She comes home...part 5

"I can't get her to wake up to eat," I say quietly to the night nurse, B. "She is sleeping so deeply. I've tried everything, but she just won't wake up."

I'm very worried about this because the baby hasn't eaten in more than two hours. Nurse Stink Eye, upon returning the baby earlier in the evening after her tests are complete, looks at K and reminds her that because the baby is so small she needs to eat every two hours. No exceptions. She looks at me with the evil Stink Eye and says nothing before leaving the room to sign off from the day shift. I don't know if it's me personally that has her so up in arms or adoptive moms in general. Regardless, I'm relieved knowing that she won't be back this evening.

"Ahhh, give her to me," says Nurse B with a big smile. It's obvious that she loves babies.

It's late. 11 p.m. or so. K is sound asleep after taking a sleeping pill and I've been sitting with the baby for several hours now after a quick trip to my hotel room to freshen up and have a quick bite to eat (a frozen lean cuisine from the hotel snack shop. Yum. Not.)

Since arriving at the hospital five hours ago I've exchanged numerous texts and phone calls with Chris, who is kindly keeping everyone else in the family updated about events down here. It's too much for me to reach out to everyone. I'm pretty exhausted.

Every conversation I have with Chris involves me saying, "I wish you were here" and him replying, "I wish I was there, too" and both of us still uttering things like, "I can't believe this is happening" and "what if she won't sign the papers?" Still, we try to remain optimistic.

"I wish you'd send a picture of you and the baby together," Chris tells me.

"No, not yet. It wouldn't be right. Not until the papers are signed and she's ours."

"Mmm," he replies, "yeah, you're right."

We also spend time reviewing our list of names and narrowing them down to our final choice. If we're to sign papers tomorrow then the baby is going to need a name for the birth certificate. It doesn't take long, thankfully. It's a good choice. A sweet lovely name.

Earlier, long before my conversation with Chris, I ask K if she has a name picked out, "Is there a name that you like? Have you picked one out?"

"Ohhh, nooo," K replies, "no you should choose."

"Are you sure? If there's a name that's special to you, we'd certainly like to consider it."

"No," she says in her breathy voice, "there is no name."

I can't help wondering if there is, but don't pry any further. Her mind seems made up to let Chris and I name the baby. Part of me is relieved, but part of me is also sad because I had been hoping that K might want to participate in naming her little girl.

There have also been several calls with the FL adoption agency throughout the evening. The ladies there seem to be all at once excited for me to be spending time with the baby, but also nervous about me spending time with K (they encourage me to try to take the baby to another room, but I don't feel right about that and even if I did want to it certainly didn't feel like Nurse Stink Eye would let that happen.) I keep receiving warnings from the adoption agency folks to not share any personal information with K: "don't give her your phone number" and "under no circumstances let her know where you live" and my favorite (NOT) "And for God's sake don't give her or offer her any money." It's unnerving to have the adoption agency people display so much distrust for K. And it's the one completely sour note (aside from Nurse Stink Eye) in this whole experience.

"Newborns sleep a lot and sleep heavily. Sometimes it's hard to wake them up," Nurse B explains.

Nurse B is young - maybe 30. She is pretty with long, long brown and a friendly open smile. Additionally, it is obvious that she is confident with her little charges as she easily handles the baby. There is also the added bonus that Nurse B, unlike Nurse Stink Eye who looked at me as if I were some sort of mutant from another planet, acts kindly toward me. Even though I'm not the woman who gave birth to this baby, I am the adoptive mother and Nurse B treats me like she would any new mother.


I'm surprised to see her removing the swaddling blanket, the tiny onesie, the baby's hat and even her itty-bitty diaper (it's SO tiny...it looks like it should be for a baby doll!) The baby stirs in the chilly air, but sleeps on. I am startled to see just how teeny tiny she is out of the swaddling blanket. Her arms and legs are skinny and she has surprisingly huge feet. Nurse B and I both laugh at the sight of those huge feet on such a little person.

Nurse B flips the now naked baby over, pats her bottom hard, and then tickles her feet...also hard.

"Ummm," I say, "should you be doing that? She's so tiny."

Nurse B laughs.

"Oh, ya gotta be kind of mean to them at this age," she says with a happy grin, "or they won't wake up."

Finally after more bottom patting, tickling and flipping over the baby lets out a loud cry.

"Quick," says Nurse B with a chuckle, "stick the bottle in!"

I stick the nipple in the baby's mouth. She immediately starts to suck. Nurse B hands her to me. Feeding her for the first time makes my mouth go a little dry and throat tighten up, but in a good way. I can hardly breathe I am so happy.

The baby makes surprisingly quick work of one of the two ounces.

And promptly gets the hiccups.

