grrlTravels

Requisite Halloween Photo

Embarrassing Store-Bought Disney Costume

My Creepy Croched Skull



(It's more pinhead than creepy skull. Ah well, it was my first try.)

Is preparation the key to a successful pedicure?

Right now I have very long toenails. And there is a good reason for that. Generally scrupulous about my personal care, I am letting them grow. Because I want to have a pedicure in anticipation of our upcoming vacation. And I think it's the proper procedure but I have no way of knowing for sure.

The History
My mother was not a "girly girl" during my formative years. She didn't wear makeup or perfume or even nail polish while we were growing up. She didn't pierce her ears until after I did. She didn't like jewelry or fancy clothes or shoes. And neither did I. I still don't wear makeup or do my hair with any regularity. I do not own a bottle of perfume right now (much to K.'s chagrin), the last I had having been around so long that it was retired because it really didn't smell like anything any more. When I shave I generally get lots of little bumps and have no idea how to get rid of them; hair removal creams and self tanning lotions stymie me.

The Debacle
A few years back now K. got me what he thought would be a great Christmas gift. He was excited to give it to me, to see my reaction. I opened it. A big old gift certificate to a spa. Enough for a whole day of pampering.

I'm not sure exactly what my reaction was. (He could tell you--I'm sure he remembers it well.) I'm sure I tried to smile and say thank you through my smily clenched teeth. Because there was no way that I was ever going to that spa.

Too intimidating. K., never one to skimp on a present, went out and found a Very Nice Spa. Full of bitchy rich women having spa treatments for lack of anything better to do. I would rather remove all of my fingernails personally than go to that spa. Scary. Daunting. Unknown. And remaining that way.

Thus began the conversations. "You should go." "It will be fun." "You'll enjoy it." "The girls on the phone sounded nice, not scary at all." No. Way. Was. I. Going. To. That. Spa.

I still have that gift certificate. Because I was raised to appreciate gifts given to me. We did not return gifts in my family. We may not have worn them or used them or loved them, but we did not return them. No returning a gift certificate at any rate. One time K. tried to sell it to a friend of ours. Another time he tried to give it away. But I still have it. A little slip of love from K. that I am too insecure to cash in.

The Pedicure
Years passed. And I decided that really, a pedicure wasn't all that scary or intimidating or threatening. So last summer I made an appointment. I wish I could say that it was easier than making that first appointment to see the gynecologist, but I'm not sure which one wins out. But I've decided I'm a grown woman and I am going to have this pedicure and I'm not going to fret about it either.

Only I suddenly realize that I don't know the protocol. I don't know the little ins and outs of pedicures. All of these little rituals have unwritten rules, and I dread messing up. Because I may look stupid and all of the woman in the salon may laugh at me behind my back, you see. But I also don't have anyone to ask, so I just go to the appointment and hope for the best. The girl comes out of the back and says, "Did you pick a color?" Panic, pure and simple. "I want them French," I tell her and dodge the bullet. She looks disappointed and pouty. I hope for the best.

I say as brightly as I can, "This is my first pedicure." And the girl looks at me with the most bored look in the world and says, "What's the big occasion for your first pedicure?" you freak of nature who is having her first pedicure at the ripe old age of 38. Unfortunately, the big occasion doesn't really qualify, being the wedding of my cousins, which I am simply attending. I tell her and hope for the best.

I put my feet in the bubbly water. She turns on the massage chair and leaves and I try to relax. I feel like my bones are rattling a little too much and spend most of the relaxing bubbly time trying to figure out the chair and feeling dumb for not being able to figure out how to turn it off. I slide my feet around in the water, trying to find a comfortable position where my lower back doesn't ache. I wonder idly what all the fuss is about.

She comes back and starts to massage my feet. She won't look at me. I begin to squirm and wonder what I should do. Is it improper to make eye contact at this critical juncture? Is it weird to have someone you have never met rubbing your lower legs? I don't know when to move my feet around and she yanks at them. I spend the time hoping that I shaved well and there aren't little ankle hairs poking about. As the piles of skin are sloughed off my feet I try to look elsewhere. Also, the part where the toe jam is removed leaves me apprehensive. Did I prepare adequately for this? Should I have been home this morning removing my own toe jam? Finally, the polish. Thank goodness for the familiar polish. And The End.

