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Reading old content !

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ariel looked different, but she smelled the same; a mixture of cheap perfume and gas station, with a tinge of cigarette smoke that could be attributed to the half-empty pack of Camels on the counter and a few haphazardly strewn butts under the kitchen table.

as you glanced up to meet her eyes—the same eyes as yours—all of those memories from childhood (some of which kind of matched her current demeanor, some of which definitely did not) came seeping in through your corneas.

there were the times you’d fall asleep on her mattress, late at night when she wasn’t home, and Ariel’s friend Kris would stay over and maybe even tuck you in on those rare occasions she could find a spare blanket.

there were times you sat on the porch, picking at the dirt on the carpet mat beneath you, listening to Ariel argue with the landlord. you remembered the weeks after that incident, too, when none of the lights in the house would turn on.

and you remembered one night when rick had dragged her stumbling, redeyed self into the house, and slammed the door so hard your ears rang.

“i’m fucking SICK of it!” he had screamed, spraying spittle in your direction. “fucking grow UP!” rick’s work boots dragged dirt in from outside, squeaking on the floor. rick pulled at his girlfriend’s arm, causing her to crash into the refigerator.

“get off of me, rick,” ariel shouted, snapping away. she rubbed her eyes with her left hand, sinking to the floor. you saw her pick up a half-empty bottle of warm tequila that had rolled under the cupboard. “it’s my life. i can do what i want.”

in one swift movement rick lunged, gripping the glass bottle, in a brief struggle with ariel. he ripped it away, throwing it out the open window. “no you can’t. you’re a goddamn mess, ari. look at you! look at your house, look at your kid, look at your LIFE!” rick wiped his mouth with a hairy hand, leaning back on the counter. “you can’t be trusted to do ANYTHING, i mean, god, apple’s just sitting there, you’re never home-“

“i’m allowed to live my life, rick. shit doesn’t stop just because i got knocked up a few years back,” ariel mumbled. “and besides, i have anna and kris and dana and i-“

rick cackled. “what are they doing for her? she still isn’t fucking EATING shit, she drew all over my fucking dress shirt-”

“rick, she’s a baby.”

“A baby who needs some SENSE knocked into her. you know when i was that age i’d get my SHIT rocked if i acted like that-”

at that point, you’d burst into distress, crying, screeching, maybe in an attempt to get their attention, maybe to get them to stop, maybe because you were hungry and hadn’t eaten in hours. maybe because you were, a baby, and that was just what babies did...

but rick wasn’t having it. picking up a plate that still had the remnants of a half eaten pizza slice on it, he turned.

ariel looked cautiously. “don’t you dare fucking...rick, i’m serious. put it down,” she warned. jumping to her feet, she scurried to meet you on the floor, desperately digging through her purse to try and find a pacifier, or anything that could quiet you...

CRASH!

glass from the plate rick had thrown began to dig into your skin. there were shards on the floor, and one major one sticking out of your arm. you tenderly picked it out, blood beginning to leak.

“oh my god,” ariel began to tend to the wound, grabbing a bandaid from deep down in her evening bag and pushing on your little elbow. she glanced up at rick. “get out. get the fuck out of my house.”

you blinked, and her hand was already extended. there was a new tattoo on her wrist, you noticed—a few chinese letters, the meaning of which you couldn’t decipher.

you shook her hand, cautiously gracing your thumb over her veins. her skin felt rougher, hardened, not necessarily from age but from work that you could tell she’d been putting in. it was different from when you were young—or maybe not. she’d never been a very physical person, not one to let you hold her hand, not one for hugs, not like tammy and liz were. “Is Rick home?”

Ariel’s eyes widened; she didn’t think you’d remember—she’d wished, hoped you wouldn’t—but you had. the question was a stark reminder of what she’d done, what he’d done, of the lifelong mark they’d left on the life of this child, and she winced, a little.

“Um,” she craned her neck to the side. “No, he’s gone. Like, completely. Totally gone. Not here,” she laughed, “hasn’t been for a while.”

