Meg Has Two Moms

When we first brought Meg home I was all about semantics. If someone asked questions about "her mother" I was quick to come back with answers about "her birth mother." I practically snarled it at times, making sure they got the point that I was THE mom as far as Meg is concerned.


Now, I am ashamed I did that.


I may as well have lifted my leg and peed on Meg, because that's all I was trying to do, claim ownership of her. Let the world know that I am her mother, and no one can take that away from me. At the time I was bewildered, and unsure of how this was going to all work out. I was still angry over the fact my own body had failed me, and felt any control I had over the situation was tenuous at best. I wasn't sure if I would be a good mother, and, above all else, I was scared. I was scared for me. I was scared for Meg. I was scared for Meg's Mom. I didn't want all of us to be making a huge mistake. I was parenting from a place of fear, and that is never a good place to start making decisions.


Meg has two Moms. There is nothing wrong with that. Neither one of us wins when a qualifier is placed before the title of the other. By trying to place a qualifier on either I think the real loser ends up being Meg, because it implies she is something other than what she is: a kid who is lucky enough to have many, many people who love her, and want to see her grow and succeed. I don't want her to ever question that there is a hierarchy of people who love her.


Also, the standard qualifiers are kind of stupid if you ask me. "Birth Mom" implies that all Meg's Mom did was pop her out. It doesn't take into account all the time she spent with her in the womb, all of the genetics and history she passed along to her, or the care, love, and concern she has showered on Meg since she came into this world. And "Adoptive Mom?" This one I guess I closer to the truth, I did adopt Meg, but I like to think that was just the beginning of it all. Since then I have been "Mom who buys band aids," "Mom who chases imaginary frogs," "Mom who yelled when she probably shouldn't have," and many, many other kinds of Mom. I think it's easier just to keep it short and sweet.


Now, I am not saying that this is easy. I know there are going to be times I will want to have a "Meg's Mom" tattoo that I can show her if/when she decides to have tantrums centered around the argument "you're not my real Mom." However, I think I will just have to remind myself in those moments that she is coming from a place of hurt, or disappointment, or just being a brat, and that good decisions never come from those places either.


Then I will take a long deep breath, and be thankful for that child.


Oh, and for her Mom.






*Inspired by Kelly at "Monkey Soup." Really, go check out her blog. 

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Questions and Surprising Answers

Being an adoptive parent you never know when you are going to get sideswiped by a question. They can come from anyone, at any time, and the person doing the asking usually has no idea that their words have quickened my pulse, and made me raise my protective mama hackles. In the past two and a half years I have gotten to the point where I can pretty much predict how certain lines of questioning will go, and have my answers down pat.

And then there are the times I am totally surprised.

The other day Meg and I were in the grocery store when her favorite bagger came up to give her some stickers. He is her favorite bagger because of said stickers, and if he doesn't come find us, Meg makes sure we find him. Meg was putting the stickers on her arms when this kid (he's maybe 17), looked at her, then at me, and asked "Is she adopted?"

Hackles up.

"Yes, she is" I answered, very calmly. Well, calmly on the outside. On the inside I was going through my mental rolodex, trying to determine what he would ask next, and how to keep the questions from escalating, especially since they would be asked in front of Meg, who still doesn't quite understand what "adopted" means. Would it be the "where" or the "when" question, or something else totally bizarre? I waited.

"Oh, I figured it was either that or your husband is black. One or the other. Do you want paper or plastic today?"

I almost started laughing with relief; or laughing with glee because this stocky teen had presented me with such a pleasant surprise. I almost reached over and hugged him.

Instead I just hugged Meg, and let her put a sticker on my hand.

Hackles down.

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Unnecessary Qualifier

I have a new pet peeve: pointing out when a child is adopted in any form of media.

Why do we have to mention that a child is adopted? We don't point out when they are born c-section, or conceived via IVF, or delivered by surrogate (except perhaps at birth in People magazine), so why is it so important to point out that adopted children came into a family that way? What is added to the story by knowing that detail?

