle daily with the horror of watching disease devastate their kids. I know how very very lucky, blessed, rich I am. I know I've had my share, more than my share, of beautiful, healthy babies, gorgeous sons with the world wide open before them.

I know all this. But. Dammit. I. Want. A. Baby.

It's sick. I find myself in the wee hours of the morning secretly hoping one of my boys will knock up a lovely young girl who will bravely decide to have the baby but will recognize she/they can't provide the baby with all that she/they want for that baby, and so, yes, I will get the baby.

Part of it is that I just really enjoy babies. Some people like football. Or Coen Brother movies. Or Andy Warhol. Me, I like babies.

But there's also the sad and dirty fact that when I had my babies, my beautiful boys, I was fairly fucked up. To put it mildly. (Not on drugs, mind you. Never done those. OK, yes, I've done lots of drugs--for allergies and tummy disorders and headaches and vulvadynia and depression and anxiety and chronic strep throat and yeast infections. But none of the fun stuff. ) Nope, no drugs, not that much alcohol. Just, well, basically, back then I was a total wingnut. Torn apart by the demands of scholarship and teaching and motherhood and wifedom and sisterhood and friendship and daughterdom and sex and laundry and lawn care and the desire for a really good brownie. I do not regret, then, that I returned to work right after the boys came into the world. Had I stayed home with them, they'd have ended up fairly fucked-up little fellas as well. Instead, I gotta say--despite the fact that neither seems capable of shutting a cabinet door, closing a dresser drawer, hanging up a towel, or flushing a toilet; despite the march of tattoos across Owen's body; despite Hugh's Republican leanings-- my guys are all right.

And, even in the context of total wingnutdom, I enjoyed them as babies.

Most of the time.

Sometimes.

When I wasn't crying because I feared that any kid with a mom like me was doomed.

But these days, despite menopausal mania, I think it's fair to say my wingnuttiness has moderated. I'm no longer shredded by the various demands of my various roles. I've learned to say, oh, what the hell. I've accepted that I will never be a Scholar Star. And (most of the time), I'm ok with that. These days, I could and I would stay home with a baby. We'd hang out, chill in the mornings over Cheerios, nap on the sofa, watch some Baby Einstein, do some park swings, snort some formula, while Springsteen played in the background. I do know that you're supposed to flood a baby with Mozart if you want him or her to be a math wizard, but the world has plenty of quantitative geniuses. Me and the imaginary baby, we prefer quality--political passion, concern for the underdog, respect for the way words work, sound narrative sense, and thumping rock 'n' roll. So we'd scrap the Mozart and follow Scooter and the Big Man into the swamps of Jersey.

Instead, I'm heading to the mall. Gotta go buy a baby gift for my friend. Which I will send with lots of joy, much love, an abundance of good wishes, and a hearty helping of good, old-fashioned, deep dark green envy.

Indelible Ink

Owen now has three tattoos, with another one scheduled for November. These are not discreet tattoos; they do not nestle around his ankle bone and wink from behind his shoulderblades. These are more like Bette Midler. They strut across the stage and belt out brassy show tunes.

"Slow down," I tell him. "You're 19. You've got a lot of years left and only a finite amount of flesh."

He's 19. He ignores me.

I want to shake him. I want to make him see reason. I want him to think ahead. I want him to consider the consequences. But much of the time, I just want to be him.

Once when Owen was in middle school, he asked me to proofread an English paper he had just finished. It was a good paper, and I told him so. I also suggested a number of ways he could improve it. He looked hard at me.
"The paper's good, right?"
"Yes, absolutely, I'm just--"
"Good enough to get a B?"
"Yes, definitely, probably an A, in fact, but it wouldn't be that much more work to just--"
He grinned and shook his head.
"I'm good," he said, and turned back to the PETA website.
I wanted to shake him. I wanted to make him see reason, to think ahead, to consider the consequences, to understand the importance of pushing and striving and setting high goals and achieving excellence and. . . and. . . dammit, mostly I just wanted to be him. To be so comfortable in my own skin that I could take a B on something I didn't care much about so I could spend time on what I thought really mattered.

I cannot imagine being so comfortable in my own skin that I could decorate it with permanent ink. I have never been good with permanence. I hate making choices of any kind, let alone lasting ones. What if I get it wrong? And then it's permanently wrong? I need to know there's a way to erase or at least revise what I have done; I need a Plan B. When Owen was about two weeks old, it hit me that for the first time in my life, I had no Plan B, that no matter what happened to him, I would always be his mother. Always. I broke down sobbing. I sat in the tub, shaking and gasping and crying, knowing I was not good enough for this, terror-stricken that I had dared do something so indelible.

