When I was in second grade I was obsessed with perfect handwriting. So much so, I would erase holes in my paper and cry during spelling tests. Mrs. Simon-Stokes knew I was a special case. She and my mother made perfect letters. Perfect. So, when one of these spells would happen, when she would see my frustration, she would come over to me and remind me how perfectly amazing it was that I was getting better. Those giant letters slanting around here and there, disconnected stems from p's and b's and obese o's did eventually get better. And, Mrs. Simon-Stokes, the same lady who braided my hair in the hallway the day my mother had to rush out of the house before combing it herself, leaving my father with Just for Me hair grease, a fine tooth comb, and his own devices, reminded me that it's not about perfection. It's about progression. Mrs. Simon-Stokes, my mother, my father, not perfect- just people with diligently warm hearts.
It's funny how my father thought it was alright, the pigtails directed in every whichway, the jagged parts, and combed out kitchen. He walked me to the door and I remember, licked his thumb to clear any residual sleep from my eye or particle from breakfast on my face. He rubbed a little lotion onto my arms and looked at me proudly. Then walked me to the school-door and said he loved me. And, I walked inside, with bows clamped into my hair however he had managed.
My mother taught me how to make a ponytail that night.
I would sit in my room with my back against the closet door and make up speeches. Writing things down in notebooks and on pieces of paper here in there. I had a slough of journals over the years. Second grade was a powerful year. It was the year I decided to adopt.
That age, I figured at 21 I would be married, have a home (in my parent's garden. That was one of those silent and congenial ploys my parents had to keep my from moving away from home. Half of their 26 acres would be mine.) At 25 I think it best to not worry so much on the timeline or equate my progression on the plot of land I do or do not own, I'll just let things be and come as they are and do.
That is good. Though, my parents also knew that I was quite different. That I wanted to see the world. And despite, their ploys, plots and devices they had figured the same.
It has been in my thoughts, mostly in my thoughts, until yesterday. I don't have much money, a one bedroom, and that Land Rover I wanted is a pick-up truck. But, there was a puppy left in a box by the dumpster. The vet told me she would nurse him to health but he would most definitely need a loving home. It was white with a bright pink nose. It had no one.
Children are so precious, so made by God to illicit pity and love and those who have no mercy on children, puppies, and the infirm are Satan incarnate. My co-worker scuffed at the Gay couple who had adopted an little African girl. Saying it was disgrace. I bit my lip remembering how I needed the work and how grace itself was teaching and not telling. And so, I told her the same thing I told my three-year old students when they asked questions. Questions waiting for answers that would shape their understanding of the world or define a greater, more haphazard, and perpetuated sense of ignorance:
"Some babies are born from the belly, and some babies are born from the heart. Mommies are mommies and daddies are daddies because they love and take care you. And that is a family."
Then Loyle, a little precocious for her age, left with her own mother waving goodbye, saying "Byebye mommy."
"Loyle, I am not your mother."
"Ok, grandma." She said snickering and holding her mother's hand.
Looking down the hallway I responded, "Not your grandma."
And Loyle got in the last word which made me laugh, "See you tomorrow, auntie!"
Was this my moment? Not perfect am I, but my heart, I know is good and diligent. Was this the moment I would become, albeit for a precious baby with four legs, a mother?
via fam