I find it particularly disturbing because in most cases where adoption is mentioned, it is seemingly excusing the bad behavior of a parent, or trying to deify them for "saving" a child. For instance, in the past two months I covered two stories involving children that were very pointedly described as being adopted. In one case a father had raped several of them repeatedly. In the other the mother had killed her child, but now was begging to get out of prison to take care of her "biological" kids.

My daughter is adopted. However, I never think of her as my adopted daughter. I don't think of her adoption when I comb her hair in the morning. I don't think of it when we are driving in the car singing "Bohemian Rhapsody" at the top of our lungs together. I don't think of it when she has a nightmare and crawls into bed with me, rubbing the peach fuzz on my cheek to go back to sleep.

That is not to say I don't acknowledge and appreciate her adoption. I do every day. I see her birth mom in her all the time, and we talk about her "Mama" (I am Mommy). However, the fact Meg is adopted does not affect how I care for her, or my hopes for her, or how much I love her. I definitely would never use it as a justification for ways I failed her, or hurt her, nor would I ever use it to try and make myself seem like a better person.

No one else should either.

So, here's my thought: unless it is absolutely pertinent to the story, adoption status should not be mentioned. Oh, unless the adoptee themselves wants it so. After all, most of them had no say in the adoption, so they should have a say in how it is perceived now.

Deal?

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Our Baby?

Being an adoptive parent you never know when you are going to have to deal with dumb, and some of the time insulting, questions. I mean everyone has to deal with questions like these, but adoptive parents seem to face more than their fair share. Take for example, my conversation with our plumber this afternoon. We both have daughters around six months, both doing about the same things. We were gabbing about the normal baby stuff when he started to do the subtle turn to adoption questions. You know, like, where was she born, and where is the birth Mom. I am so used to answering those I can do it in my sleep. And then, he hit me with a sucker punch: will the Mom (he dropped the birth) eventually take her back?

I am pretty sure I gave him a scary look, because he stopped talking immediately, and said he heard his mother calling. Or something like that, I didn't really hear him because the rage building in my ears was too loud. I showed him the door, and then went and hugged Meg tight.

Thinking back on it now, though, with a little bit of perspective, it wasn't really a dumb question. Insulting and uneducated, yes, but not necessarily dumb. After all, think of all of the media representations of adoption. I can not think of one book, movie, television show, or news story that casts adoption in a positive light. All of the mass media stories I know of are about parents who were robbed of their children by entitled others with no ethics and bad ovaries. Or about adopted children who want nothing more than to find the REAL parents. There are no popularly known stories about well adjusted adopted children who love their adoptive parents, and who are loved back. And yet, in my life alone, I run out of fingers and toes counting the ones I know.

I am hoping that as the years go on no dumb questions, or poor media representations, will bother me. I am also hoping that as the year's go on I won't feel the need to call Meg's "real" Mom to make her promise that this baby is ours to keep.

I am hoping. And I am getting another plumber.

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Welcoming Meg

Ever since Meg was born I have said that if I could I would climb to the top of Mt. Olympus (the one here in Utah), and hold her out "Lion King" style to show her off. This weekend we did the next best thing, and had her christening. We invited all of our friends and family, and, of course, got Meg a completely ridiculously cute dress to wear.

She had some ridiculously cute shoes too... which she tried to kick off every two minutes.

It was really overwhelming how many people came out to help us officially welcome our girl. Ryan and I had stood outside welcoming people as they came in, so we didn't see the church fill up. When we walked in and saw almost all the pews were filled I was so overcome with gratitude and love I was rendered speechless -- and I think we all know how rarely that happens.

The feeling in the church was just one of such intense joy. People who knew what we had gone through to get to this point, and even those who didn't, came together to celebrate this wondrous thing that has happened. This beautiful little girl who has come into our lives. Tara and Kent even flew out from California to serve as her Godparents.

I don't think they realize this means they have to pay for college.

Meg took the ceremony in stride. She loved seeing all of the different faces, and all of the kids who had come to watch. The light shining through the stained glass really caught her eye. And when it was time for the actual baptism she only squawked for a second.
And then she was comforted by her Dad...

