Are You My Mother??

My friend Cindy sent along a wonderful box of goodies for Bryony, including several classic children's books. Amongst them was P.D. Eastman's (s/he writes the books in the Dr. Suess style, if you're not familiar) book "Are You My Mother?" Essentially, a little baby animal goes from species to species asking if they are his mother before finally finding his own mother. Very cute.

What wasn't so cute was what happened the first week of Bryony's life on the outside. I had had a long day--my incision was oozing fluid through gauze pads, towels, and ultimately my clothes; I was on the phone with hospital staff for almost 1/2 an hour trying to figure out what to do; Adam, Bryony and I hiked around three wings of the hospital before realizing we were not anywhere close to where we needed to be. After driving across town to the doctor's office, I finally checked in at the front desk while Adam parked the car.

When I sat down in the lobby, I sat at the end of a long row of chairs; there was a teenage girl and a woman she called "grandma" at the other end. When Adam brought Bryony inside, immediately the girl started commenting on how small and cute Bryony was, and encouraged her grandmother to observe. Adam came and sat right next to me, positioning Bryony's car seat between us. He smiled at the ladies as they rambled on and on about Bryony. Eventually, "grandma" looks at Adam and inquires, "Well, where's her mama?"

I was already so over all the events of the day that I didn't even dignify her question with a glance her way. I couldn't believe that numbskull didn't realize that Adam was sitting right next to the woman who was likely the baby's mother. Who did she think I was? The Caribbean nanny that Mr. Adam hired to look after his baby girl? Anyway, Adam looked at her and jovially said, "Well, she's right here!", jerking his head in my direction.

The woman, embarassed, paused, then said, "Oh! Well, of course! Duh!" I continued to look down at the paperwork I was filling out. I couldn't be bothered. But it made me think about things. Did Bryony not look like me at all? I mean, I know she's fair, but surely she has some aspect of her mother in her...right?

Adam asked me the other day if it bothered me that she is still so fair in complexion. Jokingly, I replied, "We've still got time, buddy." He laughed, but then I added more seriously, "It's weird, because I really don't care very much who or what she looks like. She's going to look the way she's going to look. I know she's my daughter, and she knows I'm her mother; that's all that matters. However, sometimes, when I'm nursing her, and I look down at this fair-skinned little baby nursing from my brown boob, it makes me think of the days of slavery, when black women served as wet nurses to the master's children." Adam just stared at me for a few beats before shaking his head and declaring that I truly am a wacky dame. Well, hey, he asked.