Allergic
by Maia Coen
Photo by Diana Polekhina on Unsplash
She started crying then, this small animal, pink and fresh in my arms. We had thought she wouldn’t cry for a moment and the room had felt so awfully quiet. But then she had opened her mouth and wailed. She looked right at me as if to say, do not worry, I am here. I felt relief for an instant then moved along to the critical issue at hand. We would need to get her ready for adoption right away, it would not do to have a girl in the family since I was allergic. A pity really, she wasn’t a boy, we had both been looking forward to another baby in the house. Our son had just turned three and he was at that stage in life where he was no longer a baby in his mannerisms nor his looks. We loved him of course, but how I longed for the early days of soft tummies and cries only a mother could appreciate. As they get older, they realize you are not the only people on the planet who are capable of caring for them and providing them what they want. They learn that Grandma, and nannies, and perhaps the next-door neighbor are just as capable of fixing them lunch or giving them sweets. Sometimes even better than mom and dad for they learn others are much more gullible when confronted with the wide eyes of a child asking for dessert before lunch time. It was a certain kind of pain to watch your baby realize mother’s milk was no longer necessary and see them move on to more solid things, like bananas and kindergarten. Yes, another baby would have been nice. But alas, the baby was a girl and we needed to begin the necessary arrangements. How unfortunate that the mother was allergic the nurse had muttered, shaking her head.
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We logged on to childfinder.com right at the hospital, me in a hospital gown and still sore from the ordeal of pushing another person out of my body. All that work for nothing and my nose had begun to run immediately. My husband had said, this just won’t do. It was a lengthy but important process; the new family would of course want to know everything they could about their new child. We answered questions about our family’s medical history, some breast cancer in grandmothers, a diabetic aunt, and the most unpleasant of them all, hereditary allergy to girls.
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"It was a certain kind of pain to watch your baby realize mother's milk was no longer necessary and see them move on to more solid things, like bananas and kindergarten." |
We made sure to specify that women above the age of eighteen no longer triggered the allergic reaction, but it was certainly something to be aware of. Things would not be easy for this little girl. She herself would likely develop the allergy as she aged and be required to take antihistamines just to visit her friends’ houses. And don’t get me started about school, when I was in elementary school my teachers had to place me with groups of only boys and even still, I carried a pouch of tissues with me chronically. Luckily as the allergy has become more common lawmakers have mitigated the issue by having special schools for all boys that allow only two girls to join each classroom, successfully managing those unlucky enough to have been born with the allergy. It would be much less of a headache for the future mother of this little girl than it was for my own mother.
I sometimes wondered what compelled my mother to keep me all those years ago. I couldn’t imagine having to live day in and day out with such terrible allergies. Having only held the baby once before returning her to the hospital NICU, this was solidified for me. I simply could not live my life bogged down by a constant runny nose and bleary eyes, no matter how cute she might be. I refused to sacrifice my own health, allergies having been proven to weaken the immune system and overall quality of life. And by no means was I to become “tissue girl” again as a grown woman, those days were over. I managed now by avoiding indoor spaces with young girls, choosing the park over the bowling alley. Our son seemed happy enough, especially since we had decided to hire a nanny who was not allergic to take him to the places I had to avoid when his father was at work. Primarily places like indoor jungle gyms and movie theaters, the former already crawling with grubby little girl allergens. These were places I now refused to take him. I had tried once or twice when he was younger and had such an adverse reaction I couldn’t stop sneezing for days, every surface seemed to bother me as I watched little girls not only grab on to everything in sight but also to drool and sneeze on it. It made my nose itch just thinking about it. And thus, we hired Sadie. She was a nice college girl and our son liked her, so whenever he gave me that dismayed look that I, his mother, could not take him to the movies I would remind him that he had Sadie to do those things with him. We had chosen a nanny who was a girl in the hopes that he would get more female socialization since his mother could frequently not provide. The nanny’s sole purpose was to take him away from the house.
We continued to fill out our profile for the baby, tackling the section on the sort of parents we wished her to go to. I imagined her in a big house with large windows she could stare out as she took her first steps. I could see her grabbing onto the window ledge and pulling herself up, the greatest feat she had yet attempted, and then a smile. But really, I only wanted her to have parents that loved her, ones that would not spank her but knew when to give her a time out. Ones who would grin from ear to ear whenever she giggled and smiled at them. Who would rejoice at her first words and her second and third. I also wanted financial stability for her, parents who had enough to clothe and feed her but also to buy her a Barbie or a Lego set occasionally. Not too often though, I wouldn’t want her being spoiled. Middle class would be totally acceptable, even on the poorer side as long as they could surprise her with toys and candy and experiences every once in a while. My husband suggested we include political affiliation; we wouldn’t want her going to a home where they would not be accepting for who she was or who she loved later in her life. I could see her then, fifteen years old bringing her first girlfriend home for dinner with a timid expression on her face. The question in her eyes, would they approve? With any luck we would manage to pick parents who would smile at her and say, honey we love you no matter what. I shook my head, but what was I thinking? There wasn’t time for sentimentality. I chalked it up to baby hormones and moved on.