The christening was held in the same chapel where we were married, and, just like with that service, at the end we walked up the aisle greeting our guests. When I walked up the aisle at our wedding I didn't see any faces, just a blur. This time though, I saw every face, and I heard every voice, including our friend Katie's daughter Ashlyn asking "why did they wash baby Meg's hair?" I soaked it all in, so one day I can tell Meg all about it, and let her know that, from the moment she was born, she was welcomed and loved not only by us, and by her birth mother, but by a whole community.

We are so blessed.

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The Race Card

I don't know if you've noticed, but Meg is black. Or African American if you prefer. Whatever you want to call it, Meg has a very different skin tone, and very different hair than Ryan and me. I would love to say that it doesn't matter, and that no one really questions it, or says anything, but that would be a lie. In fact, the first thing most people ask (after commenting on how Meg is the most beautiful baby in the world, of course), is to ask the ethnicity of her birth parents. When I say they are black, sometimes they ask how dark they are, and how dark we expect Meg to be.

Yeah, I know. It's 2009.

It isn't that I think people are being racist. Well, maybe some of them are, I don't know, and in this case I want to give people the benefit of the doubt. I think people are actually trying to be complimentary when they say that "black babies are always the most beautiful," or that she has a perfect "Nubian head."And it could just be that I am being overly sensitive, expecting people to be racist, and so looking for it in any comment. After all, they can't make comments about how much she looks like me or Ryan, and they have to say something, so the race question is an easy one. Also, I think that we have spent so many years trying to pretend that race is not an issue, that we are all "colorblind" that people are not aware of when a line is crossed or something inappropriate is said.

Like it or not, race is still the central dividing line in this country. Being Caucasian, Ryan and I have had years to not have to really address the issue, or say we are involved in the fight for civil rights without actually having a stake in it (well, we've always had a stake in the the fight for equality, after all, who wants to live in a world with racism). All of that changed the day Meg was born. Now we have a big stake. Well, actually, she's only six pounds nine ounces right now.

Ryan and I are handling the race issue in our typical ways. Ryan is approaching it cerebrally, reading articles and books, and talking about how to introduce Meg to the discussion on race, and how various prejudices will impact her life, and ours. I, on the other hand, am taking a simpler approach: I am focusing on the day to day aspects of Meg's ethnicity, worrying about her hair and skin. Oh, and if anyone tries to hurt my daughter, or tell her anyone is better or worse because of her because of her race, I plan to punch them, hard. Ryan says that will teach Meg that differences can be solved with violence, and so I told him that will make sure she is out of sight before the punching begins.

Actually, I don't know how I am going to handle the race issue, which is probably why I am so full of rambling bravado about it. All I know is that right now I look at my perfect daughter, and I couldn't care less what color she is, as long as she doesn't turn purple because that means she isn't breathing. However, I know that I am going to have to care about what color she is, because it is part of who she is, and because, like it or not, it is a big part of how others will see her. To try to ignore it, to not realize her hair and skin are different, and must be treated differently, would be a disservice. So would not preparing her to face ignorant bullies trying to bring her down using arguments that have been disproved hundreds of times before.

I know I am up to the task. I have already ordered books galore to help her understand, and every hair product under the sun to make sure she is well kept. Oh, and we might as well get stock in Cetaphil lotion for the amount we use on her skin. These will be the first tools in my arsenal, which I am sure will get bigger as Meg gets older. For now though, I figure the best defense is a good offense. I just answer people's questions directly and honestly, and hold my baby tight.

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Update: Update

Papers are signed. We take OUR DAUGHTER home tomorrow.

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Update

We are here at the hospital, waiting to sign papers to make a beautiful baby girl legally ours. I cannot express how hard the last 36 hours have been. First of all, we thought we had two weeks until the birth, and second, we just can't wait until the uncertainty period (will the birth mother sign, won't she) is over. We want to take what we hope is our baby home.

We are not the only adoptive parents here. In fact, most of the rooms on our hall are for mothers placing babies; you can tell because they put a little gift package sign on the door. It's heartbreaking and amazing all at the same time. Here are these women doing the hardest thing they will ever have to do, and here are couples who are getting the gift they have been waiting for, in some cases, their whole lives.