So back for more?
True, my feet were nice and buffed and my toes did look pretty. Even K. said so. And now we are going to Florida this week and I want pretty toes and there's only one way to get them. Sigh.

Paperwork? Check.

Today was a momentous day. Today the dossier was submitted. I was expecting more fanfare. We started in March. Seven months rolled by. We struggled and filled out paperwork and got frustrated and took deep breaths and talked and pleaded. We sent money. We sent FedExs. We notarized more than we thought possible. We collected documents and filed and organized and copied and made lists and remembered.

And then suddenly it was Friday, the day to send off the little bits of paper. I felt a little sad. I was attached to those bits and didn't like to see them go. They were meaningful to me and represented my life with K. I had started to cherish them and wasn't quite ready to send them out into the big cold world by themselves. What if they were rejected? What if they didn't measure up? What if they were misplaced or lost?

But then I realized that those bits are just a means to an end. And that end is important and good and right. So I packed them all up and I shipped them off. A little window into our world. A glimpse of us. 6 little pictures to tell a long story. 4 smaller pictures to represent us in our absense. Words and words and words about who we are and what we want and how we will build our family. A little hopeful dream released and sent soaring.

It's good to be done.

Lifting the veil

On Monday, I was very, very happy. Happier than I have been in a long time. Happier than I remember being. The good news washed over me like molten sunshine. One moment I was havng an ordinary day, having picked E. up at the baby sitter's house and the next moment I was transported.

It lasted a couple of hours. I danced around the house. I sang little songs; "We are going to have a daughter. There's a new baby coming. We are going to have a daughter..." over and over and over. I twirled. I felt good.

And then slowly reality returned. I realized the veil had lifted momentarily, but it meant to settle back over me. Grief lapped over my toes, unwilling to be forgotten. I longed to call my mom and tell her the good news. Who first? Who else? I knew in my heart she would be pleased and excited for us. I knew in my heart that she was beginning to love our daughter just as we were.

No mom. No phone call. No sharing the good news, at least for a moment. For a moment, just grief, lapping, calling, rolling in like dense fog to bewilder me again. The airiness gone, replaced by thickness. The light faded to dimness. Pain and joy side by side, bumping one another, blurring their edges together.

The dimness. The veil. The moments of confusion, incomprehension, fear. The utter unfairness. The anger, denial, sadness, pain, regret, wistfulness, quiet, acceptance.

But for a moment, the sun was sparkling on the water and the air was clear and the future beckoned. It was lovely.

Peering into the inner recesses

Have you ever seen that commercial for a major discount airline? The one where the very nice woman goes to the restroom at her friend's/relative's/neighbor's house, and while she is in there she looks in the medicine cabinet because she just can't stop herself? And she finds something incriminating and starts to smirk to herself. But then all of the shelves come crashing down with a loud "Whoomp!!!" and the announcer says, "Want to get away"?

Some of those commercials are cringe-inducing. Some aren't, at least for me. (Personally I don't think that the men in the airport bathroom would really care all that much if a blinded contact-wearing woman intruded.) But the medicine cabinet got me thinking. Because I really couldn't care less what you have in your medicine cabinet. I, for one, spent not a little time and effort to make sure that no one would see my antidepressants, until I decided to come out of the closet and stop caring. And if you have some mysterious tube of gunk in your m.c., I probably won't know what it's for anyway.

No, if I had my way, I'd walk into your kitchen and look right into your fridge. I find the fridge much more interesting and telling. I'm just fascinated by what other people have in their fridges, things that I have never even thought of having in mine.

So without further ado, I'm going to reveal the contents of my fridge. In no particular order:

Most Expensive: Remainder of pork tenderloin from dinner? (I chose a bad night for this--I need to get to the grocery store)
Strangest: hot hot hot Hot Sauce purchased in Mexico (as compared with my very vanilla fridge growing up)
Dullest: Apple juice (are all of the other moms out there really just tired of thinking about apple juice All The Time?)
Overall Favorite: Seltzer (some people don't even know what seltzer is. And I'm sort of addicted to it, if it's possible to be addicted to water with bubbles in it)
Favorite Condiment: French's Yellow mustard (boring, and the only thing I could have been said to crave even the least little bit while I was pregnant)
Most Embarrassing: Tie
Can o Cheese (I thought E. might like it, but even he was offended)
Pre-diced garlic (I know real chefs would never use garlic out of a jar, but it's so much easier and faster)
Miscellany:
--Leftover hot peppers from hoagies on Friday at lunch (won't have anything to eat them with even if they are good ones)
--Lemons (I always think I want them for my seltzer because I get them in the restaurant but TOO LAZY to slice them at home)
--Cheese spread purchased this summer (Still good? Who knows? K. lives and dies by expiration dates--too bad this doesn't have one)
--Non-diet caffienated soda for guests--we don't drink it
--Oranges (Quickly going past their prime)
--Celery (ditto)
--Hot dogs (we eat them, ok? OKAY?)