I must look a little panicked because Nurse B says, "This is really normal. Newborns get hiccups a lot. Their tummies are not even the size of your thumb. They eat too fast and - boom! - hiccups. Just put her on your shoulder and pat her on the bum. She'll burp and eventually the hiccups will go away."

I carefully place the baby on my shoulder and gently pat her little behind.

"Oh, you can be a little more firm than that," says Nurse B, "she won't break."

So, I pat a little harder.

"That's it," says Nurse B. "You can go even a little harder. You're doing great."

Burp!

And then she's sound asleep again.

Nurse B very kindly walks me through diapering and swaddling. The she gets up to leave saying, "I'm here all night and I'll be back in to check in on you."

'Thank you so much," I reply, "you've been really kind."

It's dim in K's room. I stretch out on the couch with the baby in my arms. I'd take more photos of her, but don't want to risk waking her with the flash. I've sent quite a few pictures already - a few even show her with her eyes open on those rare occasions when she would wake up. Her irises are so dark they appear black. She can't focus on anything when they're open.

"Yeah," I say to her the first time she opens her eyes, "this is kind of a big confusing world isn't it, huh?"

Throughout the evening K watches me with her baby. We talk a bit, but not as much as I though we would. At one point K says, "She's a good baby, just like my older daughter. She was quiet like this. Happy."

"How old is she now?"

"She's 4 years old."

"Omigosh," I reply. "That's such a fun age."

K doesn't respond with anything more than a sweet smile. I know from the adoption ladies that K's daughter is living in St. --- with K's mother. I don't know how long it's been since K has seen her daughter, but I don't have the nerve to ask nor do I think it's my place to ask if she isn't going to volunteer the information.

As K watches me hold her baby earlier in the evening, I wonder what she must be thinking and feeling. Her face appears placid and reveals nothing of her thoughts or emotions.

And now K is sleeping deeply while I get to know the little person who she brought into the world. The maternity ward is finally quiet. I'm exhausted, but not quiet ready to leave this little one to the care of the nurses for the night.

I touch her tiny face and feet and hands, marvelling at how perfect she is.

She comes home...part 4

"Wow..." I say softly to the bundle in my lap, "you are a very tiny little person,"

The very first thing I ever say to my daughter.

I'm sitting on the low, pink couch next to K's bed. The baby lays along the length of my thighs. One of my hands gently cups the back of her head (her little head barely filling the palm of my hand at all) while my other hand rests gently on her tummy. My hand covers her entire body she is so little (I learn later that she is 5 pounds 9 ounces...pretty much the smallest a newborn baby can be without needing to spend some time in the NICU.)

A teeny face peeks out from between a pale blue/pink striped hat and the swaddling blanket. The face has dark skin (I'm surprised that her skin is more pale than I had expected) no discernible eyebrows yet, barely visible eyelashes, a broad-ish nose, and a sweet heart-shaped mouth.

She is sound asleep.

I look up to see K watching me with her daughter. Her face is unreadable. I have no idea what she must be thinking as she watches me hold her baby. Of what she thinks of me. Of knowing that tomorrow may be the day that she gives her daughter to me forever.

"She is so beautiful."

"Yeah," K replies in her deep yet breathy voice.

I look back down at the tiniest person I have ever held. She sleeps deeply. I imagine coming into the world is a fairly exhausting process.

"Is it OK if I take a picture of her?" I ask K.

She nods.

And so I pull out my phone, click one picture and send it to Chris. And then one more as the little bundle stirs.

I finally notice that the social worker is taking her leave of us, but not before she introduces me ("And this is the adoptive mother") to the day nurse who has come to check on K and the baby.

The day nurse nods at me, but says nothing seeing me holding the baby. She, in fact, looks at me with an expression like she smells something bad. If I weren't so mesmerized by the baby, I'd probably be really upset by this woman's obvious dislike of me or perhaps her discomfort, but at the moment I can't let myself get upset. The social worker and K don't seem to notice me getting The Stink Eye from the nurse.

Soon the social worker makes her escape and Nurse Stink Eye makes several more visits over the next 30 minutes to check on her patients and, no doubt, to make sure I haven't dropped her little charge. Before she signs off from her shift, Nurse Stink Eye announces that they have some tests to run on the baby, transfers her from my arms into a waiting hospital bassinet, and whisks her from the room.

I look at K.

Now is the time.

I have to talk to her and say what's been in my head since the moment I found out that I was coming to Florida to meet her and the baby.  So I get up and sit on the edge of her bed.

'This is weird, isn't it?" I ask her.

"Yeah," she answers solemnly.

We look at each other for a minute saying nothing and then I hear myself saying the thing that I've been dreading saying, but knowing that I can never move forward with any of this if I don't, "You know...you can still change your mind. We haven't signed any papers."