The birth mother is wonderful. I almost feel I have bonded more with her than with the baby. Of course, that may have something to do with the fact Ryan won't put the baby down. The birth mother is smart, talkative, funny, and opinionated. I adore her. Last night we sat and trash talked TV shows until the nurses kicked Ryan and me out. Through all of this I really hope she knows how much we love this baby, and how grateful we are to her. We will always remember her, and not just because the baby has her dimple when she smiles.

Thank you for all your kind words and offers to help. I will post pictures when we get her home. Ryan will be in all of them.

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Panic at the Nursery

I was going to blog today about the absurdity of the Michael Jackson funeral, and how I just can't wrap my head around this absolutely insane outpouring of grief for a man that has been largely ridiculed and villainized by the very people now praising him. I think it's the product of a perfect storm of absolutely no other news and Jackson's ability to sell tickets, no matter what the situation. I was going to write about that, I really was. And it was going to be funny. Really funny. However, those plans are being thrown out, due to the fact I can't really focus on anything else besides the fact that we might be getting a baby, and the fact I am totally panicked about it.

For almost three years we have been working towards this moment. We have spent thousands of dollars on medical treatments and then adoption agencies, and thousands of hours in emotional turmoil over the fact out efforts have not been successful. Now, we are just weeks away from quite possibly becoming parents, and I am freaking out. Oh, and I am not just freaking out because we might not get this baby. I mean, don't get me wrong, that is causing me plenty of grief. The fact that we will not know if this baby is ours until at least 24 hours after her birth, and that at any moment the rug can be pulled out from under us has me constantly hyperventilating. Beyond that though, there is a greater fear -- that we will actually get to bring her home.

What if it turns out I don't really like children? I mean, I do like them, but what if it turns out I only like them in small doses? What if three hours after bringing this baby into our home I am waiting for someone to come and pick her up? What if I don't bond with her? If I always think of her as some kid who came to live with us, and not our own daughter? Worse yet, what if she doesn't bond with me? What if she hates me? I mean, it's hard to believe, but some people don't like me. She could be one of those people.

Oh, and then there is the fact I have gotten exactly NOTHING done that I wanted to do before the baby arrived. I have not lost any weight. I have not cleaned out the room. I haven't socked away near enough money. And now I feel like I don't want to do any of that. I'm kind of in a coma, and it feels like all I can do is think about the fact I am going to die.

I know they say having a child makes you immortal, but really, I feel the most mortal I ever have. The fact I could soon have a child shows I am aging, and reaffirms the fact I will die. Oh, and now I have to worry about this baby dying as well. Not just the big death either, but all the little deaths that we suffer throughout our lives, that this child will have to suffer, that I won't be able to protect her from suffering.

I think you can now see why I am not writing about Michael Jackson.

I am hoping all of these anxieties are only temporary. I am hoping that the joy and excitement of having a child I felt when we first began this process returns, and perhaps intensifies when she becomes a part of our family. That's what I hope. Until that happens I will just be taking deep breaths, and trying to keep calm. Oh, and maybe I'll finally start setting up the nursery. No promises though.

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The Source of ADHD

I have taken the advice of Sandi and others and begun to nest, getting ready for the baby that could arrive on our doorstep any day now. Friends have helped us put together a registry, telling us all the things we "must have" and for the most part we have followed their advice to the letter. We know the baby will need a place to sleep (other than a drawer), clothes to wear, a car seat for safety, and bottles for eating. We've picked out blankets, and bathtubs, bumpers, bouncers, boppies, binkies, and other things with ridiculous names. In fact, only once have we balked at a so-called "must have": the exersaucer. You know, this thing...



I'm sorry, but that looks more like a Mardi Gras float than a baby essential. I am really worried that if we get one of these things and I am able to nurse (a post for another time), my child will hand me beads every time it's time to feed.

I mean, I know that bright colors help stimulate a baby's mind, but can't we do that while also stimulating their sense of style? Also, does it have to be the size of a Yugo? Ryan and I live in a home with about 1000 square feet of livable space. This will take up at least 50 of it. We might have to replace the sofa.

Oh, and all of them make noise! Like the thing isn't calling enough attention to itself, so there have to be frog croaks and annoying nursery rhyme songs emitting from it all day. You know, when I was a child the majority of toys were silent, and those with sound were powered by rubber squeakers. So, why do all baby items now have to come with their own sound systems?

