We went briefly with Ms B to a small church thing so she could introduce the group to Firefly. I was in the bathroom changing a diaper when a woman came through with her young son. I honestly thought she knew Ms B, which was the only reason I let this conversation go the way it did. I didn't want to be rude to someone in Ms B's world.
"Is that your baby?"
"Out of your body?"
"No, it was an adoption."
"Is she black?"
"Yes--well, she's biracial."
"Why do people always pick the biracial ones?"
I decide to ignore both the truth in her statement and her assumptions about me. I'm now keenly aware that she is African-American and I am not. "Well, we didn't pick her, her mom picked us."
"Is your husband black?"
"No, he's white."
"Huh. So why'd she give her to you?"
"I think you'd need to ask her. She's [Ms B]'s baby. [Ms B Lastname]?" I gesture toward the room outside.
"I don't know her. Wait, so her mom still sees her?"
"Yes, that's what open adoption is."
"That must be hard on you."
"Well, I think about her [Firefly] in the future and how much harder it would be for her to not know all her parents or where she came from."
"Are you going to have your own kids?"
"Probably not. And she is my own." I look down at Firefly and she squeaks happily.
"Look, she knows who you are. You're her new mom."
"Mmm-hm. I'm one of her moms."
"She seems happy. She's cute."
"Weird." She starts to leave. "This parenting thing. I don't know. I didn't know how hard..." She gestures at her son. "Will you take mine?"