It’s been almost a year to the day since our home study was “completed” and sent to the state for approval. The subsequent three hundred some odd days have been the biggest rollercoaster of my life.
Here we are nearly twelve months later and still the worker at the state office does not have what she needs to either say “yea” or “nay” to us as adoptive parents. She’s apparently close, but close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. Isn’t that what they say?
(I never thought I’d use the word “grenade” in my blog, by the way.)
This morning I considered looking back through the last year’s worth of my posts but just couldn’t bring myself to do it. Even as O and I had a wonderful year filled with unforgettable memories, there was this situation always running in the background like really awful elevator music. As it relates to the foster/adoption process, this has been a year of the "highs" of tremendous hope and promise consistently dashed by unbelievable frustration, anger, and pain. Yet hope always seems to rise to the surface when all is said and done.
I’m back in that place – the scary, vulnerable place of hope.
There is a child O and I are interested in. Beyond interested. There’s been no contact with the child’s SW at this point. TPR has not been done, but there is a strong expectation that it will happen in the next few months. When it happens, we want to be considered for this little one. Truth be told, we want to bring the child here to live with us forever and be "Mom" and "Dad".
So I have sent an urgent e-mail to our new worker nearly begging her to get the person at the state office whatever she still needs so that when/if this child does become available for adoption, we are good to go.
Last night I wandered into our child’s room and sat down on the floor. As I wrote about recently, it’s been a place I’ve avoided for a long time. It's just been too painful to be in there.
But this time was different.
I could close my eyes and actually believe that we WILL have a child rummaging through that bookcase looking for bedtime stories one day. I could imagine tucking someone into bed and pulling that bright colorful quilt up to their chin. I could almost hear the slap of little feet running across the hardwood floor.
Yes, this particular roller coaster ride has been horrible thus far. If I’d paid money for it, I’m afraid I’d have to find customer service and ask for a big fat refund.
But here I am, still firmly strapped into the seat and throwing my hands up in the air yet again. I'm willing to see where the ride takes us because wherever he or she is at this very moment, I'm already in love with our child.
