Instant Mom (8 page)

Any time. I get a shiver of anticipation.

We’re sitting at our kitchen table with them now. I set out mugs for tea and they answer all our questions about the rest of the process. We have to get fingerprinted for the background check, and our Home Study could take two weeks to three months to process.

We all sit here quietly now. It’s been so many years of hoping, then not hoping, and these women are so attuned to our feelings, so compassionate.

One of the women pats my hand and says, “You will be a mother within the year.”

And I believe her.

• 8 •

Soon

I’m in a very
good mood. I smile at the Starbucks girl so hard, I’m sure she wonders if I’m about to ask her out.

I’ve been in such a jovial state of mind as we wait to get matched via foster care, I’m even planning to go back on camera. A
Simpsons
writer, Mike Reiss, has written a script called
My Life In Ruins,
and my beloved friends at Playtone are going to get it made. If I’ll star in it. I want to do this for two reasons. I have missed acting, and I’ll get to film at the Parthenon.

Yesterday, I’d even done my first actress-y thing in ages. I had a skin-brightening treatment called Cosmelan. It removes brown marks and brightens up the skin. At the dermatologist’s, a bright orange cream was applied to my face. She advised me they were manufacturing it in a light brown shade soon and I didn’t know why she was telling me until she sternly warned I had to keep it on for twelve hours. I hadn’t anticipated that part of the process. I furtively drove home with my oompa loompa face, relieved I hadn’t run into an ex-boyfriend or a member of the Coven in the lobby. I pulled up to a red light and watched as a drunk man crossed the street. His clothes were torn, and he looked unwashed. I felt sad for him. I wondered what event in his life had made
him
lose control to get to this point. And what would it take to sober him up—at that moment he turned, saw my orange face, shrieked like a banshee, and ran off.

Now as I walk home from Starbucks I picture the guy at an AA meeting telling that story. It’s a beautiful day and I’m thinking we will be matched at any time. It could happen any day, they say.

The social workers from the FFA have been in constant contact. They sent me to a website called AdoptUSKids.org and various state sites called Heart Galleries to see pictures of waiting children who are legally emancipated and available for adoption. One of the social workers tells me to scroll through and when I feel a connection to a child, to let her know the name and contact number of that child’s social worker and she will see if we can be matched. It’s that simple.

There is a little girl in one city’s Heart Gallery. I don’t know what she looks like. The picture is of her running across a beach. It’s taken from behind her. Curious, I take down her number and inquire if she is legally available for adoption. My social worker says she’ll get back to me with information. I’m wondering if this little girl is the one I’ve been envisioning. Again, as peculiar as it sounds, ever since that night of the heavy discussion with Kathy Greenwood, I am feeling there is a child out there. I dream about a little girl with blond streaks in her hair. But Ian and I continually ask the social workers to tell us about any child, any age, any ethnicity. Because of their composed and candid manner, I trust their process and who they think we’d be a good match with.

I get home now. Oddly, I feel queasy. This happens a lot. I often feel dizzy. I stand in front of our front hall mirror and take a good look at myself. Years of writing scripts has made me gain weight again, and not in a groovy
Mad Men
way. Nuh-uh. I am living in stretchy tights and an oversize white button-down shirt—my writer’s uniform. It’s dangerous because fat-rolls can form and tights stretch. With this dizzy feeling I think my thyroid medicine probably needs adjusting, which is why I’ve gained weight again. When I was filming
My Big Fat Greek Wedding,
I’d found out why my weight went up and down. First of all, I liked to eat. And second, I was diagnosed with something called Hashimoto’s thyroiditis, which sounds like a Japanese Greek cousin but is actually an autoimmune disease that destroys the thyroid gland, which regulates metabolism. The telltale symptoms are feeling tired and weight gain from lettuce. Chronologically: I was 220 pounds during my theater school/ Second City days. Then 130 pounds when I got married and moved to L.A. During the preproduction of
My Big Fat Greek Wedding,
my weight crept up to 170 pounds even though I was working out a lot. That’s when I got diagnosed by an endocrinologist, went on the thyroid hormone, and during and after filming got my weight down to 130 pounds again. I felt well, but there were some residual symptoms. For example, oddly, my curly hair went completely straight. And infertility has occasionally been linked to the disease. Even though I take a human-made version of thyroid hormone, I have to work extra hard to control my weight.

So now there’s no denying I’m up to 155 pounds again. I have not been exercising much and my screenwriting process would best be described as Write-A-Page-Chew-A-Snack.

I make an appointment to see my endocrinologist. He does lab work and a few days later in his office he tells me my thyroid meds are working. Dang. I petulantly ask him to check the results again and he interrupts me to say my blood sugar is dangerously high. Not good. I have diabetes in my family. I ask the doctor what I can do and he point-blank tells me to lose weight. He’s a brave man. Few can tell a Greek girl to lose weight and live to tell that tale. I’m furious because now after everything I’ve been through, I’m a tired chubster again. And it’s my own fault. I had once lost control of my body to fertility treatments and now again because of a lack of discipline. Anyway, I decide to try something that’s worked before: I stop eating so much and I exercise. No surprise, I lose about twenty pounds.

