OYM Day 58: Baby Girl

“Baby Girl, your prescription is ready.”

I watched in the overhead mirrors and saw heads turn, few by few, to scan the store for someone walking towards the pharmacy. They all wanted to know: “Who is Baby Girl?”

We were at the Phoenix airport headed to Mexico on a family vacation. The TSA agent took a look at the fresh passport in my hands. “Baby Girl? Have you seen the movie Birdbox? Is this a Birdbox reference?” I hadn’t seen the movie, and because of that, I never will.

At the eye clinic, we sat patiently in the waiting room as an hour crept by. A door swung open and a tired assistant did a double take at the name on her clipboard. “Girl? Baby? Baby Girl, I think?”

“That’s right,” I said. “Girl-Baby-Baby-Girl.” I rolled my stroller into the exam room.

My daughter was not named at birth, and because of that, her birth certificate stated “Baby Girl” as her name. Of course we named her immediately, but for all legal and medical purposes, she would be referred to as Baby Girl until adoption.

It didn’t bother me at first. We weren’t allowed to have a copy of her birth certificate, so it’s not something I stared at, day in and day out. And speaking of days, boy, did the days come and go. We were initially told that if all things went as they thought they would, we would be able to finalize the adoption in about 6–8 months. But we adopted my daughter a few weeks shy of her 2nd birthday. As the caseworker put it, “we knew she was safe with you, so we just kinda forgot about it”. Comforting, right?

But back to my Baby Girl. I had no idea how much I would hear people call this name, her name, before adoption. Doctors, nurses in waiting rooms, insurance companies, the post office, lawyers, specialists, case workers, licensing workers, TSA agents. It was never a statement. Baby Girl. It was always a question, as if there must have been a clerical error. Baby Girl?

The jokes were the worst and I started to feel like a brick of cheap cheese being dragged down a grater. Each joke took a piece of me and I was wearing dangerously thin. You’re about to knick your thumb.

People thought I named her Baby Girl. Or they thought I was indecisive and Baby Girl was a placeholder until I finally decided on something. People would laugh and ask where her brother, Baby Boy, was. I would always smile slightly and cast my eyes down, waiting for them to finish their punchline. Please don’t make me explain it to you, I would think. But most of the time I did, because I wanted to save the next Baby Girl from having to explain herself. She doesn’t owe you that.

Their faces would fall. They’d stumble through an apology. They’d avoid eye contact for the rest of our transaction. I’d feel my eyes brimming with tears and I’d hurry to the parking lot to breathe. Or sit through a doctors appointment. Or put the phone on mute. Or continue staring at them as they sat across from me in my own home, holding a little girl I’d stop a train for.

It wasn’t okay to joke about my daughter. Or how she got her name. And I hated having to explain it. To make me express to you that she was not named at birth, and that I am her foster parent, and that we call her by another name at home, and I can’t wait to adopt her. Oh. And don’t look at her like she’s helpless. She is fucking resilient. Resilient.

I know I could have just said her name was Baby Girl, say that I named her that, and let it go. But it just wasn’t fair. Every time they called out her name, it felt like an invasion of privacy. It gave people an “in” to ask questions they shouldn’t feel comfortable asking. Or maybe I’m too sensitive about it.

As she learned to love carrots and hate peas, and say mama for the first time, and take her first wobbly steps, board her first plane… we became mother and daughter. We fell in love and I spent every day earning her trust.

She turned my whole world upside down and shook it. And there I was, hiding under there. Afraid. But looking for her.

To me, I was just taking care of my daughter. Picking up her allergy medication or making sure she could see past her nose. The constant reminder that she was not my legal daughter yet just opened a wound that was so desperately trying to heal. Mine and hers.

Now that she’s adopted I can look back at it differently. Almost fondly. Although her name is no longer Baby Girl, I still have fleeting thoughts and nightmares that someone forgot to file a document and they’re going to take her from us. I don’t think those will ever fully dissipate.

Oh, my Baby Girl. I can hear you calling for me now and I’m going to scoop you up and smell the sunshine on your skin and feel your little fingernails dig into my arms to hold you tighter. And I will.