In All Its Glory

(In order to play the game, I've decided just the fridge for today. The freezer can come another day, when I decide to risk the frostbite.)

Well, I should have made a feverish trip to Trader Joe's before revealing all, but that's it for tonight. I'm sure most of you have much more interesting fridges, so feel free to comment with your most interesting item. We'll keep a list. I'll post it inside my medicine cabinet to make sure all of the guests see it.

I had another entry in mind

It came today. It came today! It came today! It came today, today, today!!! Folks, I have in my hands, today, an I-171H "Notice of Favorable Determination"! And not only that. "Your Visas 37 cable has been sent to the American Consulate or Embassy in Guangzhou". (Whatever that could mean.) And also, "Your application has been approved for 1 child(ren)."

Wow.

I am so happy I can't sit still.

Today I was at work with K. while E. stayed with the baby sitter. I was enjoying my once a week day with grownups. For lunch we went to the mall to buy a Halloween costume for E. (I gave up on making one after I had not one single solitary brillant idea, and not even a mediocre one either.) I said to K., "Let's go and get our passport photos done, if we have time," and he agreed, that being the last thing on our list to do for the dossier. While we were having them done I said, "I wanted to do these today because I think our paperwork just isn't being sent until we get this done, so let's just do it. Then our paperwork will come and we can stop worrying." And we got home, and voila, there it was. So if you are eagerly anticipating the receipt of your I-171E, my advice to you is go and have your passport photos taken. If you have already done that, I don't have any advice. Sorry.

When E. was born, he arrived bright and early on a Sunday morning. My C-section was around 8 am (don't even get me started) and he was here, breathing and crying, by 9. We repaired to the recovery room and started dialing. And no one answered. Not one single person. Everyone was at church, you see, and we had to hold our good news to ourselves for hours until they came home and got the messages. Well, tonight I started dialing, and no one was home. I think every time I get really good news, the arrival of a child news, no one is home or going to be home. I don't know really what that means and I really don't care because, did I tell you, I got my I-171H today!!!

Here are our terrible "passport photos". Or should I say "Lucky Passport Photos". So just notarizing and a good old NJ state seal and we are in business with a December DTC date (I hope).

Convicted Criminals or Adoptive Parents?

I actually got two envelopes today from the CIS (Agency-Formerly-Known-As-The-INS). I got all excited when I saw the first envelope and started dancing around in the front yard. I opened it up, and out popped our original birth certificates and marriage license that we had submitted way back when in March. Nothing else, just our 3 originals returned to us. I was surprised. Then I got angry. An envelope from the CIS with Nothing In It But 3 Dumb Original Documents that I already have multiple copies of??? Then I decided to look on the bright side. If they had sent our originals back, it meant that we were making progress and that our file was being reviewed and processed. And the I-171H couldn't be far behind, could it? And it wasn't!

We had our fingerprints taken on September 10, so that was 6 weeks and 3 days for those of you keeping score. The fingerprints were taken in Philly, but our CIS office is in Newark. We had heard that the PA people were getting the form in about 2-3 weeks, but for NJ, for us, it took 6. Anything is better than 10, right?

Did I say I was happy? We're having a baby! And we'll meet her in hopefully about 10 months.

Hobbies 101

There are times where I feel like an artist trapped in the body of a color-blind mitten-wearing troglodyte whose cave paintings resemble the end result in a paint-with-water coloring book mishap. (Did you ever paint with water as a child? And did you ever manage to paint even one page without either ripping the paper or putting on so much water that the paper never really did dry? Me either.) I have tried at various times in my life to paint and draw, and the results are just short of ridiculous. I have no sense of color. I can't do anything original and haven't any truly creative thoughts in my head.

