Boom

Earlier this week I sent the following e-mail to Chris' worker:

Hi Miss Caseworker,

I found your e-mail address online and wanted to quickly touch base with you. O and I hope that you can help us with a couple of questions we have.

First of all, we wanted to make sure that you got our scrapbook and home study and see if you had any questions that we could answer for you.

Secondly, we wanted to see if you would share with us what Your County is thinking in regards to us being a possible placement for Chris.

While we understand that he isn't available for adoption at this point, our concern is this:

We've placed our adoption search on hold for about seven months, since Amy first approached us about raising her son. We were and are happy to do that. We adore Chris and are willing to wait almost forever for the chance to be his parents, if there is a realistic possibility that Your County will consider us for him. However, if we will not be considered for him - because we are out-of-state, or there is another family in mind for him, or for any other reason, we'd like to know that so we can contact our caseworker and restart our adoption search.

We absolutely understand that you can't predict what will ultimately happen with Amy's case, or make us any promises or guarantees of what the future holds. All we're really looking for is some assurance that if TPR is done, we will be seriously considered as an adoptive resource for Chris.

O and I would be so grateful for any light you may be able to shed on this situation or for any advice you may have for us. We look forward to hearing from you.

Thank so much.


Her response arrived just a few minutes ago. The dagger to the heart part???

If Chris does go up for adoption I have been told that we would have to first go to our non-special needs waiting list in our state for any possible families to adopt Chris. If there are none found, then we may be able to consider you as a possibility. This is part of policy that we have to follow.

Seven months of hopes and dreams blown apart with three sentences. I don't know how much more of this I can take. Truly.

Is 42 too late to take up drinking?

Three Years Ago Today

Poor foolish girl. She had no idea.

August 13, 2007

Waiting For the Stars to Fall

Since last we “met” my fingers have been burning up the keyboard as I’ve scoured the Internet looking for everything I can find on the foster-to-adopt process. There’s certainly a lot of information out there which makes a overly-researching, overly-organized girl like me very happy. But I’m sure you can guess the first thing I went in search of . . . foster-to-adopt blogs. There are plenty to be found. In fact, I plan to spend this sweltering afternoon digging in to read some of them from the beginning, following these women from where I am now to that elusive and magical place called “motherhood”.

The main thing I learned this weekend is that we have A LOT to learn, but I already feel more knowledgeable on the topic and am eager to find out more.

Yes, I definitely read some horror stories but there were so many more that had happy endings. I truly believe that we are finally on the right path to our own “happy ending”.

O and I have had several conversations over the weekend about what types of children we feel would fit best into our family. He’s having a hard time with the concept of narrowing it down. He said it feels cold – like deciding what features you want on your new car. I agree, but ultimately we have to make the call. There are definitely certain situations we would be unwilling/unable to accept, so we’re thinking and talking and trying to work it out in our own minds.

I’ve already received our introductory paperwork from the state and have it filled out. The next orientation for the 10-week GPS (Group Preparation and Selection) classes in our county is mid-September. I called the county next to ours and theirs start next Monday, so I left a message hoping that it’s not too late to join that class. I am so ready to get started. As I’ve said in previous posts, I have felt that my life has been on hold for the past year. I am ready, ready, ready to get on with it.

We had such a lovely weekend. My FIL is having his hip replaced tomorrow so I thought it would be fun to get the extended family together for a barbecue on Saturday, since he won’t feel up to a big gathering like that for a while. I turned up the radio in my kitchen and cooked all day, making all sorts of fun things. (Triple Decker Strawberry Cake with Strawberry Buttercream Frosting anyone?!?! Mmmmmm!) We had a great time. I just love when our cute little house is packed to the gills with family and friends, people wandering around visiting, kids racing in and out the back door, and me taking care of all of them.

Then last night, O and I threw a bunch of pillows and blankets into the back of his pickup and drove into one of the pastures behind our house to watch the Perseid meteor shower. It’s so beautiful back there with the heavens spread out above us and the crickets and frogs singing up a storm. As we laid there holding hands, searching the skies and talking, I couldn’t help wondering if next year when the Perseids return, we’ll have a little one tucked safely between us, waiting for the stars to fall.

For the first time in years, I can honestly say that I believe the answer to that question is “yes”, and that makes me smile.