In the years since, motherhood has brought me great wonder and unmatchable pleasure and immense satisfaction. Yet that leap into permanence has not taught me to to embrace decision-making and lasting choices. The terror of getting it all wrong remains. And so, I watch enviously and Owen grins. The needle bites his skin and inscribes it with indelible ink. He says, "I'm good."

What's playing?

Owen and I just had one of those arguments, the kind of ridiculous fight in which you both retreat to extreme positions that, in fact, you'd really rather not occupy, let alone defend.

It was so much easier when he was little. Back then it came down to knowing what film we were in today. From the moment when Owen first realized that movies tell stories--at about 14 months old--he was a film buff. Movies provided him with jumping-off platforms for his rich fantasy life. It took Keith and me a little while, however, to cotton on to what was going on.

The first glimmer came when Owen and I were in the grocery store. About two years old, he was sitting in the little seat at the front of the cart as I pushed up and down the aisles. All of a sudden, he said, loudly, "My father's not crazy!" "Umm, no dear, Daddy's not crazy," I whispered. "MY FATHER'S NOT CRAZY!" he shouted, louder. "That's right, honey, he's not, " I said soothingly, in low tones. "MY FATHER'S NOT CRAZY! he bellowed, again and again, as I hustled through canned goods and produce, head down eyes averted. Finally, in the checkout line, it hit me: Of course. Belle. Beauty and the Beast. Into the scene I jumped, my lines correct and ready, and all was well.

I didn't take quite as long, then, when one day Owen kept slinging a backpack over one shoulder, running through the front screen door, deliberately letting it slam, and calling out, "Don't worry, Mom!" Cody. Rescuers Down Under. Tho' of course, in that particular movie, the mom should worry as her son is just about to be kidnapped by an evil poacher out to kill the golden eagle. But then the mice Bianca and Bernard save the day, so hell, why worry?

Some of our friends did worry, however. One evening, after Owen had spent the day with his friend Wesley, Keith and I were having drinks with Wesley's parents. We had barely sat down and taken our first sips when Cindy said, "You guys, we're really concerned about Owen." As I recall, we said something along the lines of "huh?" "We're worried about his self-esteem," Cindy explained. I think she caught me in mid-sip and I spewed gin across the table. "Self-esteem?" I choked. "He's friggin' 3 years old." Bill picked up the gauntlet. "No, really, we're really worried. Owen thinks he's stupid. He says so all the time." Keith and I looked at each other, bewildered. "Well, what exactly does he say?" asked Keith. He's very wise, my Keith. Bill--such a good, decent, caring man--looked us both in the eyes, clearly desperate to communicate to us how much this mattered, and replied, "He keeps knocking himself in the head and saying 'I don't have a brain.'" We burst out laughing. Bill and Cindy were aghast. We sputtered, "The Scarecrow. Wizard of Oz." Thank God Owen wasn't the Tin Man that day, or they'd have thought he needed major surgery.

Owen is still a film buff but he keeps his fantasy life well-hidden from his parents. I don't know what movie we're in any more. I just know, no matter what's playing, I'll be in the front row, applauding one of my all-time favorite leading men.

Phoning Home

Yesterday I phoned home for the first time since I arrived in Ireland a week ago. In this New Age of satellite phone technology and Skype, I am antediluvian. I do email Keith and send the occasional Facebook message to the boys but I just can't wrap my mind around the idea of casually phoning (or ye gods, texting) between Europe and the U.S. For me, it remains one of those Only In Cases of Emergency things. But, in an effort to be an up-to-date cool kind of person, I phoned home.

I got Hugh.

"HI YA!" I say, in my excited, can-you-believe-it's-me-and-how-amazing-is-this voice. "Hi," Hugh says flatly. "Honey, it's me. Mom. Calling from Ireland," I enthuse. "Yeah," replies Hugh. The subtext is clear: "So what?"

When Hugh was little, all I had to do was enter a room and I was a star. He's the first person I've ever known whose eyes really, truly light up. And once upon a time, they lit for me. He'd smile this huge, infectious grin and those eyes would shine and he'd roll, crawl, toddle, run over and leap into my arms.

They demand so much when they're little. They want you and want you and want you. And it's exhausting and inconvenient and annoying and suffocating and relentless, oh god, it's relentless.