You nodded. Looking behind your left shoulder, you saw Liz discreetly trying to peek in at the inside of the house.

“Do you guys wanna come in? I cleaned up a bit,” Ariel said, opening the creaky door and ushering the three of you inside. You made sure to keep close to Tammy, for fear that if you didn’t, she’d be gone and you’d be two again, crying on the bathroom floor.

“I’ve gotten my shit together, for the most part. Paid my car off,” she gestured to a bright red Pontiac in the driveway, “I’m...different. Better. A changed woman, if I do say so myself.” Ariel slid into the kitchen, reaching up to the cabinet and grabbed a bottle of raspberry Svedka, pouring it into a glass and almost spilling all over the counter. “Shit. Well, not completely.”

Ariel paused to take a drink. “You guys drink?” She raised her eyebrows at Tammy and Liz, who’d been watching with you from afar, making a flat number “two” with her middle and forefinger, scanning back and forth with her hand as if it were a laser pointer.

Tammy tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear and folded her hands. “Uh, no...that’s okay.”

Ariel snapped her fingers. “‘Course not...of course not...”

She stumbled over to the couch, which still sat where you remembered it. You glanced over, trying to study if the dingy sofa was the same as before, but decided that it wasn’t—you recalled it being cream, not the dirt brown it was now.

Yawning, Ariel collapsed on the couch and started humming some offkey tune, ending with a cough powerful enough to cause her chest to cave in and her right arm to flail for a second.

“Whoo! This is,” she exhaled, “Yeah...” She droned off, blinking a bit. “Um, how old are you now? Seven? Eight?”

You stepped a little bit further out, still close enough to your moms that you’d be able to retreat should something arise. Ariel had never felt like much of a mother even when you’d lived with her, but now looking at this woman (tangled up in an oversized Harley Davidson sweatshirt) felt even more foreign now that you’d become accustomed to home.

“Um, ten,” you responded quietly, biting the inside of your bottom lip. “And a half. My birthday is in January.”

“Ten...ten...ten ten ten,” she murmured, looking down. “It’s been longer than I thought, then.” Sitting up, she looked at the three of you, standing close together. The distance between the two parties signified separate worlds, and for the first time in a while, it actually pained Ariel a bit that she would never get to be a part of that second world. Blindly reaching for a glass of water she’d left out on the floor, she sat up.

You watched this unfold from your spot sandwiched between the two older blondes in the room, intrigued by the mannerisms of this now unfamiliar woman. Her movements were constricted but loose, smooth but twitchy, unpredictable, and as she fell back on the couch, you tried desperately to see a bit of yourself in her. maybe it was the voice, maybe the hair, but whatever it was, it definitely wasn’t apparent.

“D’you guys wanna sit or something? Those chairs over there are clean, I think...” Ariel broke the silence, gesturing to two orange club chairs, each dotted with an array of stains that she’d attempted to hide with tablecloths and other random linens.

Tammy nodded, taking a seat in the one closest to Ariel, before realizing that one of you three would have to stand. You looked up at Liz.

“You can sit, Apple, I’m fine here,” she said with a half smile. You nodded, cautiously sinking down into the seat. You rested your forearm on the armrests, which were a strange sort of sticky, subconsciously intertwining your right hand with Liz’s.

A brief lull occupied only by the buzz of the furnace filled the air. Ariel stared straight into your eyes for about a minute, seeming not to notice until you looked away and she coughed.

“I voted for you, by the way. When you...For senate,” Ariel spoke, pointing at Tammy. “Look at that, Madam Senator.” Ariel chuckled. “Foresight is 20/20, then. One thing I ever did right, I suppose...”

Tammy smiled. “Don’t say that. But thank you for your vote...” She looked over at you. “And thank you for doing this, letting us into your home.”

Ariel waved it off. “Yeah...hey,” she once again made eye contact with you, “I’m really glad to see you doing well. I’m sorry it couldn’t be with me, I’m sorry I just...really fucked that one up, couldn’t parent for shit, you know. But I’m just...well I am happy they can. A whole lot better than I ever would’ve.” She rubbed her eyes, then looked at both your parents, nodding. “You guys are doing great.”