Dreams Come to Life

When I was 15, my father took a promotion with his job and we moved to a suburb of Chicago. For this girl who’d lived her whole life in her hometown, Chicago was a BIG change. Translated: I HATED it! Even though I soon made friends and came to really like my new life, I always hoped that I’d one day walk in the front door to the news that we were moving back home. We did eventually move – to Utah. Sigh. Of course I could have chosen a home-state university and high-tailed it out of there, but my parents were there and I didn’t want to live across the country from them. So I lived in Utah for college and a decade beyond. I had great friends and a career, but I still always longed for home. For seventeen years. That dream came true for me in 2002. I’m here. I can go out into my backyard and listen to the cicadas anytime I want to. I can walk barefoot in the grass and catch lightning bugs. I can eat real barbecue. I can see dogwoods bloom in the spring and fields of white cotton in the fall. I can go anywhere and be surrounded by beautiful accents that remind me I’ve made it home.

My grandmother loved to grow things. She loved to TALK ABOUT growing things. When she had to give up her home and move into an apartment, she had windowsills filled with violets that would take your breath away. And when she no longer had those, I’d load her into the car and we’d drive through neighborhoods to see what other people were growing. My dad is the same. So many of my childhood memories are of my dad’s beautiful yards, and the time and love he put into them. And that green thumb rubbed off on me in a big way. When I moved out after college, I must have spent thousands of dollars on flowers, trying to keep them alive in less-than-ideal environments in one apartment or another. I remember so many times wandering around at the nursery and drooling over all the bloomin’ things, wishing so badly that I had a place to plant them. Even a tiny little garden spot. Now I do. I can’t look out a single window in our home without seeing the flowers and trees and bushes we’ve planted, and we have acres of room for more.

From the time I was about fifteen years old, I want to fall in love with a big ole Southern boy. I dated guys in Chicago. I dated guys in Utah. I dated guys during the couple of years I was in Atlanta. But there was a part of me that always hoped and prayed that someday the Southern man of my dreams would come and sweep me off my feet. I guess I never really thought it would happen, though. I had a great career, wonderful friends and family, and always enjoyed living in the homes I created for myself, but at night when I’d crawl into bed, I ached for him. For his love. For the life we could have together. It was a physical ache. And then one day he was there, walking into my apartment, so beautiful to me that I could only glance at him for a moment at a time. It was like looking at the sun. We’ve never looked back since that day. Engaged four months later. Married four months after that. For seven years this coming December. The only thing is, O has so far surpassed every dream I ever had about that big ole Southern boy I’d kept in my heart. I did not know that such a man existed.

There is a quote that I run across from time to time, on Facebook or in a forwarded e-mail. Of course, I can’t find it at the moment so I am about to massacre it, but it’s something along these lines:

Don’t spend your time mourning what you don’t have, because the things you DO have were once your heart’s greatest desires.

I am struck by the sentiment every time I see it.

It reminds me that child or no child, every minute of my life is beautifully touched by my dreams come to life. And I don’t want to ever, ever forget it.

Magic

Proof that at "The World's Largest Yard Sale", there can always be a magical treasure hiding amongst the junk.

And speaking of magic, tonight O and I are loading the pickup truck with blankets and pillows and driving far out into our pasture to watch the Perseid meteor shower. One guess as to what I'll be wishing for on all those "shooting stars".

Seven on Sunday

1. What a wonderful few days I’ve had. O took off work and we drove into Tennessee and Kentucky to attend ******wait for it******** “The World’s Longest Yard Sale”. I’d been once before we were married and had gone alone. Never never go alone. Just a couple of hours into my solo journey and I was a nervous wreck. People popping out of nowhere running across streets, cars pulling out and backing up and slamming on brakes with absolutely no notice, trying to drive slowly by sales to see if you want to stop. Chaos! Then last year O & I went together and it was so much better. He watched the road and I watched the sales and we had a good time. So this year, despite scorching temps we decided to hit the road once more. I am proud to say that there were no heat strokes, no fender benders, no trips or falls, and no use of the porta potties scattered along the route. 100 degree temps + 85 % humidity + thousands of people = NO PORTA POTTIES for this girl. No sirree Robert. I bought one treasure – a 1940’s cast iron painted Santa doorstop. The rest of the time, O and I rode and talked and laughed and were amazed by the sheer amount of crap that people actually thought other people would buy.

2. On Friday morning when we were leaving our hotel in scenic Cave City KY, I happened to see a brochure for Santa Claus Indiana. We were unsure as to our plan for the day until that moment, when I got my heart set on a visit to Santa Claus. Loved it, though we weren’t able to stay long. I did get a good shot of my sainted husband in front of the Christmas store in town, though. I love him so.

3. Yesterday morning by half-brother, sister-in-law and their kids were driving through the area on their way to the beach, so we had brunch with them and my parents. It made me happy to see my beautiful growing nieces. I wish they lived closer.