I just don't think we can do it. Well, maybe if Sally can chew on it. Then it's a multi-tasker...

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How Adoption Works*

Our nieces and nephews are all very aware of the fact we are planning to adopt a baby, and all of them are very excited about the idea of a new cousin. They are even more excited though, because this baby is not coming "the old fashioned" way. They have had pregnant aunts, and Moms before, so they know how that works, but adoption is a whole new ball game, with a whole new set of expectations, and misconceptions.

Luke, for instance, seems to think that adoption is a sort of baby pizza delivery service -- you tell them exactly what they want and they bring it to your door. He has already told me several times that he would prefer a boy, because he has "way too many girl cousins." He also would like a baby that doesn't cry, and that likes to be outside, preferably to swim. Shaylee is also a proponent of the pizza delivery adoption model, but, of course, she wants the exact opposite of what Luke wants. She wants a girl baby, which will not mind being lugged around and dressed in doll clothes. I mean, she hasn't specifically said the doll clothes thing, but I can see it in her crafty little face. Also, I've seen her try to dress her cat.

Amaya looks at adoption as more of a Home Depot. She thinks that somewhere in the Salt Lake valley there is a large warehouse where all the babies are kept, and we just need to go pick one up. I explained to her that, no, that is not quite how it works, and that we need to wait for a birthmother to pick us, and for a baby to be born. It was then that she suggested we go for an older child, since she had seen commericals for those on TV. I explained that even for an older child we would have to wait, since a lot of paperwork would need to be done. She asked how long the paperwork would take. I told her at least two weeks. "Might as well wait for a baby," she said.

I really don't know how the kids will react when the baby actually gets here. I mean, I know they will be excited, but I also know it will be a big adjustment for them. First of all, their new cousin will most likely be African American, so there will be no cooing over how he/she looks like all of them. Then, there will be the fact that this baby will have another Mom. I know there will be questions about that. After all, they all live with their Moms, why doesn't our baby live with his/hers? I like to think that answering their questions now will help us prepare for when we have to answer the questions of our child later. I am hoping that we can do it with a mix of love, honesty and humor.

It would be cool though if they baby was delivered in 30 minutes or less and came with a side of crazy bread. I love that stuff.

*Not really.

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Babies Have All the Good Stuff

First of all, I want to thank you all for your kind words and encouragements over the past few days. It is nice to feel excited again about the idea of starting a family, and your comments have made the possibilities of a child in the near future seem even more real. I'm not quite sure if I am really ready to buy things yet, even though I am trying to take Sandi's advice to heart, I still feel a little shy about diving into the nursery pool full force. I did buy some books though, and soon Ryan and I will know exactly "what to expect." Oh, and I have been web browsing, looking for the things I will need, and the things I will want, and I have found an item I absolutely lust over.

Want to see it? Okay.No, it is not a bucket. I mean, yes it is a bucket, but it is a very expensive European designed bucket used to give a baby the perfect bath. It's called a "Tummy Tub" and, dumb name aside, it will help tackle one of my biggest fears about taking care of a baby -- the bath.

I have bathed many a baby in my time, mainly because I find putting babies in water is the fastest way to calm them down. Just ask my Mom and sister. When Luke was a baby and I was alone with him every time he started to cry I would just plop him in the bath. That led to him being the cleanest kid around when he was teething, and left he a nervous wreck every time until he was study enough to hold his head up. I was always worried he was cold lying in the water, since if it was deep enough to cover him it would be too deep. I also worried about him sloshing around. Oh, and I really worried about getting water in his face. With the Tummy Tub all three of these worries are taken care of! The baby is warm, because it's almost completely submerged! It can't slosh around because it's in a confined space! And the only way water is getting in it's eyes is if it splashes, and then the baby has no one to blame but itself.

I think I really want one though because if they made an adult size -- I would buy it. It reminds me of the big Japanese tubs at my favorite spa, that allow you to sit and just relax in water up to your chin. It's my idea of heaven. Ryan and I have often talked about putting one in our house, but then we remember our living space is just 900 square feet. So, if we can't live in luxury, at least our child can. Right?

So, I think the first thing I am going to buy is the Tummy Tub. I mean, right after I get a new sippie cup. Tara is such a bitch...