This prompted an awkward silence—you didn’t know how to respond, and your mothers just gave curt “thank yous”—which Ariel broke by telling you that she had something cool to show you.

“Check it out.” She sprung up, running to the credenza, where an assemblage of picture frames of different shapes and sizes lay. Some were ceramic, some glass, some shaped like animals or different objects. The one constant was what was sealed inside the frames—each photo conveyed a different, smiling nuclear family. You followed close behind Liz, craning your neck to see a particular green wooden display.

Liz tapped on the wood, moving closer to examine one of the pictures. “Nice collection. Did you take them all yourself?”

“No— they come like that, when you buy the frames. it’s just the frames i’m displaying.” ariel leaned on an exposed beam, burying her head in her armpit, muffling her voice, before adding: “Wish i did.”

You started to feel queasy, and squeezed Tammy’s hand to let her know that something was wrong.

“Do you have,” you swallowed hard, discreetly clutching your stomach, “do you have a restroom?”

Ariel stood back up and glanced down the hallway. The door to what was obviously a bathroom had been left open, but you’d noticed it was filled with blue water anyways. She shook her head. “Draino. Roommate’s really into this whole spring cleaning deal. Sorry about that.”

You took a deep breath, nodding and looking back up at Tammy, who rightfully took that as a cue that you should probably wrap things up.

So you did. Pleasantries were exchanged between your two sets of parents as, you supposed, is customary when saying goodbye to your child’s birthmother whom you hadn’t seen in seven years, and then Ariel turned to you.

Digging into the back pocket of her ultra-skinny jeans, she pulled out a small, textured photo, taken on an instant camera and handed it to you. “My friend took this, a long time ago. I don’t know why I never gave it to you.”

You gazed down at it. There you were, sitting on the same floors you were standing on now, playing with some ratty giraffe stuffed animal that you still had somewhere in a closet. Cups lay strewn across the floor, and you could see the shoes of adults blurred in the background. “Thanks.”

“Um. Yeah...” Ariel looked down at her feet. “Uh, it is getting late, and this isn’t really the best area...I suppose you guys might want to get back home.”

Liz nodded. “Yeah, I suppose. Thank you again for this. Have a nice night.”

“‘Course. Stay safe. Bye, Apple.”

So, you left. tammy turned to look back at you on the car ride home. “We can come again, if you want to.”

No, you never did— which isn’t to say that you grew up all at once right then, but some things change your perspective for the better and you never feel like looking back.

You go forward from there.

[bwstanaccount]

REBLOG FOR TAMMY BALDWIN!

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REBLOG FOR TAMMY BALDWIN!

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for anyone who’s seen the cursed scr**nshots of liz and br*ce currently going around and had the thought “i’m going to kms,” we fixed them for you. :-)

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Pinky Promise

you never did like boys. not in second grade, when anthony confessed that he liked your haircut and made you a flower crown. not at nine, when everyone was getting fake-married and fantasizing over justin beiber. not when you were ten and everyone was gushing about the new boy’s hair. not twelve, when your best friend got a boyfriend and everyone but you was jealous. not seventh grade, when your crush asked to hold your hand in the hallway and you officially began “going out”—or whatever that meant, to a middle-schooler.

and, now that you thought about it, not in ninth either. not when landon (“a junior!” your friends had squealed at lunch) met you at your locker and asked if you were “available”. not when he gave you his football jersey to wear to homecoming (“lucky!” your friends had said, yet again). not even when he kissed you underneath the bleachers that night, after the East High football team had won their game. as he pressed his mouth against yours, you felt nothing but crusty lip. it wasn’t fun, wasn’t passionate, wasn’t special, like you’d always been told it would be. it was as if it was simply a checkmark, something that had to be done, so let’s just get it over with.

you knew you didn’t have to—your Mom didn’t, after all, and both your parents had made it clear that not everyone is straight and it’s okay not to be. but to you, it just seemed like it would be a given. you liked him, right? he was everything that the movies you watched as a kid presented as the ideal boyfriend, the perfect man. he was hot, blonde, he played varsity football, he was nice, respectful...who couldn’t?