I like art and I have strong opinions about things, so this becomes a problem for me from time to time. I can visualize the perfect color in my head, but I can't describe it, create it, or find it. I can look at something and instantly know if the creator has any sense of color, but I have no sense of color myself. I can't carry a tune, clap in rhythm, do anything in front of an audience, play a musical instrument, nothing. For a while I thought photography was going to save me, but I don't really have the time to sort out the f/stops and apertures and actually the digital camera is just too easy for lazy old me.

Which leads me to crafts. For myself, I see crafts as a way to get out some creative energy without really being creative. Don't feel insulted—I am not implying that everyone who does crafts is not creative. There is a lot of really creative crafty stuff out there. Unfortunately, someone has to have the brilliant idea first, and then I can come along and copy it. So I am reasonably competent at crocheting, embroidery, and following the instructions in Martha Stewart Living sometimes. (Did you notice that the magazine formerly known as Martha Stewart Kids is now just called Kids? I don't care what they call it because the photography and layout is gorgeous and they have some good creative ideas. Unlike yours truly.) (I know I'm lame, but I subscribe to Living, Kids, and Food. I can't help it--the magazines are so attractive and represent some undiscovered part of my fantasy world, a world where I am an artist! And I know how to clean everything under the sun the best possible way and I care.)

So to celebrate this Halloween, my least favorite holiday of the year, coming in behind both St. Patrick's Day and Columbus Day (really, why are we bothering to celebrate this any more? We know he didn't "discover" America so what's left? CC Ruthless and Greedy Imperialist Day?) I am going to attempt to crochet these for everyone we work with. (You know, K. works with them and I pretend that I use my office for more than an extended play area for E. on the days when we manage to make it into the office.)

Isn't it still summer?

I always enjoy seeing pictures on other blogs. It puts a face to a name, if you know what I mean. I spent today uploading pictures to ofoto and I've got the pictures out this afternoon, I may as well share some.

I love ofoto, by the way. For being free, it's just great. You can share, and order pictures, and add captions. The problem is it takes a L-O-N-G time to upload your photos, even with a cable modem. I wouldn't even touch it without one. My sister tends to grumble because I take so long to get the pictures up. And perhaps she has a point, because I just uploaded a bunch of pictures from summer vacation. Isn't it still summer?

Anatomy of a Laugh

I Guess Not

Again about the camping?

I am not much of a camper. It's not the nocturnal discomforts or the lack of rigorous personal hygiene or the smaller foraging rodents. No, for me it's the spiders and my longstanding deep-seated issues with inadequate and/or public restroom facilities.* I have a nightmare involving toilets almost every week, people. I realize it isn't normal, but I don't know how to make the potties go away! Don't even get me started on Mr. Bobs. I can recall every single second of the last time I was forced to use one, and the scars just won't heal.

However, when faced with adversity, I like to think that I am a let's-make-the-best-of-the-situation type of person. In general, I march through most predicaments, like power outages, miscalculations while traveling, and discarding smelly diapers without inciting riots. When I'm in a situation where I long to relieve my frustrations by creating the Most Powerful Vortex of Improbably Happy Endings (thereby negating the effectiveness of Power Hungry, Negative Aura Wielding Fiendish Trolls), I try to turn everything into some kind of complicated game and win...I mean laugh my way through.

But I'm at a loss. Tomorrow my kitchen floor will be ripped out and my kitchen will then be out of commission for about a week. Normally, no problemo. Who am I to look such a gift horse in the mouth? I mean to say a foolproof reason to not cook and to eat out every single night for an entire week, guilt free? Also, I have A Very High Tolerance for Dirt and Noise. And Contractor Angst.

However, this time I will be trapped in my less-than-functional house with an almost 2-year-old. Limited access to juice, a dishwasher, or the ever popular Thumping Washer Rides.** Limited options for a healthy a.m. repast; no stove for eggs, no microwave for oatmeal, and no toaster for waffles. When I visualize washing the dishes in the bathroom sink upstairs the panic begins to seep in.

*I have never understood the euphemism "restroom". Bathrooms are not restful; the germ filled, aromatic, thick, sodden, swooshing surroundings assaults each of the five senses. Going into an unfamiliar restroom has a lot more to do with organizing a SWAT team than personal refreshment.