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Babies Need Stuff

Things are moving along with the adoption process and, unless something unexpected happens, like our criminal background checks turning up that we are both wanted for shoplifting in Yemen, our profile should be active by June first at the latest. Then we just wait for someone to pick us. And if they do? We could end up with a baby. Then we'll really be screwed. Why? I think the conversation we had on Friday tells the tale...

Me: How much to babies eat?
Ryan: I don't know.
Me: We should probably figure that out.
Ryan: Maybe there's a book on it.

You see, we have spent so much time trying to have a baby, that we really haven't thought about what to do with a baby if one comes to live in our house. We have all the books on "Fertility Diets" and "Reproductive Zen," but none on swaddling or saying good night to moons. We have all the accouterments of baby making, like thermometers, syringes, and ovulation predictors, but when it comes to actual things for a baby we have one onesie. Oh, and a sippie cup that someone left here after a party.

I think we're going to need to go shopping. I'm just not sure when.

You see, while we have nothing for a baby, and could get a baby at any time after our application becomes "active," we don't really want to have anything around the house until we know that our baby is home with us, and not going anywhere else. We have heard too many stories of adoptions that went south at the last minute, leaving the couple to go home empty handed, and with a fully furnished nursery. The one onesie that we have I bought right after we started trying to have a baby, and when I was sure it would happen immediately. It hurts to look at it, and just a scrap of cloth. I can only imagine what a whole room would do to me.

So, here is my plan: on the way home from the hospital, be it in a month, or in two years, I am going to blow on a seashell to rally the troops. I am really hoping that a scene like one out of "Snow White" will evolve, with rabbits and fawns bringing packs of diapers and pacifiers. If that doesn't happen I guess I'll send Ryan out on a mad dash to Target and Toys R' Us. As long as he brings back a bouncy seat and no clothes with itchy tags I think we'll be fine.

In the mean time though, I am allowing us one baby thing in the house. We got some books. I don't know if you all were aware of this, but there are a lot of them out there...

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Making Our Case

If Ryan had murdered me this weekend, it would have been a justifiable homicide. Really, it would have. I would have made a point to come back from the grave to encourage people to testify on his behalf, because I was such an anal retentive uber bitch.

You see, this weekend we started making our adoption profile.

The adoption profile is the first thing the birth mother sees about the potential adoptive family. It helps her form her first impressions, and decide if these could be the people she wants to raise the child she's carrying, or if they are total psychos that should rightfully remain barren. So, you can see why it's a little stressful to make one. I want it to be funny, but not too light, intelligent, but not eggheaded, and compassionate, but not patronizing. I want it to be so perfect that when the birth mother picks it up it vibrates in her hands and she hears angels singing. Unfortunately Ryan nixed the idea of putting a joy buzzer and a tiny digital music player inside, so that isn't going to happen... Still though, I want it to be as good as it can be though, and so I analyzed every decision that we made about it, and then second guessed them all.

This is where the defense could start making it's case.

Ryan really wanted to be helpful. He knew how I was worried, and wanted to make it easier. He picked out pictures, and inserted text, and worked for a long time on every page he did. And then I went back and changed everything he did. Well, not everything, but pretty much everything. I wasn't nice about it either. I tired to be, but I think at one point I yelled "are you kidding" when I looked at what he had done. I didn't mean to, but I did. My bitch training wheels had come off the crazy train.

One of the biggest "discussions" we had was over a picture of the dog. It was taken right after we first got her, and she was chewing on everything. Luke had been over and left one of his pacifiers behind, which Sally gleefully took as a sign it was hers. One of us wanted to include the picture that resulted thinking it would show we are fun. The other thought including it would show any potential birth mother that we consider child raising like having a dog.

I'll let you know how it all worked out after I read the comments...

In the end I like to think that our first draft of the adoption profile is a collaborative effort. Ryan picked out pictures I never would have thought to put in, and we both helped whittle down the text so that it is less about telling birth moms about our life, and more about showing it to them. Of course, we will probably have to rip it apart and redo it at least seven more times before it's ready to go.

Do you think they'll still let Ryan adopt if he's acquitted of murder? After all, he'll have a great profile to show for it...