“You, apparently,” Cleo stated, snapping you out of your pensive haze. “I mean, what is it? He’s perfect.” She twirled her hair around her finger. Silky hair, voluminous black hair that fell just right on her shoulders, framing her face like a rare masterpiece.

If only Landon had hair so soft, then you could play with it and put it up as a joke at his volleyb-

Football games.

“Sorry, what?”

Cleo laughed. “I said, is there anyone in this group who’s really scoring with guys anymore?” She paused, and then continued with a mouthful of turkey. “The answer is yes, I guess. Look at you! You’re so lucky.”

Mhm. Lucky, you thought. But that was it; Cleo thought, and you held Cleo’s opinion in high regard. “Yeah, I really am.”

The rest of the month went by, and you found yourself coming to Cleo more and more for what you told yourself was relationship advice (but might’ve been you making an excuse to hang out). Landon had been distant, stressed from the season, and you wanted him to pay at least some attention to you in order to resolve the sense of blandness you were feeling towards him. Every outfit, every text, every move, you had sent to Cleo to approve, which she had done with great pleasure, taking pride in her cupidly skillset.

Spring Formal rolled around in April, and on the floor of Cleo’s high rise apartment, you felt prepared. She had helped you do your hair (unruly as it was) and makeup, and as you giddily zipped each other’s dresses up, staring in the mirror at your respective looks, you locked eyes.

“I don’t know how.” Cleo blinked.

“What?”

Closing her eyes, Cleo shook her head in the slightest. You noticed her eyelashes, with meticulously applied mascara that almost made them look fake, but they weren’t; you’d seen her sit at her vanity, flipping the brush up with a swish and revealing a new, even better looking Cleo...of course it was perfect, because she was perfect, and everything she did was...

Perfect...in a friendly way.

Cleo’s eyes darted around. “Well, you know. The whole kissing thing. I’ve never...me and Ryan haven’t ever and he said he might try tonight but I don’t know how.”

You blushed. “You don’t have to, you know.” Your parents had always tought you that making independent decisions was important—just because someone wanted you to do something, didn’t mean you had to. That was just one of many things you wished you could teach Cleo.

“Well...” Cleo came closer, and you could smell her perfume. “I think I’ve kind of got the—here wait, do you mind if I try?”

You laughed, butterflies filling your stomach. It didn’t matter, right? This was what normal friends did, with no feelings. Still, you couldn’t help, as you looked at her freshly lined lips, how they would feel against yours.

But you shook those thoughts off, instead replying pseudo-nonchalantly.

“Um, no, that’s cool. What are friends for?”

As Cleo pressed her lips against yours, you could taste her fruity lip gloss, feel the brush of her one dangly earring against your neck. It seemed to last longer than you’d expected, nearly pressing the boundaries of friendship, but it was comfortable, a welcomed test of relationship, and neither of you had even slightly tried to pull away before the experience was over.

And after she moved back, wiping her mouth, a little, you could still remember one thing, one thing that made the occurrence truly different than other kisses you’d had in the past.

Her lips weren’t the least bit crusty.

—

It had rained that night, and you and Landon never danced.

In fact, the only pleasantries that were exchanged were a curt “hey” (before leaving to hang out with his team by the vending machines) and “have a nice night” (uttered after you got left the building; he didn’t even wait for you), and a considerably large part of your night was spent by the punch bowl, stiffly conversing with acquaintances that you knew from Student Council.

“How did it go?” Tammy asked as you climbed into the passenger seat of the Subaru, dress sopping wet with rainwater. She looked down at the mascara running down your cheeks, and the absence of the necklace that Landon had given you.

“Oh, Apple.”

You started to sniffle, shivering a little as the wet fabric began to adhere to your skin. Tammy turned the heat on and sighed, patting your back as you sunk down in your seat and watched the streetlights fade away.