**It's probably a mistake to pick up your child and sit them on the running washer or drier while you try to squeeze out a few more minutes to devote to housekeeping chores. Because they will never forget and then each and every single time you go to do some laundry your child will squeal until they are permitted to once again perch on the machine. It makes the laundry take even longer.

Little theories relevant to nothing

I have lots of theories about life. Little ones, not the great big ones which explain everything. No, my theories have more to do with life's smaller mysteries. Theories about E.'s sleeping habits, the correct order in which to wash the dishes, why my computer crashes at random intervals, and about the furry thing that ran through the garage last week. (I'm actually hoping it was the muskrat who ate our new landscaping taking a little vacation from the lake.)

There's a well known premise that people often marry their opposites. My therapist once did confirm that two people with complementary neuroses are often attracted to each other. At first I was non-plussed by this, offended even. K. and I fell in love and got married because our neuroses liked each other? But the more I thought about it the more sense it made. This angle explains a lot about why some people seem to complement each other so well.

And so was born a little theory about us. You see, I often call K. a "girly-man" (much to his chagrin). And I believe that I am a women in touch with my masculine side. And I believe the fact that we are both more in the middle with respect to cultural norms of masculinity and femininity was one of the reasons we clicked. For example. K. has really too much patience for shopping and talking ad nauseum about feelings and suitable couch fabrics not have a touch of estrogen swimming in his veins.

And me? Well I love watching sports on tv. Love it! LOVE IT. I love football, love ice hockey and love tennis (perhaps a little girlier, but still). And I'm at a loss for a theory which suitably explains my love of sports besides the fact that I was and still tend to be very competitive. But that can't be the whole picture.

I flip-flop as to whether my consuming love of football is "normal" for a woman or not. Sometimes I feel right with the world, accepted even with my strange affinity for competition. Then my cousin (Hi, H., if you're reading these days) sent around one of those dumb (pardon me, Fun! and Informative!) questionnaires that go around on email every so often. Usually I ignore all junk, but lots of family members were responding and it seemed too grumpy not to jump in. One of the questions was "What is your favorite sport to watch on tv?" And without fail every single female answered either "figure skating" or some variation of "none of the above". Except me, of course. I was at home trying to decide if I like football more because hockey wouldn't have really started yet and there is a lockout this year or if I really just do love football the most.

So anyone who has a theory about why people love professional sports, feel free to send it along. I've spent a long time in therapy, and don't think this burning question will be resolved by my therapist any time soon. We're a little preoccupied working on the aforementioned neuroses.

Tis poetry for thee

Here is a poem sent to me by an alert reader (that's my imitation of Dave Barry) which makes me cry every time I read it. It is really comforting, too comforting not to be shared.

Death is nothing at all.
I have only slipped away into the next room
I am I, and you are you.
Whatever we were to each other, that we still are.
Call me by my old familiar name,
speak to me in the easy way which you always used.
Put no difference in your tone,
wear no forced solemnity or sorrow.
Laugh as we always laughed
at the little jokes we enjoyed together.
Pray, smile, think of me, pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word that it always was.
Let it be spoken without trace of a shadow on it.

Life means all that it ever meant.
It is the same as it ever was;
there is unbroken continuity.
Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?
I am waiting for you, for an interval,
somewhere very near, just around the corner.

All is well.

Henry Scott Holland 1847-1918
Canon of St. Paul’s Cathedral

I hope it's Eel (?) and not something worse

My head is really still pretty float-y. I have trouble sleeping sometimes. I have trouble concentrating--I lot. I do things I never do, like driving around aimlessly while trying to remember where I was going in the first place. Nope, can't remember. Can I remember why I actually got in the car in the first place? It must have been some kind of errand, something I needed to accomplish...I'm usually trying to get things done for work or the adoption...Do we have food in the fridge? Nope, still got nothing.

Things you always knew but never really understood until now #1: Grieving is hard and takes a Really Long Time. Much longer than you think it will. Much longer than the 4 weeks or so you had allotted for it.

So, since I'm all float-y and surreal and can't seem to think, here's an entry with no thinking required. How nice!

Homework assigment from Home Study Class--Annotated

Page 1-2: Read these books, blah, blah, blah

A:We've got this covered. Oh no, the books aren't read yet, but they have been purchased and sit next to the bed, staring at me at inopportune times and making me feel guilty. Perhaps I should sleep with one under the old pillows?