I sometimes wondered what compelled my mother to keep me all those years ago. I couldn’t imagine having to live day in and day out with such terrible allergies. Having only held the baby once before returning her to the hospital NICU, this was solidified for me. I simply could not live my life bogged down by a constant runny nose and bleary eyes, no matter how cute she might be. I refused to sacrifice my own health, allergies having been proven to weaken the immune system and overall quality of life. And by no means was I to become “tissue girl” again as a grown woman, those days were over. I managed now by avoiding indoor spaces with young girls, choosing the park over the bowling alley. Our son seemed happy enough, especially since we had decided to hire a nanny who was not allergic to take him to the places I had to avoid when his father was at work. Primarily places like indoor jungle gyms and movie theaters, the former already crawling with grubby little girl allergens. These were places I now refused to take him. I had tried once or twice when he was younger and had such an adverse reaction I couldn’t stop sneezing for days, every surface seemed to bother me as I watched little girls not only grab on to everything in sight but also to drool and sneeze on it. It made my nose itch just thinking about it. And thus, we hired Sadie. She was a nice college girl and our son liked her, so whenever he gave me that dismayed look that I, his mother, could not take him to the movies I would remind him that he had Sadie to do those things with him. We had chosen a nanny who was a girl in the hopes that he would get more female socialization since his mother could frequently not provide. The nanny’s sole purpose was to take him away from the house.
We continued to fill out our profile for the baby, tackling the section on the sort of parents we wished her to go to. I imagined her in a big house with large windows she could stare out as she took her first steps. I could see her grabbing onto the window ledge and pulling herself up, the greatest feat she had yet attempted, and then a smile. But really, I only wanted her to have parents that loved her, ones that would not spank her but knew when to give her a time out. Ones who would grin from ear to ear whenever she giggled and smiled at them. Who would rejoice at her first words and her second and third. I also wanted financial stability for her, parents who had enough to clothe and feed her but also to buy her a Barbie or a Lego set occasionally. Not too often though, I wouldn’t want her being spoiled. Middle class would be totally acceptable, even on the poorer side as long as they could surprise her with toys and candy and experiences every once in a while. My husband suggested we include political affiliation; we wouldn’t want her going to a home where they would not be accepting for who she was or who she loved later in her life. I could see her then, fifteen years old bringing her first girlfriend home for dinner with a timid expression on her face. The question in her eyes, would they approve? With any luck we would manage to pick parents who would smile at her and say, honey we love you no matter what. I shook my head, but what was I thinking? There wasn’t time for sentimentality. I chalked it up to baby hormones and moved on.
"...we wouldn't want her going to a home where they would not be accepting for who she was or who she loved later in her life." |
The section on behavior was mostly left blank. What did we know of her? Just that she was late to cry. So perhaps she would be pensive, patient, curious. She had waited, first taking in her surroundings, sensing my arms around her. She had waited as if to say she was not quite ready yet, but she would be soon after just a moment of contemplation. So, I wrote this down, specifying that it was simply a guess based on my first few seconds with her. Otherwise, I didn’t know anything about her disposition, I suppose that was the risk of adopting a newborn like this, you’re never sure what you might end up with. I left the ‘other’ comment section blank, having already covered the necessary requirements for adoption.
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The comments came flooding in as soon as I posted the advertisement. This city it seemed was full of eager parents searching for a daughter. This brought a smile to my lips; it would not be hard to find a home for her. The knowledge that she would be adopted quickly brought me solace, this whole ordeal would shortly be over. She would be just as happy with her new family as she would have been with us. Over the next two days we sifted through applications and narrowed it down to two families. One of them was a husband and wife who both worked in finance, so we knew they would be able to take care of her financially, but I worried they may not have enough time for her. The other couple were both artists, the husband an art professor and the wife a moderately successful romance author. They would provide a life of creativity and curiosity for her, but I feared finances could be tight. My husband and I discussed these issues, but he quickly reminded me of my first impressions of the little girl, contemplative and curious, there really was no question who we should choose. We reached out to the professor and the writer and told them the good news. They laughed and the woman cried and thanked me. I nodded into the phone and said I was happy to make this happen for them.
Once we had made our choice, I went to visit her. She was so small, all bundled up and sleeping off the meal she had been fed. Her eyes flickered beneath her eyelids, and I imagined she was dreaming of something beautiful. But what does an infant dream of when they have never experienced the world? I reached down to hold her hand. It was soft, unmarked, not yet hardened by things like crawling and holding pencils. My mind quickly wandered, and I began to wonder about what my husband might make for dinner that night. I would need to get back to the gym right away if I were to work off the baby weight. It had been easy with my son, but I had heard girls were harder to shake. I gave her a little pat on the head and told her she would be just fine with her new family, and I thought to myself she would only be a memory I would soon forget.
Once we had made our choice, I went to visit her. She was so small, all bundled up and sleeping off the meal she had been fed. Her eyes flickered beneath her eyelids, and I imagined she was dreaming of something beautiful. But what does an infant dream of when they have never experienced the world? I reached down to hold her hand. It was soft, unmarked, not yet hardened by things like crawling and holding pencils. My mind quickly wandered, and I began to wonder about what my husband might make for dinner that night. I would need to get back to the gym right away if I were to work off the baby weight. It had been easy with my son, but I had heard girls were harder to shake. I gave her a little pat on the head and told her she would be just fine with her new family, and I thought to myself she would only be a memory I would soon forget.
Maia Coen is an MFA in fiction candidate at Colorado State University and an instructor of College Composition. Her work has been published in The Greyrock Review and Rising Phoenix Press. She aims to write stories with characters in all their emotional messiness and hopes readers see their humanity as much as she does.
A 2025 Pushcart Prize nominee, Maia's story can be found in Issue 29 of Glassworks.