The car stumbled into the parkway, and Tammy led you into the house, holding an umbrella over your head as if it would do anything to dry you. She had you change into pajamas, throwing your soiled clothing into the washing machine, and Liz prepared some tea (not even the Snapped marathon on Oxygen was more important than her crying daughter).

“Do you want to talk about it?” Liz whispered as you sat crosslegged on a stool, staring at the counter and sipping at your tea.

“Mama, how did you know?” You blurted, immediately covering your mouth. “I’m...I mean, sorry..”

“Know what, honey?”

“That you um, that you maybe didn’t like boys that much...”

Liz shifted. “Well,” she started, with her classic southern drawl. She took a second to contemplate, leaning forward the way she always did when she was thinking of just the right thing to say. “It might have been my first husband. We got married very early, but when grew up a little, I realized that maybe I was a little bit more like your mom.”

You nodded. “I...I don’t think I want to only date girls, though. Because it seems scary, to label yourself like that,” you gulped. “I don’t think I’m a lesbian, if that’s what you’re getting at-

Liz chuckled a little bit, tilting her head to listen once you began to talk again.

“I just...well there’s this one girl. But then there’s also another um, person,” you paused to take a drink, “who i kind of have to like.”

Liz just shook her head, placing her hands over yours. “Have to, huh?” She leaned in, tapping the table. “I think that’s a stupid word,” she whispered.

“You don’t have to do anything. Mom and I will love you no matter what. I know this is scary—I went through it too—but you can always talk to us about it,” she smiled, a serious look on her face. “Pinky promise?”

“Pinky promise.”

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tammy never gets impatient with you—you never shake when she enters the room because of the bad things you associate with her, never slept a certain way because you were afraid she’d sneak in and stab you, never buried yourself under the covers to hide from her shrill screeching. no, Tammy was someone you could always come to for advice, when you were feeling sad. even when you messed up, she didn’t get mad, just wanted to know why you did what you did, or why it was wrong. you could always trust your mother.

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Just Some Wholesome Tammy Content For Your Tumblr !

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What are you looking at, Elizabeth ? 😃

Just her 𝑤𝑖𝑓𝑒’𝑠 𝑎𝑠𝑠

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Gillian

Tammy and Liz came to every school recital. Your winter concert, your chorale performances, your spring play, even the special Scottish Dance showcase you had in the fifth grade. But not everyone’s parents did.

~

“Gillian, are you coming to Great Dane with us to celebrate?” you asked, pulling your winter coat over the stage blacks you’d worn to perform. You’d been a measly ensemble role in this year’s musical, a walking statue in Mary Poppins; but it was your last semester of middle school, and so you felt a sense of companionship with your castmates that required commemoration.

“No, I don’t think I can. I’m walking home, and my dad would be mad if I got there past curfew.” Gillian shrugged. “You know how it is. Parents.”

You didn’t know how it was, but you nodded anyway as you walked out of the dressing room with Gillian. “So they didn’t come to watch you perform?”

“Nah.” She shook her head. “They never do. But I was only a penguin, anyways. Not much to watch.”

Only a penguin, you thought. Only a penguin, that makes sense. Maybe it wouldn’t have made so much sense if you’d turned to see Gillian wiping her eyes as the two of you exited the school doors.

“Well, anyway, I hope you get home safe. Bye-bye! See you at school!”

Gillian half-heartedly returned your wave and went on her way.

You, on the other hand, darted back into the building to go see your moms. You couldn’t wait to hear about how much Liz enjoyed the performance!

~

Gillian wiped sweat off of her forehead as she took a bow. You squeezed her hand, a way to silently congratulate her on her first lead role while the audience erupted into cheers.

“How do you feel?” you asked, as the two of you ran into the dressing room.

“I feel good! Accomplished!” Gillian grinned, but there was a twinge of something else in her expression.

“Your parents didn’t show up again, did they?”

Gillian shook her head.

“I’m sorry, Gill.”

“No, it’s fine. C’mon, let’s get changed and then we can go say hi to your parents.”

