My first visitors -- the esteemed Aged P's -- have now come and gone, a lovely interlude for me and (I feel I can speak for him here) el Pablito. He got some new faces smiling at him, for one.
He got to go on lots of outings:
heading out the back gate
outside the Museo del Libro Antiguo
shopping on 5th Ave.
lunch at Panza Verde
up the hill to see the view (el P was unimpressed)
keeping fit at Cafe No Sé
exploring the ruins of Las Capuchinas
He got high quality lounging time.
He got the pasha treatment on the changing table.
(Personalized protection from the skylight glare.)
And, best of all, he got some lullabies from his abuela.
Pablo's mama, meanwhile, got to spend some relaxing time with her own parents, lots of help with the daily quehaceres, and some fancy meals. And, best of all, I got to see my parents' joy in their new grandchild. I've never worried, as some adoptive parents have had to, that my child would be rejected by my extended family. They may not have read all the latest sociological literature on the nuances of transcultural adoption, but there has never been any question in my mind that they would embrace any child of mine, however conceived. In fact, one of my mother's first responses to the news of my upcoming Guatemalan adoption was to enroll in Spanish classes. Still, it was such a pleasure for me to see how Pablo charmed them, and to share his ready smile and his sweet nature with those who will call him family. There was more than one pleased exclamation about what an easygoing baby he is: "What! He wakes up without crying? I never had a baby that did that!" -- and much commentary as well on his beauty. I of course, am already thankful for all his fine qualities, pretty much on an hourly basis, but it's nice to have one's prejudices confirmed.
There are also quite a few practical perks to having the abuelos around. For one, I could take a shower without anxiety &/or guilt. (Is that a happy noise he's making out there, or an I'm-going-to-be-screaming-in-a-minute noise?) My dishes seemed never to be dirty. Adult conversation was readily available. And my mother, in her quiet way, did everything to make me feel like a competent mama myself, while making all sorts of useful suggestions about how to make my life easier. "Maybe you'd like to go to the Mercado on your own, while I take care of Pablito?" Lo and behold, the Mercado on my own turns out to be a wonderful experience -- no howling baby, no obtrusive comments, no anxiety! "Maybe we should give his baby bathtub another try?" I had used it once, and he screamed throughout the whole ordeal. (Not that I haven't bathed him at all for 2 months -- but my co-bathing in the big tub, while a fun time for both of us, is also, on occasion, a little scary.) Here are the results:
no trauma noted
My father, while less of a hands-on abuelo, was no less proud of his new relative. Season tickets and car keys have already been discussed (although I'm not sure this mama will ever let el P behind the wheel of the little red Porsche -- no airbags, and no seatbelts to speak of -- even if it does make it out of the shop by the time he's able to drive). And it is thanks to my father, more than anyone, that I am even able to be here; I won't go into any financial details, but suffice to say that he has been more than generous, and I am hugely grateful.
Unfortunately, Pa was headed home on the early early flight (somehow, the typical flights to and from Guatemala seem to involve being awake at 4 am) when we had our fabulous all-you-can-eat Casa Santo Domingo brunch -- followed a week later by our equally fabulous CSD tasting menu dinner. He would have appreciated both, and hopefully will be back to do so at some point in the coming months.
While we did get out to see some Antigua sites, we also spent quite a few days holed up avoiding the rain, as my parents' arrival pretty much coincided with the beginning of the Guatemalan "winter," i.e. the wet season. We are, I'm afraid, a pretty nerdy family. And what we call entertainment often looks something like this:
n.b. battered tome on lap
My father with his Extremely Hard Sudoku, my mother with her Beyond Extremely Hard weekly Listener puzzle. (I'm on the couch, knitting. Or maybe doing Spanish homework.) I'm sure very few of you have even heard of the Listener puzzle; for the uninitiated, it bears a very faint resemblance to the NYT Magazine cryptic crosswords -- but it is a cryptic on steroids. On Barry Bonds-type steroids. (Sorry, Pa -- no personal offense intended -- hope I'm not endangering Pablito's tickets with that comment.) It hails, of course, from the U.K. It has a bit of a cult following, and an unpaid official statistician named Mr. Brown, who at the end of every year sends out an extremely detailed recap of the year's puzzles, including percentage of correct responses, a list of the top solvers, etc. Every year the select few who manage to solve each week's puzzle perfectly are invited to a banquet. My mother claims she would never actually attend such an affair, but it is still an ongoing goal to receive the invitation (I think she's missed it by something like two wrong answers in the course of a year). She goes nowhere without her trusty Chambers dictionary -- a necessary, but far from sufficient, aide to completing the Listener. It accompanied her on a recent jaunt to Burma. Needless to say, it made the journey to Guatemala as well:
The Chambers in action
There are times when I am in awe of my parents' intellectual capacities. My father is an astonishingly successful antiquarian bookdealer -- astonishing, that is, at least to me, for I cannot begin to imagine what it takes to run that business. I am overwhelmed with the sheer scope of it -- the number of books, and the amount of knowledge it requires to find, collect, manage, distribute them. He is brilliant at it, and while I have inherited many fine qualities from him, I did not get that kind of intelligence. I like to think I inherited some of my mother's facility with language -- but it's a rare day when I can solve even one Listener clue (I would never embark on an entire puzzle) -- and a banner day when I can beat her at Scrabble.
Actually, she won this game. But scoring was neck-in-neck (tied at the penultimate play!) And I did pull out one victory while she was here.
Black sheep that I am, I don't get to see much of my family: they're all firmly entrenched in the San Francisco Bay Area, and I've migrated backwards to the East Coast, where I generally relish the fact that not everyone around me looks, thinks, and talks exactly as I do. But now that I'm getting a taste (even if just a tiny nibble) of the true ex-pat life, I particularly appreciate spending time with my flesh and blood. Which of course leads me back into thinking about what it means to be adopted, what it will mean for Pablo to have no "flesh and blood" connection at all to his family.
I find myself wondering sometimes what it will be like for Pablo to grow up in a family with such an introverted, intellectual bent. Of course, he may end up being just as bookish as all the rest of us -- he seems to enjoy Goodnight Moon and Buenas Noches, Gorila as much as the next 3 month old (which is to say, he enjoys trying to eat them). And of course, it is possible that I could have given birth to, say, an extroverted non-reading jock -- but in this particular realm I put enough stock in nature over nurture to find that scenario fairly unlikely. I have no idea what kind of boy el Pablito will turn out to be, and I embrace that; I'm happy, really, to know that I won't waste any energy worrying about whether I've passed on my shyness, my myopia, my complete lack of athletic ability. I'm eager to discover his strengths and his challenges, the ways he will take after me and the ways he won't. I have no need for him to fit into my mold. But I do hope that we will fit together, that he will feel like he belongs with me, and with his extended family.
So far, I have to say, so good.
