Sometimes, when I write that, I imagine the dreamy country chords begin to play, and Conway Twitty start to croon. Only, he drawls, so deep and slow:
"Hello, darlin'. Nice to see ya."
Why do I imagine this? Because I married Keith, that's why.
So I'm trying to move this whole adoption thing forward but each time I do, the paperwork multiplies like rabbits. It happens before my very eyes, like a terrible magic trick, from an uninvited, cranky magician.
Our home study must be reviewed by our adoption agency, which is a step I did not really clue into until this late date.
Now that I am, I realize that everything is the wrong form, the wrong number of forms, or missing entirely.
Happily, my adoption specialist called me and helped me sort through things, but I think tomorrow I will have to be on a conference call with the adoption specialist and the home study agent.
For a girl that hates phones, that is a terrifying prospect.
What's worse than one phone call from an agent that you don't know well that is going to determine whether or not you become a mother?
How about a phone call with two such agents!!
And here I was thinking that from here on out, it was all baby bottles and day dreams while waiting for the call that tells us We Have Been Chosen.
Not so much.
Also, they need more money. A lot more money, and more reference letters and eventually, reels and reels of raw video footage that they will transform into an "emotive, visual story."
Sounds horrifying, but I will acquiesce and try to smile for the camera from multiple different angles while baring my heart to the video equipment, under strong, natural light with a minimum of background noise.
My mantra is: At the end of this, there is a baby.
A baby that will be coming home with Keith and I, and wear the cute little onesies and use the bottles and soil the sheets and generally make a lot of commotion and throw the entire Indiana household in a delicious uproar, about which I will complain, proudly.
In the meantime I will carry on, conference call and all.