You nodded and turned away from Gill to get undressed. As you began to take your blouse off, you noticed Gill’s phone buzzing on the counter in front of you. It displayed a text:

“Sorry, Gillian, couldn’t come to your show. Won’t be home for a couple of days. On business. Make sure to get home by 10:00 sharp. - Dad.”

When you were done changing, Gill and you walked to the stage doors, her family situation fresh on your mind. Aside from her twitching hands, Gill didn’t express any sign of sadness or disappointment at her parents’ absence. That’s why you told yourself it would be okay. That’s why you reassured yourself that, if something happened, she could tell you. You told her that.

When you exited the building, Tammy and Liz were waiting for you with a freshly cut bouquet.

“Congratulations, sweetie! First high school play!” Tammy leaned forward to hug you before realizing the barrier of flowers in her hands, which she quickly handed to you. You could still smell your garden’s dirt on them.

“And Gillian, you were amazing! I need to tell your parents to put you on Broadway!” Tammy said, laughing. “Where are they?”

“Oh, they’re not here. My dad had a business trip and my mom... she’ll couldn’t make it, I guess.” Gillian produced a smile, noticing the hesitant reaction from Tammy and Liz at her remark. “They’ll probably go next time.”

~

Gillian didn’t show up to the next audition, which meant she didn’t perform in the next play, either.

As you exited the stage doors after the show and saw your moms waiting for you affectionately, you went in for a hug but felt something was missing.

“Where’s Gillian?” Tammy asked.

“Mom, she wasn’t in this one.”

“She wasn’t? I could’ve sworn I saw her name in the program... Look! I even brought her flowers!” Tammy remarked, carelessly flaunting her bouquet and sighing.

“You’re all over the place,” Liz laughed.

~

It had been a rough year for you and Gillian, one littered with disagreements, awkward conversations, and even a few fights here and there. That’s why, when she didn’t show up to school one week, you placed all the blame on yourself.

“Gillian?” you texted, sneaking out your phone in between English and Chorale. “Is everything ok?”

Sent.

Not expecting an answer, like always, you started to put the device back in your pocket before feeling it buzz in your hand.

“No.”

Nervously, you began to type again. “What’s going on? Do you need to talk?”

“Can I come over for a bit? Will explain when there.” You paused for a few seconds, unsure of how to respond, before a second text came through: “I’m sorry.”

An hour after you got home from school, the doorbell rang.

“Can you get it?” Tammy asked from the kitchen.

“Alright,” you responded, getting up from the couch to open the door. It was Gill.

She looked a mess in her beat-up t-shirt and jeans, her mascara running and her eyes underlined by raccoon-like dark circles. Her hair was unkempt, down from its usual ponytail, and in her hand you noticed an overnight bag.

“Is it Gillian?” Tammy called over the sound of the food processor.

“Yeah, mom... it’s... it’s Gillian.”

In the following days, Tammy and Liz treated Gillian like their second daughter without asking once what had happened. You, on the other hand, didn’t know better than to needle:

“Is this about your parents?” you interrogated as the two of you were falling asleep.

“Yes.” Gill sighed.

“Do you want to talk about it?” you continued.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

Gillian rolled over to face you in her spare bed. “I’m alright, okay? Just leave it.”

So you assumed everything was fine, for a week or two, until you woke up in bed one night and found Gill’s bed empty. Weird, you thought. She usually slept like a baby. Getting up to get some water, you heard sobs from the kitchen below and crept downstairs in a somnolent haze. As noise continued to mount, so did the surreality, and so you continued to descend the staircase.

Then, in the dim, 2AM lighting, you remember seeing it: Gill and your mother sitting side-by-side by the kitchen wall. You watched in amazement as Gillian collapsed into Tammy’s arms, letting go of everything that’d been building up for what felt like forever. Tammy patted her back, just as she’d done to you when you were little. That was the most vivid part— after that, you have only a foggy recollection of what happened. You remember Gill’s tears. Gill shaking. Your mother’s face as she calmed her down. You remember being paralyzed on the stairs, heart beating fast as you tried to sort out your emotions. What was happening was bittersweet, scary, confusing, painful, embarrassing, new, sad, odd. You remember deciding upon one of these words a bit later, bittersweet, as you reflected in your room. Gill’s misfortune had unwittingly brought out one of your mom’s best qualities, her genuine concern for others during times like these— it’d brought out the sweet. Bittersweet, you said, and as you fell asleep, you felt a little less worried for Gillian than before.