She stares at me for half a minute.

"No, I wouldn't do that," she says in her strangely deep yet breathy voice. "I wouldn't ask you to come all the way down here and then back out. I'm not that kind of person."

I look away, not able to speak. This is so hard. I can't even imagine how hard it must be for K. What she must be thinking or feeling.

Finally, I look back and say, "I know. But you can still change your mind. Chris and I will be OK if you do. We'll be fine."

"No," she says, "I'm OK. I'm OK."

But I don't know if she's saying it to convince me or to convince herself.

"OK," I nod, echoing her. "OK."

And again we look at each other in the awkward silence following what is the real agreement between us. No adoption agency people, no papers, no attorney, no social worker.

Just the two of us. Here in this room together.

Making a pact that she will give her baby to me and I will take care of her baby for the rest of my life.

We are OK.

"So," I say breaking the silence, "do you have any questions for me? Anything you want to know?"

"No, not really," she says, "they told me a lot about you."

I nod.

But before I can say anything else, Nurse Stink Eye returns with the baby and hands her to K giving me another withering stink eye look, which I choose to ignore. Instead, I look at mother and daughter. They look perfect together. She looks right holding this little baby.

This is so hard.

She comes home...part 3

I don't understand how airplanes work.

Or how skyscrapers don't fall down (I generally do not go into tall buildings.) Or how parking garages can safely hold hundreds of thousands of pounds of vehicles and not collapse (this completely freaks me out and I attempt to park on the street whenever possible.) Or how bridges remain standing year after year after year so that drivers can get from Point A to Point B over large bodies of water (these I cannot avoid as I live in a state riddled with bridges that I must frequently drive across. Usually I turn up the music really loud. I don't know why I think that this will prevent the bridge from collapsing beneath my car as I drive over it, but somehow it soothes me.)

But mostly it's the airplanes that terrify me. I just don't understand how they stay aloft.

At all.

Unlike some people who get over their fears as they get older, my terror of flying has only grown exponentially. However, I don't let it stop me from traveling. I won't let myself not visit places because of my irrational fear. I get on planes when I have to.

And I sleep.

Sleep is my coping mechanism.

I always grab a window seat, roll up my favorite fleece jacket to use as a pillow and force myself to fall asleep for the duration of the flight.

But not on August 31, 2011.

On this day on my way to Orlando to meet the baby who might become part of our family, I am too keyed up to sleep. And too anxious up to read, to play a game on my phone, to make chit chat with the woman sharing the row with me, to eat, to do anything more than breathe shallow breaths.

And to wring my hands.

Yep, for the entire flight I wring my hands like a character out of some Regency period novel. I'm so filled with anxiety about what's going to happen or not happen and wondering if this adoption is going to fall through that it's all I can do.

Finally the pilot announces our arrival. What seems like a small eternity later the passengers deplane. Could they go any slower? Dear God! Don't they know that I have to get to the hospital???

Once on the ground, as instructed by E at the Florida adoption agency, I call the social worker who's waiting for me at the hospital. Despite being informed of my needing to catch a later flight, the social worker sounds incredibly perturbed that I am only just now at the airport. In a snippy tone she says, "You need to get here right away. It's the end of my day. I want to get out of here by 6:00."

Not kidding. She really says that to me. I've just hauled my ass more than 1,200 miles to get to Florida not knowing whether this adoption is going to happen...and she tells me to hurry it up because it's the end of her day?

Ummmm...aren't social workers supposed to be kind of compassionate and caring? Because, quite frankly, this one seems to be a major bitch.

I assure Ms. It's-The-End-of-My-Day that I am making every effort to get there ASAP. She reiterates that she's done and needs to leave. I try to politely sign off.

Thanks to the help of a nice sky cap, I am able dash off to rent a car while behind me he lugs my huge purple duffel bag, my big suitcase and the car seat.

I must look frantic because the young woman at the rental car counter asks, "Ma'am, are you OK?"

"Yes. Um. Well, no. It's just that -" and out tumbles a mess of words that include "adoption" and "not sure it's going to happen" and "social worker really upset" and "later flight" and ending with "I'm feeling a little overwhelmed."

The young woman gives me a very kind smile. And she also gives me an upgrade. Without asking all of those "would you like...?" and "can we offer you...?" questions car rental people usually ask. It appears that noting my frazzled state she just gets me set up with a car...no hassle and no fuss. I thank her profusely and then turn to dash to the garage, the sky cap huffing and puffing to keep up while pushing my huge luggage on a cart.

Finally I am in the car on the highway and that much closer to the pissed off social worker, to the young woman (K) who just gave birth yesterday, and to the baby girl who may or may not be coming home with me in a few short weeks.