I have energy again and more importantly, I’m feeling in control. Intuitively, I feel on the right path with the FFA social workers. Manny stays with friends, and Ian and I go to Europe to begin filming
My Life In Ruins
.

I rekindle my love affair with acting, adore my entire cast, and am having a great time. Before we go to Greece for the exterior scenes, we are filming all the interior bus scenes at a high-tech sound stage in Alicante, Spain. Making a movie on location is summer camp with alcohol. When I’m among actors, I’m at my happiest because of our shared joie de vivre (a fancy way of saying: drinking sangria and playing poker for one another’s per diems). Our job is: we get to have our hair and makeup done in the morning, then we cram into a fake tour bus and act all day. We pull pranks, make jokes, sing dirty songs, and act like teenagers.

Ian and I hang with my assistant Marianne, a rare combination of hardworking and hilarious, and cast members such as always- delightful Rachel Dratch and the very hot Greek movie star Alexis Georgoulis. On the weekends we eat tapas at midnight, dance until four in the morning, and laugh a lot. It feels good to let go. I feel carefree again. I truly feel like a match is coming. We’re all anticipating the second part of filming—in Greece. As just a little indie, it’s incredible that we’ve secured permission to film at all the ancient ruins, including the site of the original Olympic games, Delphi, and the Parthenon.

Yesterday, Ian went back
to Los Angeles to be with Manny. It’s a day off and I am in my hotel room in Spain packing for Greece when I get the call: the little girl I had seen only from behind in that picture . . . has been placed with another family for adoption. I hang up and lean my forehead against the cool stucco wall. I feel a happiness for this child I have never met or even seen but of course I am devastated. I walk outside.

Now, as I slowly walk the boardwalk of this pretty beach, I realize I am crying so hard it looks like I’ve just been dumped by some hot Spaniard. I’m looking up at the clouds thinking this same phrase over and over again: “When,
when
will I be a mother?”

An eerie thing happens: a girl is walking toward me. She holds hands with her grandparents and is looking at me. She is about five years old, appealing yet somber as she holds my gaze. Her hair is brown and her eyes are very dark. We’re staring at each other; we get closer, closer. Just as she is beside me, she grasps my hand. Her grandparents are looking ahead and they don’t notice this. I am totally still as she continues to slowly walk past me, holding my hand and looking up at me. As I turn my body in the direction she is going, she squeezes my hand and gives me a very solemn look: soon.

I don’t know how long I have been standing here watching her walk down the boardwalk. But I have stopped crying.

Soon.

• 9 •

Then, One Day . . .

I laugh, spitting vodka
across this L.A. mod lounge. John Corbett roars victoriously when he sees my drink drip off my chin. John is both child and man so he delights my juvenile brain, and yet he is incredibly supportive when I’m in charge.

I make new friends with each film, but nothing compares to the closeness I feel to the second family of
My Big Fat Greek Wedding
. I truly love the cast and treasure my friendships with the producers, Rita, Tom, and Gary
.
Because I traveled with John and Gary for months and months on a fifty-city press tour, we became inordinately tight friends. We share that bond which can only be formed when you’ve had to ask someone to buy tampons for you.

Today John is having me do what he calls A Wobbler—he makes me move my face side to side super-fast so he can snap a picture of my cheeks G-forced out.

It’s 2008 and we’re about to shoot a script I wrote during my acting hiatus,
I Hate Valentine’s Day.
Financiers gave us the green light if we’d both act in it and I’d direct. The budget is so low, there’ll only be eighteen days rather than the standard month to shoot, but I get to cast new actors plus funny friends, including Dan Finnerty and Rachel Dratch again. My family and Core are supportive and tell me they just want to be there to hear me say “action.” Three Core/Second City alums, Rose, Tracy, and Rachel H., will arrange to meet me in New York to do cameos. I am excited about attempting to pull off this experiment, because I’m looking for challenges again. I feel in a good place even though it’s been several months since Ian and I have been cleared as a foster home. We’re still waiting for that elusive match.

John looks me over and tells me I look happy. All in all, it’s been over nine years of trying to be parents, yet impossibly I am optimistic. I feel the phone will ring.