4. Tomorrow morning, my mommy is having some outpatient surgery to remove a spot on her jawline. There is only a 5% chance that it’s cancer, but this is literally the first time she’s ever been “sick”, so the thought of her being under anesthesia for any length of time has me nervous. She struggles with severe anxiety on a pretty regular basis, too, so this has been really hard on her. O and I are going over to Big City in the morning to meet her and Dad. O will be taking my beloved (but not necessarily doting) father to "guy around" while I take care of the mama. Please keep a good thought for her.

5. I might have made a crack on my last blog post about Mark’s SW - something along the lines of “Mark’s caseworker might just go crazy and actually respond to an e-mail or return a phone call”. Within minutes of hitting the “post” button, I checked my inbox and there was an e-mail from her. No news, of course, except that the next court date is set for mid-September, but she responded – she actually responded.

6. Blog reader (and now friend) Teresa e-mailed and asked if I’d ever made a decision on being a CA*SA volunteer. I asked our SW and she asked her supervisor and the answer was basically this: I am welcomed to do that, but we could not be considered as a foster or adoptive resource for a child whose case I had ever worked on. This is not a huge county, so the “pool” of available children isn’t that large. Since our top priority is adopting, we can’t risk that my involvement with a child’s case could work against us somewhere down the road. So for now, being a CAS*A volunteer has to go onto the back burner.

7. Let me preface this by saying that I am an uncaring ass*ole, but I have zero patience for a family member who has recently started bemoaning what she anticipates will be her secondary infertility. Why don’t you go chase your cherubic toothless toddling bundle of love and get away from me while you’re at it? Mmmkay?!?!

Monday Monday

It wasn’t too long ago that I’d looked forward to Monday morning. Its’ arrival meant a brand new work week where anything could happen. We might hear of a positive development in the Amy/Chris saga. Mark’s caseworker might just go crazy and actually respond to an e-mail or return a phone call. Or we might hear about an entirely new child who is available for adoption somewhere in the state. The new workweek held all kinds of possibility.

Except that most weeks, if there are any developments in the Amy/Chris saga, they aren’t good. And Mark’s caseworker can’t seem to communicate with us to save her life. And we haven’t received a phone call about a child available for adoption since Smiley back in January.

Which makes for a might long week. And month. And year, for that matter.

Ghost In This House

Since I was a little girl, I’ve always loved anything to do with ghosts.

I soaked up every word of the scary stories told around the campfire at Girl Scout camp. I read every one of Kathryn Tucker Wyndham’s books of spooky tales. I saw “Poltergeist” with my mom and cousins at the theater when I was fourteen - scared the crap out of me. I’ve been on ghost walk tours in Gettysburg and Savannah, and have stayed in purportedly haunted inns in several states. If I flip by a ghost-themed “reality” program on TV, I’m probably going to watch it.

Do I truly believe in ghosts? Well, yes I guess I do. But you shouldn’t ever expect to find me prowling through cemeteries or old abandoned buildings looking for things that go bump in the night. Some things are better left alone – by me at least.

But I realized last week that we have a ghost of our own.

Even all these months later, I still get occasional “glimpses” of Mark.

I clean out a closet in our guest room and find never-opened box of learning CDs that arrived after we last saw him.

I pull out one of my cutting boards to chop up some veggies for a salad and his Sesame Street placemat tucked in behind it falls onto the floor.

I go out into the backyard and the empty sandbox I usually don’t see jumps right out at me.

I walk past his room and my eyes go to the chair still sitting beside his bed, waiting for me to tuck him in, read him stories, and sing him to sleep. Oh how I loved singing him to sleep.

I go to change my tablecloth and underneath, the plastic liner protecting the table is stained by paint and markers from our daily art projects.

I drive past the billboard advertising the huge kids’ clothing consignment sale coming up and remember the last one, where I nearly filled the trunk of my car with clothes for him, and how cute he looked in them.

I look at my car’s passenger side window and if the light is just right, I can still see his little grimy fingerprints. I can’t bring myself to clean them off.

I open the desk drawer that’s filled with this year’s photos and quickly slam it shut like there’s a rattlesnake waiting to strike.

And this past Friday as I was cleaning my kitchen floor, I found a teeny tiny bit of orange construction paper, cut months ago by Mark and his brand new safety scissors and hiding somewhere all this time, waiting to steal my breath away for just a moment.

I don’t know how to rid our home of this particular ghost - if I can or if I’d even want to. But I do know that these glimpses of his “presence” aren’t getting any easier.

I wish he was here – flesh and blood. I think I always will.