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at three and a half, a few months after your adoption, you had already learned some things about your new mothers.

Tammy liked to sew, and she would often make you little blankets and hats out of scrap fabric (which she would then clip to your tiny coat) ,never letting you go cold in the crisp Wisconsin winters. She loved her greenhouse, and taught you how to plant tomato seeds with your little hands, making something out of nothing. Countless bedtimes were spent with her in the bedside chair, strumming her guitar and singing a folk song to get you to sleep. Tam”, as you called her, was the warm one, always there for a hug or a cuddle, smiling down with pride at your little cheeks.

Liz quickly found out your favorite meal-her grilled cheese sandwich, which she would make for lunch once a week. She was an avid reader, a consumer of knowledge, and you two could spend hours in the sunroom together, her softly whispering the words of an old tale in your ear and you laying your head on her chest, taking it all in. “Lizzy” was the fun mom, the one always ready with a silly joke or a funny face, the one who gave each character in your picture books a special voice. The one who never failed to make you giggle.

Tam and Liz.

Your bedroom was homey, a familiar place. Tammy and Liz has taken time to decorate it with all your favorite things, even placing little glow in the dark stars on the ceiling (they knew you hated the dark). You had a handmade patchwork quilt on your canopy bed, and stuffed animals dotted your headboard.

But even your bedroom, as calm and familiar as it was, was no match for the first summer storm.

It was 2am, hours after Tammy had read you your favorite bedtime story and tucked you in with your stuffed bear when it happened. A burst of thunder rumbled, shaking the old house and waking you in fear. Was the world ending? Was this it? Your young, naive brain was filled with worry.

A flash of lightning poked through the half shut window, and you ducked under the covers, trembling. As the second rumble hit, quaking the foundation even harder, you let out a terrified cry.

“Hey, it’s okay,” you heard, and peeked one eye out to see Tammy, clad in plaid pajama pants and an old sweatshirt at the door. At the sight of your mother, you emerged from the blanket. “Don’t cry, shh.”

Tammy crawled up onto your bed, ruffling your hair. “Are you scared?” she asked.

You nodded, leaning further into Tammy, yawning. Tammy slid under the covers to meet you. “Yeah. Storms can be sometimes,” she whispered. “But you know, my grandma used to say that thunder is just the angels bowling up in Heaven.”

“Really?”

Tammy smiled. “Yep. And that the lightning is just God having a firework show. Isn’t that cool?”

You sank down further, laying your head across your mother’s chest. Tammy flinched—this was a new comfort level—but she accepted the touch.

“Not so scary anymore, right?”

“Nuh un...” you mumbled, drifting to sleep.

As Tammy began to sit up, she froze as she heard three words slur from your mouth.

“Love you, Mama...”

Mama and Liz.

Summer with your moms was always fun. The blue skies and sunny breeze meant days of popsicles, beach days, and playground trips in the heart of Madison.

You and Liz were out on the front sidewalk, doodling with chalk. Both your hands and knees were covered in pink dust, and you were working on your masterpiece.

As Liz continued writing the first few block letters of “Welcome Summer,” your little hands drifted to the peach colored chalk.

Oval for the face, pink lips, wide nose, and blue eyes the shade of Crayola’s “bright sky” chalk crayon. Grabbing a bold yellow, you scribbled around the top of the head–for hair, of course–and finally, signature glasses.

“Look, mommy! I made you!”

Liz looked up, and her heart melted.

It was official.

.

[bwstanaccount]

Getting through adoption

Liz and Tammy sat at the adoption professional’s desk, holding hands under the table, as he recorded info on his 2003 Dell computer. Click clack click clack.

“So...” click clack click clack. “Which of you is the prospective mother?”

