Instant Mom by Nia Vardalos Page B

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 She’s withdrawn but listening, trying to figure out the situation.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