Page 3: Parent's Pledge of Commitment (to be signed)

A: Yet another piece of paper which "regular" parents would never have to sign, but we do since we want to grow our family through adoption. Sigh. Sometimes it is a bit demeaning, I'd have to agree. Yes, I understand that it's possible that we might love our child less because she isn't genetically linked to us and therefore we should be asked to sign papers promising that no, we will still love her anyway, DNA or not. (See, I can be cranky too!)

Page 4: Transitions Exercise

As a couple, pick top five deprivations you think your child will be experiencing before he/she arrives at your home. Record them on the chart and develop a plan to help your child transition easier to your home, their new environment.

Column 1: LIST FIVE DEPRIVATIONS YOUR CHILD EXPERIENCED AT THE ORPHANAGE/FOSTER CARE.

Column 2: DEVELOP A PLAN OF ACTION TO HELP YOUR CHILD TRANSITION TO YOUR HOME AND FAMILY.

A: I am weepy. Just looking at this and knowing I should think about these things makes me want to cry.

At the seminar, we were there trying to act cool and together and psychologically sound and ready to parent an adopted child, just on the off chance that there was some way they could rescind the home study and say that no, we probably weren't ready quite yet. And then, the very first thing the director discussed was having your previous issues worked out so that you wouldn't be working out your issues through your child. (I am not debating her point. It was a good point, and she made it much more clearly than the muddled sentence above.) And then she used as an illustrative point something like, "People could die, your mother could die during the process of adopting..." and I tried as hard as I could but I just started crying right there in the room with all of the other adoptive parents looking earnest and psychologically stable.

Page 5: At Home Experiences
1. Yadda yadda yadda. Have you ever felt rejected by a child? How did that make you feel?

2a. Have one spouse, preferably the worst cook, prepare a meal. Have the cook tell you that he/she will be making a "surprise meal" and that it will be served at an unspecified time. Cooks, make sure that your spouse is really hungry and remove the plate/bowl before you think your spouse is done. Why do you think this exercise is important?

2b. Go to a restaurant with the menu in a foreign language and pick something without knowing what it is and see how much you can eat. Or, have the spouse that made the "surprise meal" select a dish for you to eat without your knowing what it is. How was it? Why do you think this exercise is important?

A: Point made. I do find these questions food for thought. (Pun not intended, but sitting right there anyway.) The idea of ordering and eating something where I don't know what it is or if I will like it makes me a little crazy. And yet, will my daughter not have that experience numerous times? Probably. I heard recently that someone who had adopted a child internationally (and it could have been China) said that at the orphanage all the kids really eat is awful rice gruel. And the point made at the seminar was, "Don't bring the child home to a room full to the brim of stuff (Books! Toys! Dolls! Colors!MUSIC!HAPPINESS!!!AMERICA!) and start just feeding them American food and pretend that this is normal for them. (From sensory deprivation straight to sensory overload won't be fun for anyone.)

My policy is, the more I resist something, the more I probably need to do that exact thing. (Thanks to years of therapy.) So I am contemplating doing #2b and really seeing what it is like. And of course in a Chinese restaurant, because it's much more fair that way. If we go into the city we could end up with something really distasteful. What fun that would be!

Overused metaphors and me

Just a note: Apparently I use the phrase "food for thought" way too much. Twice in the last two entries, and once where it became a really bad pun or something. Bad grrl.

I am working on a redesign of the site. (Thanks M!) Or should I say a design for the site, because it is currently, obviously design-less. I have a couple of good tag lines, one of which has something to say about overused metaphors, a favorite of mine. Well, if they are overused doesn't that also imply that they are valid and good?

So hopefully someday soon I will have a new design and a pretty new site and will start using those metaphors in earnest. But I think I shall retire "food for thought". Sounds like a recipe for success.

Seven yrs, but not itchy

I never believed in love at first site. I don't really believe that there is one perfect person out there, and if you don't find that one person, you are, well, screwed. But the first time I saw K., I felt a jolt run through my body, just looking at him. And after we spoke briefly, I knew that this person was someone who was sympatico with me. And a little while later I knew he was someone I could love. And he was 16 at the time. Sixteen!!

We had our share of breakups and heartache and relationship issues. We've had our share of unhappy life events. But we became best friends practically the moment we met, and haven't deviated from that much since.

