Round Enjoyable Healthy Comfortable Slimy

Sorry for the lull. The holidays kept me busy. And when I wasn’t busy, I was napping on the couch.

So, it seems that even if I am incredibly dangerous when it comes to cooking (I left the basting brush in the roasting pan and we had Chicken A La Plastique for dinner. I mean, the brush actually melted into nasty white gummy plastic rivulets that coated the bottom of the pan it was so bad. And just to be clear, the melted plastic didn’t actually touch the chicken – but still… And the Brooklyn Fam was so nice, and sweet and uncomplaining that they insisted on eating the bird anyway and even said it tasted good. And Brooklyn Dad gallantly admitted he might be partially to blame for my tragic mistake because of the way he so ever so diligently kept my wine glass topped off while I cooked) I can count on Mother Nature to be at her best for the Brooklyn Family. The first time they came up, Brooklyn Mama got to stand in my backyard and watch a dozen shooting stars fizz through a perfect night sky, and this time, that self same sky opened up and dumped a good six inches of perfectly fluffy, sticky, snowman/ball/arch/fort/reindeer-rabbit-whatever- it-was-that-Brooklyn-Mama-sculpted while-the-rest –of-us-barbarians-pelted-each-other-with-snow-snow on the ground. That great kind of snow that sticks to trees and makes cute little cones on top of the fence posts. It was very picture perfect. And I think it was a sign – just like the shooting stars – that Mother Nature wants the Brooklyn Family to move up here. That it is meant to be. And even if Mother Nature could care less – well, Spike wants Ping to move up here, so that should be good enough, right?

So, New Years was fondue (both cheese and chocolate) and sparklers and champagne and confusing the neighbors by banging pots and pans an hour early because we didn’t think Ping would make midnight (didn’t fool her at all. She knew she was missing The Real Thing. But she was nice about it and went to sleep anyway). And our visit was lots of late night in front of the fire venting about The Wait, and Hollywood gossip, and watching the kids dance wildly to Outkast, and make couch cushion forts, and this giant coffee cake that the Brooklyn Family brought and which I seriously had to control myself from inhaling in its entirety after I had my first piece (and I only managed to do that because Brooklyn Mama was sitting directly across from me and I couldn’t bear to think she’d always remember this visit as the time Maia ate an entire giant cake in one sitting) and never ending games of Apples to Apples (hence the title of this post) and a close reading of The Miss America Cookbook (complete with an excellent recipe for Green Pepper Jelly). What more could we ask for?

And there is definitely comfort in knowing someone who is going through the exact same miserable wait as you are – worrying together about our babies across the world – wondering when we will ever get the news we’ve been waiting on for way too long now, feeling apprehensive about parenting a second time, and yet still wanting nothing so much as we want to hold our new baby girls in our arms.

This wait is starting to really hurt lately, people. And I know I’m replaying the same old tune over and over – but it’s a strange sensation to feel like the closer we get, the more things slip away. When we first entered this program, we were told that it would be faster than the regular program (and don’t get me wrong, it’s still totally faster than the wait in the Traditional program. I don’t think we’re counting this thing in years, people) but at this point we’re coming up on something very close to the regular SN program – and we still don’t know when we’ll be cleared to travel – or even get our Letter Of Approval. And it’s nobody’s fault – our agency is fantastic, and I know they’re sweating over this just like we are, and I’m sure the folks in China want it all to happen as fast as possible, too, but for whatever reason – we’re still waiting. And every day that passes rubs that wound a little more raw for me. Because I want my girl home. I want this new part of my life to start.

I turn 35 next week. Yes. It’s true – Elvis, David Bowie, Butterfly McQueen, and I share a birthday. And in most ways, things are better than I could ever ask for. Not only do I have all that uber stuff – my good health, a loving and lovely mate, fantastic kids, a big, warm family, great friends – but the other stuff is good, too. We’re financially sound, we live in a beautiful house in a beautiful place, my work is totally fun and eventually will be extremely lucrative, I have a nice dog and three nice cats, I still cut a presentably comely figure when I need to… the roses in my garden really bloom, you know? And I regularly count my blessings. I honestly do. But I also feel like I’ve been on the verge of so many things lately – just teetering on the edge of change – and though I try to simply enjoy the now – appreciate how nice the moment really is – the simple act of waiting is starting to wear me down.

And I know all the tricks - admiring what I already have, getting quasi-mystical about things (it’s taking this long because I have to learn to…/meet this person…/deal with this situation…/buy another dress for Little F…. It’s supposed to happen this way!) focusing on my work, keeping myself busy... I get it, I get it. But even those things can’t always make up for the fact that I go to sleep thinking of this little face – this face that is so far away from me - and who really needs what I am so ready to give her. I am going to love this child so fiercely. I am going to do my best to keep her warm and safe and happy. To let her feel that love. And I know she’s not in a bad place – I know there are people who are taking care of her – that she is doing okay. I know that. But she needs more than what she is being given right now. Because any child in her situation would. I know that in the depths of my Mother Soul. And so, the wait grinds me down. Leaves me sad. Worries me. Wears away at my patience. And I know that everyone says that it will be forgotten once she is here – just like the pain of childbirth – all this agony disappears and suddenly it’s all butterflies and twinkly sequins and raspberry marshmallow fondue - but you know what? I gave birth to a ten pound baby – no epidural – and if you think I don’t remember what that felt like - you’re crazy. I’m not going to forget this. I’m not going to forget the missing days – this time and separation between us that I will never be able to change. And I worry that I will never get over the feeling that her in between time – the time between her First Family and Us – might have left her with a little piece of something inconsolable. Because every child should feel like she is the center of someone’s world – every baby should feel like she can call and be answered - and right now I’m not so sure that she does.

I didn’t mean to veer so far to the angry/worried/longing side of things – but let’s face it, scratch my surface these days and that’s what you get. I’m a walking mass of mother love and worry with no proper release. I mean, I’m just a monkey under the skin – needing to hold my baby close and smell her and nibble on her and pick through her fur, so I can feel like things are right again. That’s what we do. That’s what we really are. That’s what we need.

Ryan bought me an antique trough for Christmas. And there is something awfully eloquent and spot on for me about a big empty vessel that exists to be filled. And there is also no denying that it looks awfully like a cradle.