Even though the air conditioning is blasting away, I am sweating.

At last, the hospital is in sight. Then I'm parked. And finally I'm standing in the hallway just outside the locked maternity ward waiting for the social worker to come to the door to let me in. I'm surprised when she actually greets me with a smile. I was expecting her to continue in It's-the-end-of-my-day bitch mode, but instead she chats amiably with me as we walk down the hall. Guess she's happy that I'm here. I hope that I am returning her amiable chat because all I can focus on is the fact that my stomach seems to have fallen uncomfortably to my feet. There is a distinct possibility that I might throw up I'm so nervous.

"What?" I hear myself asking.

"I'm going to take you to meet K and the baby."

"But, I um...isn't there papers and stuff for me to sign?" I stutter.

"No, not tonight. The attorney will come tomorrow. C'mon, let's go meet K."

And before I can object she walks toward one of the rooms. I follow. Hardly able to breathe.

K is in bed. Her hair is pulled back into a high pony tail. No makeup, in a hospital gown and just a day after being in labor and giving birth yet she is absolutely beautiful. Dark chocolaty skin, almond shaped eyes, high cheek bones, small pointy chin, a small gap between her two front teeth. I knew she was pretty from the grainy photo we had received from the adoption agency. But the photo doesn't do her justice at all.

"Hi," I say.

"Hi," she says, sounding a little sleepy.

The social worker is introducing us and I'm sure she must be saying something important, but I'm not hearing any of it. I can't take my eyes off of K. And then I notice a tiny little bundle in white laying next to her on the bed.

A tiny little baby-shaped bundle. With a teeny blue and pink striped hat covering her little head. I can't see her face.

K, seeing my eyes stray says, "Do you want to hold her?"

Her voice is deep-ish, but very soft. Her speech lightly accented.

"Are you sure?" I ask, not reaching out for the little bundle. "Really?" I feel frozen to my spot.

"Yeah, it's OK," she says picking up the bundle and holding it out to me. I don't move. "It's OK," she says again.

And suddenly I am holding the baby.

She comes home...part 2

 Tuesday, August 30, 2011. Late evening.

The extra-large purple LL Bean duffel bag on wheels is sitting in the nursery where it has remained  (fully packed with all things newborn baby....diapers, onesies, swaddling blankets, pacifiers, car seat base, etc.) since early March. Since our other adoption fell through.

Chris and I never had the heart to unpack the carefully packed duffel bag once we found out that we would not be going to Arizona on March 11 to meet the little baby we thought and hoped would be joining our family.

So there it sat. Waiting for another chance to be used.

And now we arrive home after the madness of this evening: desperate calls from T at our adoption agency...learning that we might be parents to a baby born today in FL...being told that we'd have to get to Orlando tomorrow...telling T at the adoption agency that I'll be heading down to FL...the scramble at my mother-in-law's to get me plane tickets, a rental car and hotel reservations (and having to explain to the hotel that we have no idea how long we'll be there - possibly two weeks or three)...telling our families.

It's all a blur.

Now Chris is unpacking, checking the contents and re-packing the extra-large purple duffel bag.

"I just want to make sure that we didn't forget anything when we packed this back in February."

My husband is a very smart man.

My tired brain is spinning as I try to get my own bag packed. Florida in August. It's going to be hotter than hell. Tank tops. Lots of tank tops. And shorts. And a short black skirt. I try to pack neatly and hope that I've made sensible choices, but figure that I'm not going to a wilderness and can just buy everything I need when I'm down there.

"This is so crazy," I think to myself and apparently I say this out loud as well because I hear Chis pipe up from the nursery, "Yeah, it is."

Soon we're in bed. Staring at the ceiling. Holding hands. Little bursts of slightly hysterical giggling erupt out of us from time to time. And just as many bursts of fear and doubt. What if I get down there and this falls through? How can we go through that again?

Somehow we fall asleep.


Wednesday, August 31, 2011

Chris drives me to the airport. I know it's killing him that he can't go with me right now. He's finishing the last two weeks at his long-time job and preparing to start his new job at a new company. There's no way he can come with me. Assuming that the papers are signed tomorrow and this little baby becomes ours, Chris will fly down on Friday to spend the weekend. And then, depending upon how long I'll have to be in FL (because this is an inter-state adoption there are papers that have to be filed in courts in both RI and FL...it takes time for the various judges to sign off on these things. The adoption agency tells us I could be there up to three weeks.) he'll come back down the next weekend.

We say our goodbyes curbside with a long intense hug.

I head to the counter to check in and check the extra-large purple duffel bag and my big suitcase. Then it's off to the gate. My heart is racing. I'm sweating.