As I drive home from my meeting with John, my cell does ring . . . and I receive the not-good news from our social workers about an older girl we’d inquired about. A panel determines she would not be “safe” with us, because a photograph of her could run in a tabloid magazine and her birth mother could find her. Again. When the birth mother is in this girl’s life, the results have been disastrous. The girl has already been exposed to shady adults with criminal dealings. The panel feels it’d be better if this girl could lead an anonymous life. Although I agree with it, I am disappointed. The social worker tells me a relative will take the girl in and keep her whereabouts hidden from the birth mother. I shake my head and wonder once again about the unfairness for the ovarian challenged. The next week, our social workers check in and after some reflection, I admit I’m not shocked any of the matches didn’t come through. Although I pursue every avenue, I am still waiting for something I can’t explain or define.

A month later, I’m
writing at my desk at home and the phone rings.

It’s a nice man I’ve met who works to place foster kids.

He tells me there is a little girl.

She is almost three years old.

She’d been relinquished to foster care by a young couple whose relationship did not last the birth.

She is presently legally freed for adoption.

The man says he has contacted our social workers and they all want to know if Ian and I would like to meet the little girl.

I nod my head not realizing he can’t see me. I’m not nodding yes to the meeting. I’m nodding yes because I know this is it. I know this is the match.

Running through the house, I find Ian and, gulping air, tell him about the little girl. I don’t know anything about her background, but we can meet her tomorrow. I am jumping up and down, saying over and over “this is it.” Ian tries to calm me down, so worried I will lose my mind if this doesn’t work. But I know it will.

The next day is the exact date two years ago when we met Manny. As we drive across the city, Ian and I are completely quiet in the car.

The way it works with foster care is you have to have a chemistry meeting so everyone can determine how you get along. It isn’t a test—they just want it to be a suitable pairing. That’s why it’s called a match. Wisely, they don’t want the children to experience any more rejection, so the child is not told they might be meeting potential parents. The child probably just thinks it’s more social workers, foster care workers, lawyers, etc. So today, this little girl is being brought to an office so we can all meet.

Ian and I drive into the parking lot of this office. As we park we see a small group of people standing in the middle of the lot. As we get out of the car, we see a little brown-haired girl in a social worker’s arms. And as we walk toward the group, the little girl turns and looks at me.

At me.

And she smiles.

Everything goes quiet. I hear nothing at all.

All I think is, “Oh, I found you.”

Because now I know who I have been waiting for. I know exactly why the other processes didn’t work. I know I was supposed to wait for this little girl.

I put my hands out to her, and without hesitation she leans forward. As I cradle her I can’t hear anything. I am looking at my daughter. Finally. And I feel a peacefulness come over me like I have never known. I waited a long time for her and she is worth every minute of anxiety. I am holding my little girl and just inhaling her scent.

She is apprehensive, not sure what’s happening today, and she clings to me and hides against my neck. I kiss her and whisper in her ear that everything will be okay. I tell her I love her. I hold her out now and smile at her. Ian puts his warm hand on her and they look at each other for a long moment. He is smiling. The little girl smiles shyly. She is truly beautiful. And now I see she has little blond streaks in her hair.

Ten minutes later, we’re
all in the office watching this pretty little girl play with a red-and-yellow plastic toy train. She is dressed in a light shirt and cotton shorts over a cumbersome diaper. We can see she is very curious and imaginative as she takes each toy from a box and acts out scenarios without words. Her small face is fully absorbed in her playacting, but now and then I see her sneak peeks at Ian and me. She wants to know what’s happening, but I see how calmly she takes in the situation. Actually I see now, she is not unruffled . . . she is pretending to be cool about it all. She gets it.

The social workers take us aside and are now telling us everything about her background. Following the protocol of foster care, there is a very thick file filled with information from vaccinations to birth parent health history. Some is positive information; some could be worrisome. The little girl, they tell us, does not speak. The social workers don’t label her, but they indicate a doctor has said she should be speaking by now. They tell us she can be withdrawn, is not responding to her name, therefore renaming her would be a healthy fresh start for her. Ian and I don’t even have to look at each other to know we want to move forward.

I’m listening, but I don’t absorb very much. I’m watching this curious, sweet little girl. I look up at Ian—he’s watching her too. I feel like I’ve seen this scene before. Is it because we wanted it so badly, or is it because it feels so natural?

The social workers now leave us alone with her. Ian and I look at each other—what should we do? Immediately, the little girl finds a metal pole and bangs it against another pole. It’s loud. She bangs it again and again and now looks at us, with an impish expression: you going to try to stop me?

Ian and I laugh. We have spotted a personality we know well—mischievous and forceful.

The little girl now stands up, trips, and falls. On her face. With us—two supposed adults—only inches away, she has fallen on her face. This is exactly one of those moments when I realize I am not a grown-up because I don’t know what to do.

But before we can get to her . . . she just leaps up, looks at us like,
That happened, huh?,
and shakes it off. She doesn’t cry or make a fuss. She is capable. Tough. Determined. She’s cool.

My husband and I have a niece who is the same age, so now we speak to this little girl as if she understands. We do what anyone would do: we get down on the floor and play with her for a while. Then we ask if she is hungry. She nods yes.

