Changing seasons

Yesterday, the last day of winter—
Minutes after my forlorn little blog post, I was sitting on my front porch with Moxie, pausing after our stroller walk, when completely out of the blue, she projectile-vomited, twice, with a force so powerful I later had to clean the INSIDE of a closed wooden chest which holds our shoes. As I sat there in astonishment, at the epicenter of the spew, I stripped mucky Moxie down and yelled for help from Rob, who just happened to be in the house at the time. Careful to keep his feet on dry land, he laughingly reached across the gorge and rescued our little puker from the great puddle that was once my lap. He kept on laughing as he took her into the bedroom to change her diaper and get her comfortably pajama-ed while I took care of the damage.

About the time I got the floor mopped up and the furniture clean I heard a loud exclamation. Still covered with barf, I ran in to find Rob hunched over a naked, startled baby Moxie on our bed, and pulling all four corners of her changing pad up around her. He was paralyzed. I knew exactly what had happened. "Geyser?" I asked. "She's in a pool of pee!" he cried desperately. "Grab something! Help!" I brought in a towel. We managed to make a less than devastating transfer; the bed only got wet on his side. Heh.

So this was a first—it was Moxie's first complex blowout. I know there's still room for another level of achievement, but hey, a 2-in-1 is impressive. And a funny way to conclude Mama's bout of personal melancholy.

Today, the first day of spring—
I got the last paper, a medical form, filled out and signed and turned in to the agency. There's nothing more to do now except drive to the courthouse Monday with my people, pay some legal fees, stand before the judge and smile and cry as he pronounces us a legal family. WHAT!

Moxie and I went a-thrifting, and found us each a good outfit to wear to court on Monday, and only spent $12. Hey!

Rob and Moxie and I attended the annual Book Collectors' Conference luncheon at BYU. Rob prints their keepsake every year, and this year he also taught a workshop on lino cuts. It was nice to see some friendly familiar faces, and to introduce them to our little party crasher.

We three spent the afternoon together. We visited the South Valley pound and pondered dog ownership AGAIN, considered adopting a hulking backyard bunny that looked like a dalmation, and watched with great interest as a prison inmate and one of the medical staff chased down a hellcat that flew out of its cage when someone opened the door to refresh its water. Have you ever watched an angry cat go insane escaping and run up walls?

We went on a ramble down Spanish Fork way. First, we got hooked by a promising sign that said HUGE ESTATE SALE and gave directions. We drove and drove, following more signs in this series, and after about a dozen arrows and maybe that many meandering miles, we found ourselves in Woodland Hills, up against the mountain. A nice place, forested, with a beautiful view and some good houses. But the estate sale? Cruddy leather couches, an old Pfaff, lampshades and worn out Mormon vinyl lps: Osmonds, MoTabs, Carpenters. Lots of beige and plaid. We were duped! But it was fun anticipating the treasures we didn't find. And it was interesting exploring that area.

We found an antique store we hadn't been in for some years, bought a small cheerful treasure. Discovered that Moxie seems to like creepy old dolls. Anything with a face, maybe, but the antique dollies appeared to capture her interest most. What does it mean? We'll have to pay a visit to Cat's Cradle Antiques soon to test her tolerance.

Finished off our time with BYU Creamery burgers and fries then headed for home. Rob and Moxie were both such great company today. Our little girl was bright and in great spirits all day and we all laughed together a lot. The world is beautiful right now with all its blooming and bursting. The only downside to this kind of fun day is that it has to end—Rob has to work late, and Moxie is peeved that she is called upon to sleep. Oh well, still worth it. A few rounds of reading, singing, fighting against the zzzs, succumbing, waking, crying and yelling, and I got her settled, for the night, finally, with kisses and promises that we'll have another day in a few hours.

I worked on a project while my people both worked on their own, and at the end of my day, I dipped into my "creative account" and ordered two instruments online. If you're still reading this travelogue, can you guess what they are?

It was a good first day of a new season. It feels like a party when the world begins coming to life. Makes me want to sing. Or make something sing.

Around my heart in 181 days

This is fun:

http://www.timeanddate.com/date/duration.html

I always liked playing with calculators. My folks bought me a fancy one for high school that did all sorts of great higher math tricks, plus it could spell—it was during the time when it was a popular game to make words out of numbers. Did anyone else do this, or am I the only one who geeked out making a Texas Instruments Scientific say HELLO?

Key in 0.7734 and turn your calculator upside down. See? Fun. Sadly, this probably won't work with your smartphone, but if you can find an old calculator in your parents' junk drawer, you can teach it to say words like hillbillies, legless, oozes, and—hey!—even my name, Geo.

Here's a list of possibilities to get you started:

http://www.presentandcorrect.com/blog/250-words-you-can-spell-with-a-calculator

So there's this beautiful baby in my life—my ladyfriend, my small woman, my seedling, my Mighty Mox, my daughter. I wake her up in the morning and she smiles hilariously. I spend the day feeding and caring for her, teaching her, playing with her, and trying to solve the great puzzle of mothering, and she accepts many of my efforts. I sing her to sleep at night, poor little thing! She practices talking (through a megaphone?) in the middle of the night. She is a funny, intelligent, delightful creature. And today she turned six months old! That's 181 days! I've been there for every one so far. She's circled my heart countless times since September and I am bound, captured. It's joy to love this child and to watch her become herself. I do not have words to express the depth of gratitude I feel for the opportunity to be a wife and mother. I'm glad my husband and I are making this journey together.

