Yesterday, I read a short blog about a woman giving birth. There was a picture of the young woman standing beside the ocean; it was simply of her belly, and then there were a few lines describing the birth. The mother was described as a warrior goddess and stronger than she knew.
So, I was sitting there, and then I was crying, just like that.
I had this unexpected moment of clarity about my anxiety and shame. I remembered again why I feel broken and dry, absurd and childish.
It's not just tied up in my memories, ready, at a moment's notice to twist my self identity back to what I learned so early; it's bound up in my womb, my flesh and blood. I didn't just learn shame and worthlessness as a girl. I had to learn it all over again as a woman.
No wonder I feel so outside of the world, so strange. I'm not passing down through all those same channels, not passing by the same landmarks. I'm off somewhere in some field, a grab bag of broken pieces, watching the clouds.
My body won't catch life like a little spark, and warmly shelter it. I'll never know how strong I could have been, in that arena.
I comfort myself with the thought that we will adopt, and I will be a mother, regardless, but I can't seem to stay emotionally connected to this. It doesn't seem real. It feels like we'll be in the adoption process indefinitely- all this year and all next year. There's nothing but this tunnel.
As far as I know, we are waiting only on Colorado's background checks to come through. They sent us back the paperwork. Between the time we had sent it, and the time they received it, their fees went up by three dollars.
So, some bureaucrat in the state of Colorado picked up their blue Bic pen, crossed out the printed fee of thirty dollars, hand wrote in thirty three dollars, stapled pink sheets to the forms, and mailed them back.
Like, holy crap. So that set us back two weeks, all for six dollars total. Spend it well, Colorado, spend it well.
And who knows, maybe there is something else we are missing. Our homestudy agent keeps asking for more medical information on Keith.
I sent her his entire medical record and pages and pages of lab results. Like, if she wants to know more about Keith's health, she going to have to ask God, because we're tapped out.
Surely this process must end. Surely the reason why I haven't heard from her is because she is satisfied with the latest installment of my husband's medical information.
A soldier from Keith's old company texted him a picture of his new baby girl. She was adorable with these chubby cheeks, huge dark eyes and dark curls held back with a ribbon. It didn't hurt to see the picture; it was a little reminder of what waits at the end of this process.
Last night I lay in bed lost in thought, until I became aware of a certain quality of silence behind me. I rolled over.
"Are you lying awake thinking about work again?" I asked Keith.
There was a pause and then a rustle of sheets as Keith drew himself up. "How do you know that?" he asked me, in amazement. "How do you know what I'm thinking?"
"It's the way you breathe."
"I was! I was lying here, just getting so angry."
Even with everything else going on, it's comforting to remind myself that I know my husband so well I can read his mind in the dark.