Finally I'm sitting in a chair at the gate with the other passengers waiting to board. Can't read because I'm too keyed up (I usually pass the time in an airport reading) to focus. Can't watch the tv because it's some moronic morning show and I'm too keyed up to focus. Can't do anything except worry about what's going to happen when I get to FL.

Will this all fall apart again?

At last the flight is boarding.

Just as I'm getting near the front of the line my cell phone rings. It's a FL extension. I fumble quickly to answer. It's E from the Florida adoption agency. I hop out of line to take the call.

"Hi Jennifer," says E, "I just need to tell you to not get on the plane."

My heart drops to my feet.

Oh, God. Not again.

"It turns out that your BCI check is expired."

An all too brief sigh of relief is replaced by utter panic.

"What???" I gasp. "I don't understand, we just had our finger prints and everything re-done for our home study renewal. Our social worker told us that everything was all up-to-date. I mean...I'm supposed to be getting on the plane right now."

"I'm sorry, but it looks like your BCI just expired. Without a current BCI we can't move forward."

"So," I say, trying to collect myself, "what exactly does that mean?"

"Well, it means that you need to go get your BCI check done today and then you can come down."

"Oh, God. OK. Honestly, I don't even remember what that is or how to do that," I say, hearing the panic in my voice. "Can you help me with this? Let me know where I'm supposed to go and what I'm supposed to do?"

"Sure, let me get the information and address for you and I'll call you back. Actually, I can text it to you."

I dash to the guy taking the plane tickets and say, "I have to get off this flight immediately. Where should I do that?"

He directs me to the other gate agent a few feet away standing at the counter.

She is very petite with short whitish hair. If I had to guess, I'd say she's in her early fifties.

"I have to get off this flight," I gasp. I must look pretty panicky because she - Carol according to her name badge - asks me if I'm OK.

The whole story quickly comes tumbling out of me - adoption, expired form, having to get to Providence and back, and still make it to Orlando today otherwise we might not be able to adopt this baby. She makes numerous sympathetic noises as I'm talking and emits a number of "omigods", but I can see that she's sincere and obviously concerned for me. Carol kindly checks every available flight to Orlando. Luckily there are seats on every flight.

"I'm just going to put a great big alert about your situation on your reservation. When you get back from Providence just go right to the ticket counter and they'll get you on the next available flight with no hassle. Your luggage is already on this one so it should be there when you get down there."

I thank her profusely and run though the airport to the taxi stand.

"Where are we going?" says the taxi driver, a woman about my age.

"Oh, God," I say fumbling with my phone trying to retrieve the address, "I have to go get this BCI thing in Providence and - "

Before I can even finish my sentence the driver says, "Oh, sure, I know right where that is."

"Really?"

"Yep. Have to get that done myself every year t drive the cab."

"Oh, thank God something is going right today."

She gives me a questioning look in the rearview mirror. So, of course, in my agitated state the whole story comes tumbling out.

"Don't worry," says the driver, "I'll get you there, drop you off and if there's no parking I'll just drive around the block a few times while you're in there. We'll get you back to the airport lickety split."

She really says "lickety split."

The driver chats amiably with me. I hope that I'm actually answering her coherently because all I can think is that I hope this doesn't go horribly south if there's a massive line at the BCI check place and I can't get down to Florida in time.

Miraculously, there is no line. I rush to the window, thrust my driver's license through the little slot and say desperately to the guy behind the glass, "Do you know how long this will take?"

"Bout 5 minutes," and walks away with my i.d. before I can say anything else.

"Oh, thank God!" I say when he returns 3 minutes later with the completed form,  "would it be possible for you to fax it to this number?" I thrust a piece of paper through the little slot in the window.

"Um, we really don't do that, ma'am."

"Sir, please! The thing is - " and I launch into the whole story about having to have the form  faxed or not being able to potentially adopt the little newborn girl waiting for me in FL.

I must look either very desperate or very crazy because he says, "Come on back" and buzzes me through the door.

He hands me off to a lady who hasn't yet heard my tale of woe so I repeat it while she's doing the faxing on an antiquated looking fax machine. Seems like it's taking forever, but finally a beep and a receipt slowly prints out from the machine. She hands me the receipt and the original form. I thank her profusely and dash out of the building praying that the taxi hasn't been driven off by the parking police, but there she is right outside the building with her blinkers on.

"All set?" the driver asks me.

"All set," I say and lean back to try to get my breathing to normalize.

When we arrive back at the airport the driver says, "Not bad - 36 minutes door to door."

"You are awesome," I reply and give her a ridiculously big tip. "Thank you!"

I dash into the airport and rush to the ticket counter. Again, miraculously, no line. And true to Carol's word there's no hassle with me getting on a later flight to Orlando.

An hour later I'm finally sitting on a mostly full flight bound for Orlando taking deep breaths and trying to stop my hands from shaking. We're just about to take off.