Next Monday morning, Rob and Moxie and I will go to court and be able to finalize this adoption. We thought we were going to have to wait till late April, but we just learned that we can shave a month off that expectation. Standing before the judge will be a small moment, but one that changes history for all of us, forever.

This is a great age, six months. There's so much discovery. I'm amazed at the rapid, solid way little humans grow and learn. Moxie's projects today were, with my help, practicing pulling herself up to sitting and balancing, and, without my help, finding new items to snatch while playing in her walker. Yesterday it was just a dish towel that hung on the fridge door. Today it was the dish towel, an outgoing box of thrift store donations, magazines, books, and her daddy's bathrobe. Luckily, I got to the bathroom garbage can before she did. I'm surprised to have to start babyproofing so early, but hey, it just means she's becoming capable and independent, right? Naps and spoons are becoming more familiar. Drinking (or something like it) from our water glasses, and tongue-scrubs are favorite fascinations. Nose-wiping results in thrashing wails, but the nose-sucker, now that's entertainment. I give her a chance at the piano most days, while she sits on my lap. Today she attacked the keys with enormous enthusiasm, giving them her best pounding yet and throwing her whole little force into making those sounds. She likes to dance with me and ride around on me, supervising and grabbing at whatever I lay my hands to. She gets excited about books as well and would like to devour them.

This is typical; all babies do these kinds of things. But HOW INCREDIBLE IS IT THAT I, OF ALL PEOPLE, GET TO BE HERE, EXPERIENCING THIS. My mind is forever blown and I want to savor all of it I can.

I can't count as high as my amazement. I'm going to need one powerful calculator to help me add up all the good words: belle, bibs, blesses, bliss.

Mother bear

It may be too soon for you to tell, but I'm doing a daily photo challenge, CY365. It's fun to have a go at the prompts; I feel free to interpret them as loosely as I like. Today the prompt was FUR. I had an image in my mind, a shot of one of our microphones with the blimp--the fur cover that acts as a buffer against wind. The day took on a different shape than I'd anticipated and I never got that picture. 

I did, however, snap this quick image while bouncing and entertaining a new little friend today. I don't know how her mama would feel about naming her here so I'll just call her Peach Noggin. She herself had a kind of soft electrified fur on her head. As for me, today I was keenly aware of my furry sense of mother bearness. Peach Noggin's mama, whom I will call The Phoenix, and I share a mutual friend and we met while supporting this dear friend during a particularly rough trial. 

The Phoenix and I took to each other quickly that day. She told me about her years of suffering terrible abuses at home and in a circus of foster homes, before she finally sought and won her legal emancipation as a minor. She's tough and loving and honest, a great soul. Put out by the stories of unkind, unhealthy people, I told her that, sheesh, I'd be willing to adopt her myself and she accepted the offer with enthusiasm and good humor. Today she drove 3 or 4 hours total just to come and visit, to meet her new dad(!), and to show off Peach Noggin, who very obviously has a beautiful big soul like The Phoenix. 

Why isn't it the least bit weird to have a person who's a quarter of a century old calling me (mostly, tentatively) Mom, or unabashedly referring to us as Peach Noggin's new gramma and grampa? We haven't been married THAT long! But what a purposeful piece of sweetness. I feel guided to these relationships and I embrace this new chance to love and protect, fiercely. 

Don't let me catch you messing with my cubs, if you know what's good for you. Not these cubs nor any of  my others.

All things being equal

Equinox, a moment of balance. It came and went this morning at 9:03 a.m., while I was doing my morning study and meditating on personal liberty. Apropos.

The spirit of balance lingered today. I celebrated the even divide between dark and light by driving south with family for our annual grape-picking excursion at the home of some friends. Delicious green Himrods, those Utah beauties—oh! Soon my kitchen will be filled with the aroma of steaming grapes, and then we'll have the first provident bottles of 2011 ready to line the shelves of our pantry. I love the harvest season. And it's especially nice to begin refilling the coffers on a day of celestial balance.

On the drive down to Salem, I sat in the middle row of seats in my sister-in-law's van, next to my darling nephew, 3yo Finn. He announced to me happily, out of the blue, "Ga-ga, I KNOW you're gonna have a baby!" It seemed like all the grownups in the vehicle stopped breathing for a couple seconds, but maybe that was just me. I'm pretty sure this wasn't something Finn had heard from his parents, but I could be wrong about that too. Wherever it came from, I just laughed and accepted it. Why not? Who would know better than Finn? And who am I to doubt such an intelligent fellow? He made his powerful assertion again a little later: "Ga-ga, I KNOW you're gonna have a baby!" And then went on to describe to me how much he loves babies and likes to hold them, and I decided I would be very glad for him to hold mine once I have her... or find her... or him... or them... or... however this thing's going to happen. But I have it on good authority now; I'm gonna get one. Finn says.