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Not Quite the Spanish Inquisition

Ryan and I our first official step towards adoption this week -- our home visit. It really wasn't a big deal, just a formality required by the state -- requiring a complete stranger to come to our house and evaluate whether or not we would irrevocably mess up a kid if we are fortunate enough to be able to adopt one. Yeah, I think you can see why we were a bit stressed out about it.

We had a week's warning for the visit, and almost every minute was spent on gathering paperwork, filling out paperwork, or worrying about things in our house that could appear offensive, dangerous, juvenile, or terrifying. You have no idea how many things we found. We not only questioned pretty much every piece of art on our walls, but also all the items in our fridge, the arrangement of the clothes in our closets, and books that some groups consider "sinful." We had no idea to expect, so we got ready for anything.

On Saturday we got the yard ready, figuring it was the first thing the stranger/social worker would see. We weeded. We mowed. I got dirt under my nails and whined. Ryan gritted his teeth and wished the leaf blower could go louder. On Sunday we tackled the basement. I had no idea how much shit was down there. I mean, I did, since I put most of it there, but I just didn't think I would ever have to deal with it again. We actually got through it pretty quickly. We made three piles: keep, toss, and give to charity. Oh, there was also the pile of stuff that Ryan had to go through that I thought should have been thrown out, but I know got hidden somewhere in the basement until we clean it out again -- but I won't go into that. After we were done the basement once again looked like we use it for storage, instead of for refuse.

While Ryan and I handled the big gross jobs we had been putting off for months, there was only one woman I trusted to help with the main part of the house -- the Queen of Clean -- my Mother. She showed up on Tuesday morning with her sprays, powders, and steam cleaner in hand to take on our actual living space. I offered to help, but she refused, even threatening to leave if I didn't leave her alone and let her clean. Yes, I had the stomach flu, but I think she would have said that regardless. She wanted to make sure that my bad dusting didn't keep her from getting a grandchild. By the time she was done the house smelled like pledge, and looked like a museum. I have never been happier for her compulsions.

The day of the actual interview dawned with both Ryan and I doing our best impersonations of assholes. We were both nervous, and taking it out on each other. In the ten minutes before the social worker/stranger arrived we almost got into THREE different fights. One of the fights was about how we shouldn't be fighting when she arrived. When she finally got here I swear the smell of our flop sweat was greater than that of the Pledge. And then? Well, it was fine.

She asked about why we wanted to be parents. Why we chose to pursue adoption. What we thought about child rearing. What we thought about each other. If we had criminal records. If we had happy childhoods. Then she walked through our house. Just walked. She didn't go through the trash, or try on our shoes, or question our choice of toothpaste. And then it was over. She shook our hands, said the report would be filed within three weeks and, pending the outcome of our criminal background checks, could move forward with our adoption plans.

That night we laid on the couch like marathon runners after a long race, or at least what I picture that would be like if I ever ran more than half a block. We watched a show on whales. And then we both realized that the thing we had feared, the home study, was nothing compared to what is ahead. Next we have to make a profile, and then we have to meet a birth mother, and then we have to hold our breath to see if we actually get the baby, and then, if everything goes well, we have to be parents.

I kind of wish that we were still just worrying about offensive art.

Full speed ahead.

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Ugh

I am writing this from a cubicle in the airport. I am right across from a "Cinnabon" and an "American Bandstand Cafe." The smells from the two are mingling in a sickening way, so I'll write fast. I am on my way to L.A. after 48 of the roughest hours of my life.

On Tuesday night Ryan and I became aware of a baby up for adoption. We called a lawyer, met the mother, and got things going. And then it all fell apart. I never even saw the baby and yet I am grieving for her like she was my own. I know that's irrational, and I know that she wasn't, but I can't stop from feeling that way. I went from feeling elation and excitement to feeling fear and anxiety to feeling despair and rage. And now that it's over I just feel empty.

So, I am going to L.A. to see Tara and have her fill me with sarcasm and wine. I won't be posting until at least Monday, but check out the link below and FIGHT THE PALIN POWER! Yeah, even when I'm depressed I still have time to rail against that woman.

womenagainstsarahpalin.blogspot.com

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