K. is an interesting guy. He loves movies, building with legos, gadgets, geeky computer stuff, flying, computer games. He is kind to his mother, and friends with all animals, like a mini-Dr. Doolittle. We once went to a hotel with a bird in a cage near the pool. The bird talked to K. like they had been best friends forever and even came over to sit on his arm. The trainers said that the bird was extremely unfriendly (I can vouch for that) and didn't really like anyone. Except K., obviously. He is a people person, the kind of person who when walking through the mall just can't help talking to the 4 or 5 strangers who begin conversations with him.

We have a lot of overlapping dreams. We both like to travel. My travel tastes run more towards third world countries than 5 star luxury. And he goes right along with me, enjoying the adventure of it all. I want to help people, and he says that if he ever gets to go to film school, he will happily make documentaries with me rather than the scifi special effects extravaganzas he perfers. He has bought 3 houses with me without lawns, even though top on his list is grass in the yard. We both think we want to move to Hawaii and live a slower, less stressful life together with our kids. He cried when E. was born and has been patiently figuring it all out with me since.

If I tried to tell you how much I love him I would be overly dramatic, verbose, and grotesquely sappy, burst into tears, and still feel like I hadn't been able to give you the essence. I leave it at: he is the best person I have ever met, I am more comfortable around him than even myself, I continue to nag him about spending more time with me when the poor man gives me every available waking moment because I can't get enough of him, and I truly cherish him.

Happy 34th birthday, K. Sorry you are sick this year, and we had a very dull "Big Birthday Weekend". I love you to distraction, I thank you for saving me, I am delighted that you are a part of my life, and when two people can love the same dumb movie and laugh every time and quote it to each other ad nausem, well, it must be love. (It's So I Married an Ax Murderer, and we probably have others more embarrassing than that, if possible.)

10-10 Wins!

Cranky, and yet encouraged

As part of our home study we were encouraged to go to a day-long session held by the home study agency. Our agency does not require such a class, although some do, and I was reluctant to go. Why sit in a room all day long with a lot of other people we didn't know to hear the stuff I could read about myself or already knew?

Well, I really couldn't have been more wrong. The class was really helpful and encouraging, and the worst thing about it were the folding metal seats that threw my back out for the next 3 days. Other than that, thumbs up. A brief list of things I learned:

**A therapist who specializes in attachment issues with adopted children talked about, well, attachment issues. She said that most of the problems they saw were correctable. Phew. This is one of the things that really worries me. What if we just don't attach, for whatever reason? What if we aren't attaching and I don't know it? Someone made a joke about having an attachment "check-up" just like going to the doctor for the well child visits. Really, it's an idea. The therapist said that it's wise to wait at least 6 months after coming home to let things just settle and your relationships shake out. I feel better! And isn't it just good to know there are professionals out there?

**Some lovely women from the International Adoption Health Program at the Children's Hospital of Philadelphia came and gave us good information (some scary and overwhelming, but it's better to know than not know) about medical and developmental issues for children adopted internationally. They have a good program there, and can really help out. Lots of info on infectious diseases, head circumference, fetal alcohol syndrome, and sensory integration problems. Ack, but again, good to know they are there if we need them.

**The panel of parents who have adopted showed up, with three lovely toddlers in tow, one from China. She was just beautiful, and K. and I almost started crying when we saw her. We want our girl!! They had all good things to say, which was encouraging. I wish that there had been some more of the negative stuff, just to make me feel like it was a balanced view. But fun, really fun!

**An adult Korean adoptee came and talked. She was sweet and well adjusted and beautiful. But I left feeling like she was a little TOO WELL ADJUSTED if you know what I mean. She grew up in a small rural town and would not admit to any issues or bad thoughts or feelings. It would have been nice again to have some more of the negative presented. Sort of like, I struggled with this, but I worked it out and I'm a happy person. Ah well, she was a nice girl and it was good to hear her story anyway.

Adoption Update:
So after that, we looked at each other and said, When can we get her??? We have everything ready, but are waiting for that little piece of paper from the INS. The wait time is supposed to be 10 weeks after receipt of the home study and fingerprints. (They won't fingerprint you until they have your home study, so really 10 weeks after your fingerprinting date.) Then I asked someone from one of the agencies (can't recall which) what the wait time was, and they said in PA the document is coming 2-3 weeks after the fingerprinting. So I went and got my hopes up. And it's now 4 weeks and we have no paper, so perhaps in NJ you wait the full 10 weeks. I don't know. All I know is send that paper sooner!