So we tell the social workers, and all begin to leave the office. The little girl is clinging to me again and as I carry her, I keep whispering to her that everything will be okay. Now I add that I will always take care of her. She leans into me, her body is so warm. Our entire group follows us down the hall, but I don’t really notice anyone but this delightful, perfect child. We get to the next doorway and Ian now holds out his hands to her . . . she goes to him. Then she clings to his neck. Ian tries to shift her, but she clings hard as if to say “never let me go.”

Ian’s eyes fill with tears as we walk to the elevator. She is holding on tight. My eyes are so wet I can’t see the elevator buttons. No one is speaking, they’re just letting us have our time together. I run my hand up and down the little girl’s back to reassure her. She is holding on to Ian, and looking at me. I nod reassuringly to her. My insides feel like soft pudding.

On the street Ian puts her up on his shoulders, and she grins widely, really liking it up there. I am beside them with one hand supporting, holding her up when Ian turns toward a plate-glass window so she can see herself. Our reflection stares back: we look like a family.

We get to a deli and as we all slide into chairs, Ian and I now indicate to the adults, shaking our heads, that they not speak about this situation in front of her because it’s clear she understands. One of the men who works closely with foster children is touched by this and says, “You’re parents already.” Honestly, although we don’t know how to be parents, Ian and I feel very protective of this little girl.

We all eat lunch. She plays with the spoon and napkin but doesn’t speak or eat. She’s withdrawn but listening, trying to figure out the situation. I keep a hand on her back or hair; I can’t stop touching her.

Later, as we walk back to the parking lot, they inform us this is when they have to take her away. They’ve told us the process: the state will determine if we’re the right fit for her. The little girl is living with a family as the system works to permanently “place” her. They’ve told us legally we have twenty-four hours to think it over. We tell them we don’t want the twenty-four hours. We want to take her home now. We don’t want them to take her. We already know we’re her parents.

In muted, hushed voices, they firmly tell us we
have
to take the required twenty-four hours and they
have
to take her now. I’m upset. This is hard, beyond hard. I just found her; how can I let her go? But I know she is taking her cues from me so I relax my body, keep my voice low and subdued, and say to her, “See you soon.” I gently give her back to a social worker. I feel my insides crease as she is carried away from me.

I follow them.

As they put her in the booster, I lean into the car and say, “Bye, sweetie.”

She has not spoken one word all day but now turns to me with a small wave and quietly says . . . “Bye, Mommy.”

No one moves. Everyone heard it. No one can make eye contact. The car drives away, and Ian and I stand here for a long time.

I say, “Did that just happen?,” and Ian says, “Yep.”

We call the social
workers when we get home and try to say yes, but they insist we follow protocol. So we pace for the twenty-four hours, then say that official yes. We now have to wait for their match. We are in constant contact with the social workers, who keep us informed of the slow process. Two days later, we find out the first step: we’ve been wholeheartedly approved by their office to be this little girl’s parents. But we still have to wait for the official State stamp of approval for the match.

Ten days later, in the early evening the phone rings again. It’s a number I don’t recognize. I answer and it’s the social worker calling from her cell.

And she says the words I have been waiting a very long time for: “You’ve been matched.”

Just like that, I am a mom.

I think I hang up the phone. I am now on the floor but can’t remember lying down. I can feel the hard wood under my head as I breathe in and out.

I’m a mom.

Ian is working; he won’t be home for hours. I can’t just leave him a voice mail with this huge news.

I am a mom.

I’m trying to sort my thoughts, to think clearly. I had asked: “When is she coming?”

“Tomorrow,” she said.

I am a mom.

Ironically, it is nine months since I met with the FFA social workers.

I now have fourteen hours to get the house ready for our little girl.

Our little girl.

I am a mom.

Ian is a dad. He doesn’t know.

I text Ian: “Can you call me after work?”

At 11:00
P.M.
, he calls and says, “Hey, want to join the cast for a drink?”

I tell him the news. I tell him we’re parents and he goes silent. I know, even though he will kill me for telling you, that he’s bawling. He gets home so fast there must be a zip line across the city.

It’s almost midnight and we tear apart the guest room, wondering aloud if the down comforter is too heavy for a toddler; are the pale-green walls kid-friendly enough? Manny is panting, running around, wondering what the late-night excitement is. We tell Manny that he’s going to have a little sister. He wags his tail because “sister” sounds like “snack.”

Luckily, wall sockets are already covered and glass vases have been removed—everything has been baby-proofed because of the social workers’ walk-through. Still, we move the bookcase away from the window. Additionally, we’re worried about her rolling off the adult-size bed, so we dismantle it and put a twin blow-up mattress on the floor.

I run to my closet and dig out the two blankets I had bought so many years before—the green and yellow fluffy soft blankets. I gently lay them across the little bed.