Then they stop. And, like childbirth, nothing and no one can prepare you for the pain.

Changing Table

One day I was changing then three-month-old Owen's diaper. Grasping his ankles in my left hand, I had his butt hoisted up when suddenly, he pooped. Which means he squirted, with truly awesome explosive force, as liquid-fed little babies tend to do. The brown goo went flying across the room, splattered against the wall, and then dripped down into the laundry basket below--the laundry basket containing all the freshly washed, just folded clothes.

I reacted as I always do in any crisis: badly. I thrust my hand toward his bottom in a ridiculous, completely futile attempt to block the flow. Instead, I succeeded only in diverting a significant quantity of the liquid shit onto the baby and me.

Dripping in excrement, I looked down on my fecal-flecked son. Who then peed. And, since he's a boy and since I had left his peeing instrument uncovered, the piss went sailing in a graceful arc, straight into my face and my open, aghast mouth.

My son looked up at his sputtering, gagging, urine-soaked and crap-coated mother. And laughed, that amazing straight from the core belly laugh that only a baby, delighted with this new world and all its wonders, can pull off.

Burbling over the changing table, Owen's laughter embraced me and through the piss streaming down my face and the shit dripping off my eyelashes, I laughed back. And we laughed and laughed and laughed until Owen got the hiccups and the poo dried to a crust on my cheeks.

All of which highlighted Three Important Truths:

1. Children will hit you with an amazing amount of piss and shit (actual and metaphorical).

2. Probably the best response is to take a few steps back. Nevertheless, I will, invariably, unfailingly, thrust myself right into the shit stream.

3. In the end, there is laughter.

Or else, you're really fucked.

Yankee lost in Dixieland

Today one of the advice-seekers writing in to "Miss Manners" asked how to decline an invitation, actually a demand, that she and her husband attend her sister-in-law's "birthing party." As in, the sister-in-law was having a party while giving birth.

I imagine we can assume it's Baby #1 for said sister-in-law. Still, the mind boggles. Does she actually think she'll be serving canape's? refilling drinks? engaging in witty repartee?

And yet I remember a crucial episode, shortly after we married. Keith called me to report that a friend of his had gone into labor and so he wouldn't be home for dinner. Huh? I was totally confused. He was confused that I was confused. "Sharon's in labor," he repeated. Yep, yep, got that part. But what did Sharon's birthing pangs have to do with our dinner? He was astonished that I didn't realize that of course he was going down to the hospital.

Whoa.

Sharon, rest assured, had a husband on hand. And family. And a host of female friends. "Sorry, but why are you going to the hospital?" I asked in my usual dulcet tones.

"Sharon's in labor," he repeated, as if I, somehow, just could not wrap my pea-sized brain around this fact.

Dulcet tones got considerably more bitchy. "Yes, I know that, but exactly why are you going to the hospital?" I snapped.

Good Person that he is, Keith was able to figure out, far more quickly than I, that what we found ourselves in the middle of was another in a long series of cultural misunderstandings, what I think of as yet another installment of "Yankee lost in Dixieland."

Turns out that when Keith had a regular church appointment (did I mention he's an ordained Methodist minister? probably not as it doesn't come up all that often), he attended many a birth. Turns out it's some kind of Southern thing, or Southern Protestant thing, or Southern Methodist thing, or maybe just a south Louisiana Methodist thing, I dunno, to have the minister come join the show. At that point in my life, not having been pregnant, not having had a baby, I thought that was really weird.

At this point in my life, having been pregnant, having had a baby, I still think it's really weird.

I always had a good relationship with my various pastors, but no way in hell did I want any one of them present while I was in labor. Nor did I want a party. I did not want friends. I did not want family. (Well, let me qualify that. I was pregnant and giving birth in south Louisiana. My family members were/are all up in Chicago. No chance any of them would be around for the birth. So not wanting family meant not wanting Keith's family. And no, I didn't. And on the whole, I didn't want most of my own family. I can see maybe wanting my sister. But brothers? You've got to be kidding. As for my mom, good lord, she'd be wandering around saying she was going to puke and how in her day the doctors just knocked the women out and took care of things.)

The thing is, perhaps I truly am a cold Yankee bitch, but when I'm in pain, I do not want company.

So, when I did get pregnant, I made Keith promise that it would just be me, him, the baby abornin', and the medical professionals. This promise was hard on him. He's a sociable guy. And a Southerner. But geez, I was the one carrying the damn baby, so he had no choice. That's the great thing about being pregnant, you can totally milk the whole woman thing.