(And when I say we have everything ready, I mean that all of the paperwork is here and notarized and state sealed, but we don't have the 6 pictures of "family life" just yet nor the passport photos, so we should just do that so we aren't running around at the last minute getting passport photos.)

So since we need to have all of the paperwork to the agency by October 15 to get a November DTC date, I guess we are looking at December at the earliest. At least we have heard that the wait time for a referral is down from 9 months to 6 or 7. That's something, at least.

I leave you with some food for thought.

Am I a candidate for culture shock?
Rate yourself on the following with a scale of 1-10.

1. My sense of humor is good in stress situations.


2. I am curious about other ways of life.


3. I am open-minded (vs. opinionated).


4. I am laid-back, not task-oriented.


5. I am self-reliant, independent.


6. I have a high tolerance for noise and commotion.


7. I have a strong sense of myself (I can be made fun of and enjoy it).


8. I can show affection with my extended family and friends.


9. I can reach out to those in plights or poverty.


10. I can ask for help.


11. I am flexible about time.


12. I am tolerant in ambiguous situations.


13. I have the ability to fail and have experience in that area.


14. I can figure out why things might be like they are.


15. I like to go camping

All of the people at our table hit 100 easily. And I hate to go camping, and not very flexible about time, and don't much like to fail.

Less time for the little things

K. is a pen thief. Actually, to be more accurate, he is a writing implement thief. He will steal any writing implement left lying around. K. denies this vigorously. What actually happens, according to him, is that he just happens to pick up any pen, pencil, marker, or crayon left lying about and without noticing it at all he places said implement into his pocket, briefcase, truck or whatever and takes off with it. What this means for the short version of the story is that I never have pens at my desk when I need them. I've really given up on having a pen anywhere else in the house, like the kitchen for the grocery list, or the bedroom to scribble notes to myself so that I can allow myself to finally go to sleep on those bad, thinking-too-much--please-let-it-STOP nights.

So last trip to Walmart all of the school supplies were out in full force. I was reminded of myself in college, when having the right pen was of the utmost importance. I knew exactly what kind of pens I liked and which I didn't. I was quite particular. I also liked to write letters (you know, the old fashioned kind where you sit down with a pen and a piece of paper and laptops and laser printers are not allowed) and having the right pen, and really, a wide variety of pens for whatever mood might strike, was important. My best friend in college (Hi, S., are you reading yet?) had lovely handwriting and always decorated her envelopes (and still does). Perhaps our mutual disregard for Bics drew us together.

I bought some pens in Walmart. I bought them probably mostly for the packaging and the promise of curly, flowy letters. And I got them home, and realized that I don't like them. I don't like the way the ink comes out, and I don't like thickness of the line and I don't like the way they feel and I just don't like them. And then I really started longing for the days when I had the time to go out to the stationery store and test out pens and know which ones I really liked and which ones I didn't. I have no idea why this longing is so strong for me right now. Some weird coping mechanism to keep me from obsessing about my mother? (Good luck!) Some throwback to the fun of buying school supplies, back when school was still fun and much anticipated? Just another example of my complusive brand of perfectionism? I don't know.

All I do know is that ever since I bought those pens, I've been unhappy with them and really longing to go out and get Some Good Pens. What can I tell you? I'm not going to try to explain it except to say:

I keep thinking about my mother's handwriting and her cards. I can't really look at her handwriting yet. It's just too overwhelming for me. I have things in her handwriting that have become all the more precious, but I don't want to look at them. The day before the funeral, my aunts came to the house to see my sister and I, and one of them had something written in my mother's hand about some last items she wanted some people to have and some thoughts about the funeral. It was terrible. She whipped out the piece of paper before I knew what was going on and I looked at it, and then just about pitched over sideways.

And, in my credenza (or credenzela, I can never remember which) next to my desk I have a little silly Christmas card. I keep it there all year long. It was the last thing my grandmother ever sent me, and it means a lot to me. It's a goofy card (my grandmother was VERY FRUGAL, even to the point of washing paper plates and I kid you not about that) and all she wrote was "Love Grandmom Van Syckel" and for that it is one of my most precious keepsakes.

Handwriting. It's important. It's unique to each of us. It can invoke memories and tenderness and affection. And it's all the better if you have the right pen. And I don't.