"If there's a Jennifer W--- on the plane, please press your call button," a female flight attendant's voice calls out over the intercom. 'Jennifer W---- if you're on the plane please press your call button."

Oh, God. What now?

My hand still shaking I press the call button. And there running down the aisle is little Carol, the lovely gate agent who listened to my story and made sure that I'd have no problem getting on this later flight. She reaches my row and says with a concerned look, "Did you get the form you needed???"

"Yes. Thank you so much!"

"And is it a little boy or girl that you're going to get?"

"Girl."

She gives me a huge hug. I hug her right back and give her a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you again."

"Good luck!!!" she says with a huge grin and then hustles off of the plane. The door closes immediately behind her.

We start for the runway. We head to Orlando.

She comes home...part 1

It's 2:37 a.m. and before our 5 week-old daughter can wake up her daddy with more "I'm hungry!" cries, I scoop her up out of her bed-top co-sleeper and whisk her off to the nursery for a bottle.

Later, after I've laid my sleeping daughter back in her co-sleeper and I'm settling myself back to sleep next to her, it hits me that I am really a mom. This is the first time in these crazy first weeks of parenting that I scoop her teeny-tiny-not-quite-6-pounds-body out her co-sleeper without worrying about dropping her. Or worrying if I'm doing it "right." Or jostling her too much. Or thinking about how to cradle her head just right against my arm. I do it with absolutely no worries. Automatically. Effortlessly. It's like I've been doing this all of my life...scooping, holding, feeding, rocking, putting her back to bed - all just one continuous series of fluid, practiced, confident motions.

I am a mom.

And now here we are and she's almost 6 months old. She is no longer the tiny, fragile newborn who came to be part of our family right on the heels of Hurricane Irene. Instead, she is a sturdy little person who loves to stand up (still with assistance), bounce like crazy, blow exceedingly spitty raspberries, meet new people (our little girl is a social butterfly), look at everything, gnaw on my face, chew on her dad's fingers, smile, show off the one beautiful dimple she has on her right cheek, and laugh. Oh, how our little Munchie loves to laugh.

"Enjoy every minute. It goes SO fast," is what I heard from every mom I every met when we started the adoption process.

I didn't believe it.

But it's true.

So many times during these six months I think about writing this post. Telling the story of how Chris and I finally came to be parents to our remarkable, beautiful little girl, but somehow never get around to it...not wanting to miss any of my daughter's life.

And in just 5 days she'll be 6 months-old. Where did the time go?

* * *

Hurricane Irene.

We have no electricity. No phones. No hot water. And even our cell phones don't work well enough to place or receive calls because of damage to our town's lone cell tower. Occasional text messages make it through, but even this isn't reliable. Our neighbor has a big honkin' generator, use of which he kindly offers us because he has one extra line available. At least the stuff of the fridge and freezer might make it.

Despite the lack of electricity, phones, hot water and the like, Chris and I feel truly lucky that we did not experience any flooding (been there and done that...don't need to ever go through that again) nor did our house or neighborhood suffer much by way of physical damage. It is hard to get around the first day after the storm because of downed branches, but otherwise we are all safe and unharmed.

So life is inconvenient, but good.

August 30, 2011...Day 3 of no electricity/phones/hot water. Chris texts me with the brilliant suggestion of dinner at a favorite restaurant in the next town over, which has had power restored. I am overjoyed to be getting out of the house.

I arrive early at the restaurant and decide to take advantage of cell availability to check Facebook on my phone. When I turn on the phone I am startled to see multiple voice mail notifications on the screen. No one ever calls me on my phone (I'm a text junkie, but can't stand actually talking on my cell phone. Makes no sense, I know...) Checking my messages I am shocked to hear T from our adoption agency.

My brain goes into overdrive. The words wash over me..."been trying to reach you all day"...."need to speak with you"..."urgent"..."right away"

For a moment I am frozen.

I haven't thought much about the adoption in close to two months. My last blog post was in early July. In truth, I had just put thoughts of adoption away in the far recesses of my brain. After everything that happened in the spring and all of the sadness and doubt I just shut down that part of me...figuring that it was probably never going to happen.

I had given up.

And now T is leaving me desperate messages.

And I'm sitting in my car not calling her because I am stunned.

But finally I pull myself together enough to search the car for pen and paper. Then with shaking hands and a stomach that's doing uncomfortable flip flops I dial T's number. She answers right away.

These are the bits of the conversation I am able to grasp..."have a situation"...."young woman"..."far along in her pregnancy"..."due date September 10"..."no drugs or alcohol"..."she gave birth today"..."healthy baby girl"..."you need to be in Florida tomorrow."

What?

My brain-in-overdrive stops momentarily.