I've never received any invitation to a birthing party. Miss Manners advises that should I ever do so, I reply that I am squeamish and guaranteed to faint at the sight of blood and so think it best not to attend so as to ensure that I not take up any of the valuable time of the doctors who should be looking after the mother and baby. I figure I'll just say, "Look, I'm from Chicago; I'm a cold Yankee bitch," and that will be that. Works for me.

Not like that

Six weeks ago, we began kitchen renovations. It was supposed to be a three-week job. Now it looks like we'll be without a sink for at least another month, if not longer, and who knows when the kitchen will actually be completed. The price has nearly doubled.

Of course. That's the way it always goes with kitchen renovations. I know this.

Except not really. Everyone told me, and I nodded politely, but I didn't actually believe them. We had done our homework. We knew what we were doing. And most importantly, we are not Like That. We are Exceptions.

Except not really. I just hate that.

Like before I had kids and I met up with a friend who just had her first baby, and she went on and on about how she was so glad to get out and to see an adult and to think about something other than breastfeeding and spit-up, and then all she talked about was breastfeeding and spit-up, and when I drove away I thought, "Geez. Thank God I'll never be like that." And then I had Owen and we had a couple of childless friends over and at the end of the evening it dawned on me that I'd dominated the dinnertime conversation by describing each of Owen's first six bowel movements. In detail. Color. Consistency. Quantity. Overall olfactory ratings.

Just like that.

Or later in the grocery store with baby Owen--chubby-cheeked, chuckling, leg-kicking, arm-waving, toothlessly grinning. His colic has passed and I've lost all the baby weight and I'm feeling like, whoa, I've got this whole mom thing down, and I see some woman in a stained sweatshirt and mom jeans shrieking at some tangled-hair little kid wearing a torn Holly Hobby pj top and a bedraggled ballerina skirt and crying because she wanted the Disney Princess sticker pack. And I think, "Geez. Thank God I'll never be like that." And then a few years later I'm in the same grocery store, same goddamn aisle, and a little kid in Powerranger slippers, a pair of faded purple shorts two sizes too small, and my pale pink lace teddy is dragging on my arm and whining because he wants Shrek pasta shapes and I crack and scream, "I SAID NOOOOO!!!" and he throws himself to the floor, sobbing wildly. I look up, and there's this really pretty blonde Junior League type with her accessorized baby and they're both staring at me in horror.

Just like that.

And now I'm washing dishes in the bathtub and part of the sub-floor looks rotten and there's a problem with the vent for the oven hood. That's the way it always goes with kitchen renovations.
Just like that. I hate it when it's just like that.

Cafe-au-lait

Fifteen years ago today I was sitting in the off-campus coffee shop grading papers when one of the coffee shop girls came over to tell me I had a phone call. (We're talking pre-cell phone era here.) It was Keith. The adoption agency had telephoned: our son had been born about an hour earlier. We met at home, packed a suitcase, picked up Owen from day care, and headed west to Texas.

Adoption was always an option for me. I had always known I wanted children, but wasn't always too sure I wanted a husband. In vitro fertilization and all that was just developing; I do remember hearing talk of sperm donors and turkey basters, but I just figured if I hit my mid-30s and was still single, I'd adopt.

So, when we tried for a second after Owen and failed, adoption was a no-brainer.

On Thanksgiving week, 1994, after a couple of years of tests and more tests and thermometers and sex on schedule and sperm in a cup and Chlomid, I began calling adoptions agencies. "Are you Catholic?" Click. "Do you have $25,000 readily accessible?" Click. "Is one of the parents over the age of 40?" Click. "Do you have a child?" Click. But finally I hooked up with an agency that specialized in "unadoptable" children.

We filled out the most agonizing form. Would you accept a blind baby? A deaf baby? A baby with AIDS? with spina bifida? With a cleft palate? A child whose been the victim of physical abuse? of sexual abuse? On and on and on it went. We had anguished discussions long into the night. But there was an easy question: Would you accept a child of another race? Duh. Yeah.

We received a phone call almost immediately:
"I just wanted to make sure about one thing here on your application form. You've checked that you'd accept a child of any race. Any race. Is that correct?"
Yes, I said.
"Let me just make sure I have this straight. You'll accept a child of any race?"
Yes, I said.
"Umm, sorry, but let me make sure: are you saying you'll take a black child?"
Yes, I said.
Long pause.
"Well, if that's really the case, I can guarantee you'll have a healthy newborn baby in three months."

