Adoption

On the directive of our teenager,
we queue behind sixty-three like-minded people
pressed against the brick buildings 
along the sidewalk on Spring Street.
My husband and I exchange 
the kind of undulating Shar-Pei glances 
that only Botox virgins can make.
I ask, "What exactly are we waiting for?"
"Is there a cover charge?"

I crane my neck around 
the German tourist taking photos,
and take in the head-to-toe seriousness 
of the bouncer who will decide our fates.

She's five-foot one inches tall, 
clad in a pink coverall utility suit, 
donning a fluffy headband, 
clutching an ipad that she peers over, 
with a purpose acid etched in steel.
I can't ascertain if she's more closely related 
to Ms. Rachel or a Special Ops force; 
without malice I shudder involuntarily. 

My daughter rolls her eyes and says, 
"Glossier. It's elite. Ugh." 
She sighs with the force of a stove-top Moka pot.
I am so unhip, cool-deficient, rizz-less.
It must be chronically difficult for her to be with me.

Seventy-elven minutes later, 
we are ushered through the pink velvet rope
(was that there, or did I make that up?).
But as we turn to descend the steps, 
The regulator in baby pink holds up a hand.
"Have you been here before?" 
"No," we shake our heads in triplicate. 
She sighs, her face set in concrete grimness,
threatening to wrinkle.
It is the face that I imagine most NYC doctors 
wore the whole of 2020, pre-mRNA vaccinations.

"Oh, yikes. Oh no. Um...."
"That's....OK," she says, after a long pause
Her small frame remains extended, stiff, unsure.
"We'll figure it out."
"There is no product out to buy.
"All the product you see is only for testing and samples. 
"We...
[she points to her pink auto repair uniform] 
"...are your cash registers." 
She sniffed and sent us off with: 
"Good luck." 

We step into da clerb, which is, for some reason, 
festooned with bushels and bushels of red apples
interspersed with farm crates laid gently with $65 pink hoodies (pre-tax).
Is this a Big Apple reference? 
Or an elaborate trick to entrap Snow White?
Or a special seasonable vibe for the coming Fall? 
Unclear.

Our daughter splits away from us, 
running through hyper-lit rows 
of what look like red-capped painter's tubes.
As far as I can tell, nothing seems 
to have ingredient labels or price tags.
Comforting.

After some tense circles through the retail rooms,
she decides on some mystery color of Balm DotCom.
"You buy it!" 
She commands.
Because she doesn't want 
to engage a human in a jumpsuit.
"You want it, you talk to a human," I counter.
"UGH MOM FINNNNNEEEE."

She slowly approaches a sales rep, 
mumbles her order, 
and they happily ping her teen credit card
ask for her name,
and usher her into a waiting room.

I use the phrase Waiting Room intentionally.
There is a waterfall, a curvilinear seating area, 
a vending machine, dappled light. 
It's giving: Cabbage Patch Kids hospital, for make-up heads.
"We're waiting on a newborn delivery announcement." 

When an auto shop cum hospital attendant 
calls out her name, the allegations stick:
our daughter heads to a counter, 
collects a tiny, baby pink package 
that says her name on it 
in a cutesy hand-scrawled Sharpie font,
and is asked to stand against 
a glossy red wall for her photo.

My mother ears pique with practice,
searching for evidence of wails 
emanating from this small bag we just adopted, 
though none arise.

I can see the social announcement 
in my mental scroll:
Mom is Proud though tired; 
Baby Balmleigh is doing well!

With this, my battle-tested partner 
heaves off the cushioned red velvet waiting room sofa
gathers the many pastel-hued shopping bags he's been patrolling
and makes towards the exit, newb that he is. 

Because we have not yet threaded through the gauntlet.
We are not out of the apple orchards, not just yet.
On the way back to the exit stairs, 
we pass by a mini-mart styled island bar
and here we learn:
Once you order your wish list 
from a gurl or a ghey in a pink jumpsuit 
and collect your newly adopted Glossier item 
from the Newborn Viewing Area, that's not it.

Here, at this next station, you can opt to give 
your precious Balm Dot Com squeeze tube 
a nipple piercing with a dangly charm
— but only IF you buy three for $48 —
and then you get the right
to watch a frowny-faced employee puncture 
your new purchase with a hand-held device
and thread a golden apple on a jump ring on its crimped edge.

But alas, the child had selected 
but a single tube of expensive goo, 
and was therefore not eligible. 
The regret registered as tears in her eyes;
The grave mistake she had made!
I give my husband panic eyes;
we escort her out before waterworks begin.

To quell the coming deluge, I take no chances.
I push her into the MoMA Design Store across the street.
She scrunches her face, "What's this?" 
"Just trust me," I retort. 
"You'll be fine" I assure her, 
as her eyes alight on a Lego Starry Night kit.
"We'll 'figure it out.'"