"Omigod," I finally say with an hysterical laugh, "we just got hit by Hurricane Irene. Our house has no power, Internet or phones. We don't even have cell service! The only reason I'm talking to you is because I'm in the next town over and there's cell service here. I'm meeting Chris for dinner. He'll be here in a few minutes. Can we call you back?"

"Of course, but we do need to make a decision about this ASAP because we've showed the mother your profile and two others. If you guys want this then I really want to let her know more about you and everything that you went through this year and how gracefully you handled it."

"Yes, yes. Of course, thank you. Omigod. Ummm...we'll call you back in like twenty minutes."

Chris arrives and I can see by the look on his face that he has also talked to T.

"I couldn't reach you," he says with a slightly wild look in his eyes. I'm sure that I must look much the same.

We both stand outside the restaurant looking stunned. 

"Should we talk about this over dinner?"

Yes.

And so we sit down in our favorite Mexican restaurant trying to grasp the reality of the situation. 

The timing just couldn't be worse. Aside from the fact that we currently have no power, phones, Internet or hot water, Chris is also just beginning the final two weeks at his long-time job. He's accepted a new position at a different company. There's no way he can go to Florida. Not tomorrow anyway.

We laugh a little hysterically about how awful the timing is.

And then we look at each other.

And we know that we have to do this. 

"We'd be crazy not to do this, right?" I ask Chris.

He nods. "Yeah. We'd be crazy...wouldn't we?"

A few seconds or maybe it's a few minutes pass by. Finally, Chris gets up to go outside to make the call to T. When he returns we somehow manage to get through dinner, although neither of us eats very much as we wait to hear back from T to learn our fate and the fate of the baby born this day. 

Will we be chosen?

We don't have to wait long before T calls with the news that one or both of us need to get on a plane to Orlando tomorrow.

Neither of us cry. We hug. We sit down again in stunned, happy silence. We laugh again at the awful, awful timing and keep saying things like, "This is exactly the way we DIDN'T want this to happen" and "Omigod" and "we don't even have any power at home!"

Then dinner is over and we're outside heading to our cars so we can race to my mother-in-law's house to utilize their Internet (although we haven't told her why) to get me plane tickets and a hotel room in Orlando. But as we make our way to our cars it all gets to be too much and my knees start to buckle.

"I need to sit down," I say to Chris who helps me to the curb. I lean into him and finally sob. The tears that I have been holding inside me for months. "I don't think I can go through it again if this falls through," I say through my sobs. "I can't do it again."

"I can't either."

After a few minutes we manage to pull ourselves together. The rest of the evening is a blur of making arrangements to get me to Florida. (Chris will fly down a few days later for the weekend assuming that everything goes through.) Chris is on his computer dealing with plane and hotel reservations. I'm on the phone with my bank notifying them of potential large charges on my credit cards because I'll be traveling and potentially adopting a baby. Then I call my immediate family to share our news. Needless to say, my family is surprised and delighted (and although they don't say it, I'm sure scared for us knowing what we went through earlier in the year.)

My dad says, "Anything you need. You just call us. Anything and anytime. OK? We love you."

Chris' mom and step-dad arrive home from doing work on their boat to find us ensconced in their kitchen. After a "what's going on?" from his mom Chris explains what's happening.

"What?" says my mother-in-law looking completely stunned, "say that again."

"Jenn is going down to Florida to meet our daughter."

"What?" is all my mother-in-law can say.

At this point...that's kind of how we feel.

A new kind of life

My first day in eight years without a paying job.

It feels...odd.

Yesterday people at work tell me that I must be so relieved. That it must be nice to be getting rid of my stress. And, yes, it is.

But I haven't totally gotten rid of stress in my life...just the stress of working in a job at which I was pretty good for a long time, but on which I had burned out some time ago.

Now there's new and different stress...

We're officially a one-income family until I can figure out a way to generate some income while I'm a stay-at-home-mom. Hopefully with my writing.

I've committed to getting the house in shape for the baby's eventual (and hopefully soon!) arrival in our lives. That means cleaning out all of the closets, getting rid of more accumulated stuff to make way for new baby stuff, baby proofing, painting the baby's bookshelves and dresser, and the big project - sanding/priming/painting the remaining trim on our main floor. That's seven door frames (both sides), four window frames, and all of the baseboards. May not sound like a lot, but if you've ever sanded/primed/painted trim you'll know that it's a huge, time consuming, tedious and tiring task. Still, when it's finally done the house will feel fresh.

And then there's making sure that I'm using my time wisely and efficiently each day. That I don't allow myself to get lazy. That I don't sleep in everyday, but I get up and go to "work." That I make a list of things needing to get done each day and that I do them.

