Free Instant Mom by Nia Vardalos Page A

look at this yellow Lab with the giant paws. I love him. I love him immediately. Ian loves him, too, and we sign the papers and officially adopt him. We decide to pick a name for Ian’s birthplace, Manhattan, and mine, Manitoba: so we name him Manny. Because nothing says yellow Lab like a nice Jewish accountant.
    Being with Manny simply makes me happy. We go for long walks around the neighborhood and I beam with pride when people stop to pet him and tell me he’s handsome. We get him only the healthiest dog food. Ian takes Manny into the shower and bathes him with special dog shampoo. He’d been left at a pound. We had our hopes for parenthood chucked under a bus. It’s a second chance for everyone. We all have cartoon love hearts popping over our heads. Ian and I pet Manny, kiss him, and pick up his poop. We call him our “son.” He is. We are delighted with every trash can he overturns, every bone he chews.
    And we are aghast to discover ourselves talking about him at parties. Yes, we’ve turned into Those People Who Tell Pet Stories. Realizing it’s a slippery slope to a Christmas card with the three of us in matching sweaters, Ian and I make a pact that we’ll stop each other at the next party, with any signal from a light press to the forearm to a taquito in the neck. This works for a while. But sometimes, I hide and show our hostess a few pictures of Manny. What I find sweet is how many women are patient with me during this period. They take the time to marvel over Manny’s thick fur and sweet face. They let me ramble about his poop. I have nice girlfriends. Even if they are privately discussing an intervention, I appreciate their kindness.
    My best friend, Kathy Greenwood, and her family come to visit from Toronto. As her husband, John, and Ian put their girls to bed, Kathy and I sit in my backyard and drink red wine with Manny at our feet. Point-blank, as only your best friend can do, Kathy asks me why I have abandoned pursuing adoption. I tell her I have not. But she makes me admit I have not worked on it. Because she knows me. Whether I’m hosting a dinner party or directing an indie, I work hard. I’ll be up all night researching, investigating every fact, planning every detail. I’m not doing that with adoption. I’ve stopped checking in with any of the agencies. And Kathy says it out loud. We sip more wine and I am peeved on this summer night in the way you can get annoyed at your best friend. I tell her, “I’m done. Done. I cannot try anymore when clearly it will not happen for me.” She asks, “So you’re not going to be a mom?”
    And I can’t answer.
    The very next day, I get a call from my mom. My niece has been born prematurely and we’re terrified for the baby. It is an uncertain and helpless feeling for my entire family.
    An eerie feeling starts swirling in me on this day. I start to think about a little girl. I tell myself it’s just daydreams and thoughts of my premature niece. But, within a few days, I start to believe again that it will happen for me. In the next weeks I tell Ian I think we’re going to get matched with a girl.
    When I get to hold my new little niece who has passed the point of danger and is growing strong . . . I am now feeling something that could be described as both disturbing and insane. If you’re going to make fun of me now, know that I’m already doing it for you: I have started to feel more certain that there is a little girl out there. A little girl with blond streaks in her hair. And, when I say it out loud, Ian stares at me as if I’ve lost it, and Kathy Greenwood tells me to keep it to myself in that way your best friend can tell you that you sound crazy. So I know it sounds deranged that I’m telling you now and as I write it, I’m pretty sure I’ll cut it from the book before it goes to print. But then again, I kinda don’t care because it’s true.
     
    By 2007, the grieving period is over and there’s no denying that I am feeling more