I look forward to this weekend each year. O plays in the club tournament at his golf course, and I get my boxes of fall decorations out of the closet and go to town. Never mind that it's usually 90+ degrees outside. And that autumn is still a ways away. Today I splashed fall from one end of my house to the other. It is officially overly-decorated. (Frankly, it looks like autumn threw up in here.) I love it.
The last few years I’ve marked the passing of time in our quest to become parents by these little bits of fall color I reach for each August.
I remember getting all this stuff out about four years ago and wondering if the next time I opened those boxes, we’d have a little one in our home or if I’d at least be pregnant.
I remember putting away the fall leaves and pumpkins and bittersweet vines two years ago, thinking, “We just finished our foster/adopt classes! Surely we’ll have a little one by this time next year.” Talk about anticipation!
Last year, I suspect I was flinging pumpkins hither and yon, just trying not to think about how much I loathed our worker, her supervisor, and the entire foster/adoption process.
But this year was different. As I hauled the banker’s boxes into the front room and began to unpack my treasures, a couple of things crossed my mind.
I wondered if we might not have a child in our home by the time these fall colors were packed away in about three months. We have a couple of irons in the fire – nothing concrete of course, but maybe . . . just maybe.
I also thought that if we didn’t have a child come next August when the boxes came out of hiding again, that we probably never would, and believe it or not I’m good with that.
So I guess it remains to be seen.
This time next year will most of my decorations remain safely in boxes, away from little toddler fingers?
Will an older child dip into my box of fall goodies and scurry off with an armful of color to decorate his/her room?
Or will I spend the afternoon as I did today . . . with a scary movie running in the background (“Signs” was today’s choice), thoughtfully trying to decide where each and every wreath and pumpkin and vine would look best, waiting for O to come home and tell me how pretty it looks?
I really don’t know, but I suspect that these coming 365 days will tell the tale. And Heaven knows I’m more than ready for this tale to be told, one way or another. But the nicest part?
All three options make me happy.