Each pointed to the other.

“How do you mean?” Click clack click clack.

Tammy smiled and moved her and Elizabeth’s joined hands on top of the desk. “Well, we’ll both be parenting the child together, sir.” The professional looked up, looked at the stand-in ring on Tammy’s finger, and stopped typing. “Is this one married?” he asked bluntly to Liz.

“We’re in a domestic partnership,” she responded.

“Ah. Well, I’m sorry. There doesn’t seem to be an adoption opportunity for f-” He stopped himself. “For you folks at the moment.”

Odd, Liz remarked, how none of the adoption centers ever seemed to have an open spot.

~

The next visit went the same as the last: the interviewer clicked and clacked into his computer, distasteful of their partnership, until arriving at the conclusion that Tammy and Liz would not be adopting a child. Due to availability, of course.

Liz leaned over and whispered into Tammy’s ear. “Do things like this always happen to you?”

Tammy nodded steadily. “You’ll get used to it.” She wanted to reassure her wife, but that wasn’t exactly true. Tammy had gotten used to the milder things: the name-calling, the stares in public, even the occasional hostile encounter; but the implied notion that she would raise a child less lovingly, less warmly than a straight parent was one that was harder to digest. So Tammy reconsidered and put her arm around Elizabeth.

“I take it back. You won’t get used to it. This sucks, being judged like this, and it feels awful, and.. and so you won’t get used to it. You’ll get through it.”

Liz tentatively nodded along. “Yeah, yeah. We’ll find someone who can get us a kid.”

~

The next meeting was a bit different. There were no clicks, no clacks, no judging stares to be had. Instead, the woman who met Tammy and Liz at the front desk led them into a back room as she began to fill them in on her progress.

“Your application that you submitted a month ago was processed, and— and this is exciting— we think we may have matched you to a kid.” Liz’s face lit up. “Would you like to see her?”

Tammy and Liz agreed, excitedly chattering as they were led into the back room reserved for “temporary arrivals” from another agency. Excited beyond words.

You saw your moms for the first time as they cooed around your inquisitive face. Unlike the other families who had come in to try and steal you away from the agency, you felt a strange affinity for these two quiet blondes. As did they for you— Liz was quietly documenting everything about you as she played with your fragile baby fingers.

Sparkling blue eyes. Cheeriness and laughter. Tiny, precious fingernails. Elbow rolls!

Liz paused for a moment to lean back and talk to her wife. “See, Tammy, I told you we’d find someone.” Then, she resumed chattering at your cherub face. You were perfect!

[bwstanaccount]

Letters of Admiration

Tammy’d always been your mom, first and foremost. A senator, too, sure, but a senator you rooted for out of instinct instead of political issues. A senator you saw on the debate stage and in her pajamas. A senator you played with, talked with, laughed with. So it was weird seeing how the other kids viewed her.

~

You pulled out the handwritten note, discarding the envelope that had been addressed to “Senator Baldwin” in pink gel pen beside you.

Mom usually didn’t let you go through her mail, but this time was an exception: she’d had a lot of things to carry as she went inside her Madison office, leaving you to manage its mailbox. That was a mistake.

You began to pick apart the note, deciphering its small and curved writing which appeared to belong to a child of about 8 or 9:

“To Senator Baldwin:

I hope this finds you well. I am writing this letter to say thanks for all you have done for Wisconsin and for the LGBTQ community. My two dads were able to get married last fall, in part, because of you!

I love them very much and I know that they might not be as accepted as they are today had it not been for your efforts and your example. People are a lot more afraid to call my parents names when they are represented by someone like you in Congress.

I hope this letter can help inspire you to keep changing the world!

Kayla’”

You folded up the note again and put it in your pocket, amazed that your own mother could change somebody’s life so distinctively. Giddy, you opened more letters.

“Sen. Baldwin,

My mom shattered her hip last year-“

“Sen. Baldwin,

My sister was drowning in college debt-“

“Tammy Baldwin,

Thanks for your legislation to help clean up Wisconsin’s rivers-“

You were proud of mom.