As part of my daily "get things done/don't get lazy" regime, I need to make progress on my book. Big progress. Now that I'm not dealing with the exhaustion (or the excuse of exhaustion...) of a full-time job I am making the commitment to myself to write everyday.

Every. Single. Day.

To make writing part of my daily list of things to do because until now I've been pretty haphazard in my approach to getting this book written. Some days I don't even look at it. Other days I'm off at the coffee house for six hours clackering away on my laptop and ignoring the rest of my life. It's time to learn a little discipline when it comes to pounding out my novel.

Then there's also the stress of being the person who is now available to get "stuff" done. The cat needs to go to the vet. The plumber is coming to deal with the leaky faucet. Deliveries. Other house stuff. Grocery shopping. Cleaning. Laundry. That's all going to fall to me because I'm the one that will be home and not "working."

My conversation with my husband this morning:

CHRIS: So, what's on tap for you today for your first day of freedom?

ME: Well, I need to head to the Target in W to get sheets and beach towels for the trip. And also those t-shirts that I like so much, but they didn't have a whole lot left at the Target in S. Um, and then I have a couple of other errands to do and then an appointment with N (my therapist) at 2:30. And then I'm going to come home and deal with laundry.

CHRIS [furrowed brow]: Mmmm. Um.

ME: What?

CHRIS: Would you mind doing the laundry this morning?

ME [furrowed brow]: Why?

CHRIS: So everything has time to dry today. I'd really like to pack this evening so we can get on the road tomorrow as soon as I get home from work.

ME [brow still furrowed]: Um.

For about half a minute I'm annoyed by my husband's perfectly reasonable request/suggestion.
I have my schedule planned out for the day! The way I want to get things done in the order that I want to get them done. And now he wants me to change my whole schedule to take care of the laundry this morning???

I'm about to make a really stupid comment to the effect of what is on my mind which will surely start something that involves serious bickering. But I stop myself. Suddenly feeling very foolish and embarrassed for being annoyed for even thirty seconds.

He's right, of course.

It certainly makes more sense to get the laundry done and hung up this morning before I head out for the day. And, aside from my 2:30 appointment, do I really have a set schedule? Nope. Just my handy list of things to do and purchase.So, getting the laundry done this morning? Not such a big deal.

ME [flushing slightly with embarrassment and hoping that Chris doesn't notice]: Of course. I'll take care of it.

The first load of laundry is in the washer right now. It's still early and I have plenty of time to get everything done that I want to today.

* * *

Just because I don't have a paying job doesn't mean that I'm not going to be working or that I won't have stress.

I'm just going to have a different kind of job. And there's going to be different kinds of stress. And I'm sure that there will be days where I wish desperately that I was heading into the office. Days when if I have to look at another load of laundry or clean out another closet I will likely lose my mind just a little.

Hopefully that's in the distant future (or, even more hopefully, not in the future at all.)

But for now I've signed on for a new life of being the person in our house who takes care of the "stuff" and who has to learn how to fill her days in new ways - with writing, taking care of our home, hopefully taking care of a baby very soon.

Am I excited?

Yeah, kind of.

Am I scared?

Yeah, a little.

OK, a lot.

But here I am and I want to be in the present moment with all of it.

Maybe next year

Most days I'm OK.

I do not spend much time these days obsessing about the adoption that fell through earlier this year or the one that has yet to happen.

Most days I'm OK.

I go about my business. The business of living. The business of trying to be in the present moment.

But then it creeps up on me. Stealthily.

The sadness. The longing.

Like yesterday.

In many ways yesterday is a good day. Gray and rainy. I spend the day in my jammies, reading the last book in my very favorite fantasy series, hunkered down on the couch, enjoying the cat snuggled up beside me. The house needs to be cleaned, but I ignore it in favor of the life of the mind and imagination.

It is only in the evening when it's finally dark enough for the fireworks to start and I head out with my husband onto our back deck to watch them that I realize how sad I am.

How yet another holiday has almost come and gone.

And we are still not parents.

I try to enjoy the fireworks, but fail and head back inside to finish my book.

Last year at the Independence Day parade we talk about how great it will be "next year" when we have the baby with us. We laugh and wonder if she'll make it all the way through the parade or if the heat and the noise will be too much for her and we'll have to pack up and head out early.

And yet here we are at "next year" and next year's parade...

Still no baby. Still not parents.

Today we head to the parade, but surprisingly, I am not sad. Apparently I had my little moment yesterday. Instead I clap for the marching bands, clap for the veterans from the Korean War, Vietnam, and WWII, eat a forbidden hot dog, laugh at the tiny Chihuahua a few feet away barking like mad and desperate to get at the passing Clydesdale horses, and thoroughly enjoy watching parents with their children all around us enjoying the day.

And hoping that maybe next year...