But the color nonsense continued. After we hooked up with Hugh's birth mother and the adoption was set in motion, the social worker assured us that after the baby was born, we'd receive a photo, that we'd get to approve of the baby. We were confused, until she explained further. "If the baby's skin color is too dark, if you're just not comfortable with his color, then no problem, you can back out." Keith and I both had the same vision of choosing a baby with those little paint sample cards that you use to select colors for your walls: hmm, coffee, caramel, chocolate. . . ? We told her skip the photo, we'd take the baby even if he came out sporting polka dots.

On February 20, 1995, Hugh came into the world.

On February 21, 1995, we picked him up. Dark brown hair that the nurses had slicked down straight but, when we washed it a few days later, exploded into curls. Huge dark eyes. And the most gorgeous cafe au lait skin. No polka dots.

I assumed that by adopting a baby of a different race, we'd at least avoid any confusion RE the adoption itself--It would be clear from Day 1, to Hugh, and to the world, that he was adopted. I was wrong.

Here's our family: Blond, fair-skinned Me. Bald but once light brown-haired, fair-skinned Keith. Older son Owen who looks like both of us--clearly our biological child. Younger son Hugh, who's bi-racial, black (to most Americans)--clearly adopted. You'd think. And yet, here's the usual scenario: new people meet us. They look a bit perplexed. Finally, one--usually the woman--gets me or Keith aside and asks, somewhat awkwardly, "So, umm, is Hugh adopted?"

After years and years of this, I've become rather snarky. I now say, "Oh no. It's just Keith and I had a rough patch some years ago, so I had an affair with a black man and got pregnant." Then I smile brightly.

Tattoos

Owen came home from his first semester away at college (far away--the Pacific NW--not exactly around the corner from Baton Rouge) with a tattoo--and not an easily hidden tramp stamp, which I suppose would look a bit strange on a guy anyway. But it wasn't one of those simple bands around his bicep or a subtle fleur-de-lis or a little, I dunno, knight or vegetable or something. This "tat" (I'm learning the lingo) takes up his entire outer upper arm. It features a giant multi-colored Mexican Day-of-the-Dead sugar skull that consists entirely of flowers. This actually very impressive piece of graphic art is surrounded by Springsteen lyrics--and Springsteen lyrics, of course, can redeem almost anything.

Nevertheless, it's a tattoo. A permanent tattoo. A very large, brightly-colored, permanent tattoo that is more than a wee bit disturbing on first glance.

Owen loves it. It makes him happy. I'm happy when he's happy.

But.

Strangely, the "buts" largely evaporated once I saw the tattoo (as opposed to hearing it described in triumphant phone calls). Not that I was converted by the graphic artistry, not even by the Springsteen lyrics. No, the key fact was that the sugar skull sits atop a largely foreign arm.

During the period when Owen expressed his desire for a tattoo (this went on for years) and then, once he turned 18 and no longer needed our permission, his plans for a tattoo, I hated the idea. I hated the idea of my son's beautiful skin marred by injected ink. But then he came home sporting the tattoo, and I looked at that arm, that man's arm, and--I didn't really know it.

I used to know every inch of Owen. I birthed, bathed, and band-aided him. I syringed snot out of his nostrils, wiped poop off his butt, put drops in his eyes, taught him how to clean his penis, spread lotion on his chicken pox, shampooed his hair, and cut his nails (and yes, sometimes his fingers). I tickled his feet and squeezed his hand. I caught his wriggling body when he jumped into the pool. I clutched his legs as he rode on my shoulders. I gripped his back as he mastered his first two-wheeler. I held his head as he vomited into the toilet. I snuggled with him in bed.

And then, when he was about 10, that was that. Touching was no longer allowed. Oh, there's the occasional grateful or begrudging hug, the required kiss, the barely tolerated hair-ruffling and collar-straightening. You find yourself a little bit, just a guilty teeny bit, glad, when he's sick, because then you get to touch him.

And his body becomes a stranger to you. And you make do with other babies, other toddlers, other little guys. You nuzzle those little feet and cradle those diapered bottoms and offer a lap to those chubby legs. And they're lovely. But they're not his. He's gone. There's this man there. This amazing man. With a striking tattoo.

Dough Boys

I miss the yeasty smell of babies. Snuggled up close, it was as if I were cuddling a freshly baked bread loaf.

Teenaged boys are not warm and doughy. More like the remains of a snow crab dinner that someone forgot to throw away. Rank-smelling. Bits of shell, with jagged edges.

I miss the babies.