Blue-Eyed Wonder

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It started even before she was born. My husband speculated that our baby would have the dark brown skin of my African father. I imagined she would be the female version of our 8-year-old son with eternally tan, glowing skin, light golden brown eyes, and straight hair that is just shy of being called black.

When Olivia arrived, her rosy cheeks and blue eyes didn't really surprise me. Black newborns often have blue eyes and pink skin, I thought.

The postpartum nurse innocently asked if her skin would darken. My mind was clouded by sleep exhaustion and I imagined waking up one morning to find a chocolate-colored baby nursing hungrily from my breast.

'I don't know,' I answered.

We brought our baby home from the hospital on a cold autumn morning, tightly swaddled in a blanket.

'Will her eyes change?' asked our neighbor as he peered into the bundle.

'I don't know,' I replied as my husband shrugged.

The first few weeks she was home, we struggled to figure each other out. It had been eight long years since my last baby. I looked forward to her well-baby checkups so I could ask questions. At her three-month appointment with the pediatrician who also cared for our son, Dr. Ramos looked in amazement at Olivia's blue eyes and alabaster skin. 'Do you think her eyes are going to stay that color?' she asked.

'I don't know.' I'd hoped she would answer that question.

'Does anyone else in your family have blue eyes?'

'My husband does,' I replied.

'But it must also come from someone on your side of the family. It's a recessive gene.' Her brief lesson reiterated information I was already familiar with.

It wasn't long before Olivia integrated into our family's routine.

One day, as I watched my son's karate class, I rocked Olivia in my arms. A woman with a long blond braid stood next to us. She looked at Olivia and said, 'She's so pretty. Is she . . . yours?'

The question caught me off guard. 'Why, yes. Whose else would she be?' I asked the woman indignantly.

She didn't answer, but blushed as she returned to watching the class.

I wondered why her nosy question bothered me so much. Was she questioning my right and ability to mother this white-skinned baby? Was there something else to it?

One weekend, I took my children to a puppet show. The elderly woman in the ticket booth asked, 'Are you with the adoption group?'

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