I have too much to do to write.
I have to steam clean the bedroom, which always smells bad no matter how much I clean it.
I have to organize the basement and start taking down the boxes that we saved from our move here, in case we moved again.
And I should take the girls for a walk, as it is again rainy and cold, a state of affairs that usually drives those soft golfers away, leaving the playing field clear for those with heartier constitutions.
But I want to write.
Last night Keith brought up a hearty plate of his signature original cheesy nachos. This batch was comprised of a base of Cheesy Doritos with shredded cheese topped with the spaghetti sauce left over from dinner.
He settled into bed beside me with this in hand, where I was cozily ensconced, having started the second book of "The Once and Future King" and bracing myself for the seeds of tragedy, both in bed (due to cheesy foods) and book. Heh.
"Read to me," commanded himself, after having fed me a sample of his creation. It was pretty good. It didn't drop onto the sheets, which was better.
I like reading out loud, but he'd caught me at a bad moment in the story.
"You won't understand a thing," I warned him.
"That's fine," he said easily.
So I started reading aloud the exact part I was at, which most unfortunately happened to be the place where the four sons of the witch Morgause have decided to use the kitchen girl Meg to trap a unicorn and then Agravaine, moved by his rage and desire to inflict pain, races up and spears the unicorn to death.
"What?" cried my husband, sitting up, nachos forgotten. "Hold up, hold up! What the hell? What kind of sick book is this? Who kills a frickin' unicorn?"
It disturbed me too, though I was sort of prepared, having earlier read through their mother casually boiling a live cat to death in order to pass the time away.
"I mean, it's one thing to kill something, if it were a cow, I'd make me some cheeseburgers. I mean, I'm a staff sergeant in the Unites States Army, if something needs an ass kicking, I'll kick it. But to stab the thing five times? It's sick! It's a unicorn, it's the source of inspiration for all little girls! I mean, come on! Unicorns! It's what all little girls love! What kind of sick book is this?"
I was torn between love, amusement and aggravation. Mostly love; who couldn't love such a passionate, if profane, defender of the unicorn and their adoring little girls everywhere? Not this girl; this girl who went to sleep every night from the age of 3 until well into her teens with a pale yellow unicorn named (what else) "Unnie."
"It's to illustrate how cruel and amoral they are, it sets the stage for who they are when they grow up," I tried to explain.
"It's just a book," I said.
"How about I just skip ahead and read another part?" I offered.
To no avail. Though I myself am sort of dreading further developments in the book, anyone vaguely familiar with the King Arthur legends must know they are bound up with sadness.
Despite my mother in law's certainty that I was pregnant, I started my period several days back. Though I tried not to let her belief stir me up any, it did make it harder when it came. I mean, the woman put her hand on my belly when she left and said, "Bye bye, Baby!"
There is no baby in there, thank you. Thank you so much.
Lately I've been doing a lot of research on both adoption and infertility treatments. We have a time line in plan. We will do infertility treatments for a year, then we will begin adopting. We will adopt domestically, as it turns out to be very important to Keith to adopt a new born. I can very much respect that.
The only way to adopt a newborn is either through an agency or privately, though an open adoption. I prefer through an agency, which allows for the semi open adoption. We'll meet the birthmother (who will have chosen us from a data base), exchange information, etc. This makes it easier for the child to search back for their birthmother when they feel the need to, which I think is healthy and inevitable.
I don't like fully open because then it's as though the birthparents are extended family and involved a great deal. I don't know what that says about my character, but there it is.
It costs about ten thousand dollars, which includes the cost of a homestudy and the birthmother's hospital and care costs. These costs are spread out over time, sometimes payment plans can be arranged through the agency.
I would choose Bethany; I like the feel of it and they have an office in GA, which is where we'll be in two years. There are generally forty families to one birthmother, which makes creating a profile and "Dear Birthmother Letter" writing competitive.
These brings up a morass of emotions, about which I am going to be completely honest as I work through this process publicly on my blog.
I will be competing for my own child? I will "buy" my child for ten thousand dollars? I will share my child with his or her birth mother? What if I want a second child? Or a third?
I know it's not really buying, but I am exchanging a great deal of money in exchange for a child of my own. This feels somehow inherently wrong, though I understand completely the logic of it and it's a good system; the birthmother gets the care she and the child needs, I have helped out and receive the child after birth.
But still. It brings up other emotions too. Who's going to choose a military family for their child? Who says "I want my child to be a military brat?"
That's the appeal of an international adoption. It's completely closed and the foreign agencies match up family and children on a first come, first serve basis and on the basis of age (older family tend to receive older children). But the youngest a child will be is generally six months and more typically twelve. Also, the health records can be incomplete and the process literally takes years and costs between twenty and thirty thousand dollars.
It's the whole choice thing that's freaking me out. Getting pregnant naturally involves no choice over age, type, race or gender of child. That feels right to me. But adoption now means that I must choose. I must choose between age, cost, race, ethnicity and health concerns. I must choose what level of involvement the birthmother will have.
What will my choices say about myself?
Moving on. Infertility also means choice, and on a much more intense and bewildering way, especially if it's IVF. Do I choose not to implant all the fertilized embryos? How can I make that choice? It makes me sick to my stomach. I really don't want to use IVF.
The only answer is to hold tight to my faith that God has my children in hand and those children, my children, will come to me some way or another when the time is right.
So if it's through adoption, a birthmother, the one for us will come to us and it will be right and orchestrated by God. I need simply to be authentic in all my paperwork and interactions, which is my natural way of being.
But if it were just up to me, I would simply adopt an adorable little girl from South America, about two or three years old, and then a little boy a few years later. And if we get pregnant, we get pregnant. If only it were that simple.
Oh well. Back out upon the wide, wide seas of blind faith.