Last year when we went grape-picking I was the beneficiary of another magical sentence, shared with me in a whisper while little arms were wrapped around my neck, a secret from my niece, Scout. Since it was a secret I won't share it, but it was a lovely shaft of light that came in through my ear and went straight into my heart to burn there all these months. I appreciate the tiny shiny voices of these people I love so much. I treasure their gifts and don't minimize them the least bit.

After today I'll be in my last week of my month-long garden detox diet. I took a Mason jar full of green smoothie with me grape-picking: it was lunch, if you use your imagination. There was enough that I gave everybody who was brave enough to try it a taste. Finn wanted a drink of it, so I helped him tip up the heavy jar and when it came down, he was wearing a Kermit green moustache. Ha! After his second swig, his moustache had grown into a perfect half-circle of swamp nog, plus a bright green unibrow from pressing the messy jar against his face. Pretty hilarious. I grabbed my camera but before I could shoot he'd sleeved his cheeks and was focused on the next part of lunch. (That green unibrow dried in place though, I'm tickled to report.) Scout saw me trying for a Kodak moment, so she obliged by taking her own big drink of my stuff and modeling the latest in lip fashion:

"Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication." —Leonardo da Vinci

Little Lap Dog Lullaby and so on

Listen to this new music. Way to make me more kid-hungry, NPR!

I'm pretty excited to hear the rest of Laura Viers and Tucker Martine's newest collaboration. Promises to be a sweet dip into the American songbag featuring lots of other great musicians. (Béla Fleck? I'm in for sure.)

So May I Introduce to You the Act I've Known for All These Years

Sgt. Robert's lovely free verse poems.

I'm very proud of my dearest friend. I couldn't be prouder of him if he was reading tonight on that prestigious stage in NYC, and enjoying the trip that almost was. His sensitivity and talent shine and I applaud him as adoringly as any slick city audience could, and more. I just hope he isn't quietly disappointed somewhere down deep inside by this crowd of only one, and that one not too smartly dressed for the occasion.

Congratulations, Rob, on making a beautiful contribution to what I hope was a perfect evening for our friends, the Lunatics.

About a Plant

Here we are, almost two years ago, just after learning I was pregnant again. Happy, thankful people.

A short time later we traveled to SoCal to spend some time with my dear uncle, who was in the process of wrapping up his mortal sojourn.

One day Rob and I went to the beach with my cousin. We went out onto the big pier and watched people fish and throw mackerel to the seals. (It isn't called Seal Beach for nothing.)

Later we poked around in a few shops downtown. My cousin bought a gigantic fake diamond for his wife, a piece of cut glass large enough to fill up my hand. 

There was nothing for sale that enticed me (except when we stopped in an Italian deli which nearly overpowered my will with its wall of olives) until we came upon a beautiful little open air garden shop. So many gorgeous growing things. I think Rob and my cousin Brett grew an inch of beard standing around, waiting for me to look at every last flower and succulent in the place. Twice. When I left, I had in tow a panda plant,

a few rescued pearls from a string of beads plant,

and a plant which is the one I want to tell you about. It's known as a mother plant.

This is the one I loved the best. Is it any wonder that I wanted to buy a mother plant to celebrate our big (but still secret at that point) joy? This plant is the succulent equivalent of a possom, carrying its "babies" till they're mature enough to drop to the ground and make it on their own. See the spiky edges of each leaf? Comfy lodging for a baby on each of those points. This kind of plant is so pretty to see when it's fruitfully full of its tiny riders. 

So, when our stay in Seal Beach reached an end, I carefully packed up my mother plant and the others and brought them all safely home to Utah. 

I expected to share some real maternal solidarity with the mother plant in the months ahead, but it wasn't meant to be. In the early summer I miscarried the baby I'd been so sure about. It was devastating. And the mother plant suffered. I never out and out tried to kill the plant, but I neglected it like I'd never neglected any other in my life. It remained in its tiny starter pot, with only the merest plug of soil to protect and sustain it. It dried out. Its babies died and it dropped most of its leaves. It stretched desperately toward light, toward any kind of nurturing, and grew spindly. It became deformed, almost two feet of thin green crisis. I might have watered it a few times (or Rob might have) in the beginning, a nickel's worth of a drink, only enough to be insulting. Then the soil really dried out, hard. The mother plant fell over and got pushed behind a junk pile. I never really forgot it; I began to ignore it. The sight of it depressed me but I couldn't persuade myself to throw it away... or take care of it either.

This non-story goes on and on. Months, many months passed. During those months Rob and I began working through the long process of preparing for an adoption through an agency, LDS Family Services. You'd think, wouldn't you, that I'd have made my peace with the mother plant then? Nope. Despite my own renewed pursuit of motherhood (possomhood?), the mother plant suffered on. 

Now Rob and I are facing a deadline that's less than two months away; we must complete our preparations so that once and for all we can qualify to become viable candidates for adoption. Do you know what people mean when they say they've been on an emotional roller coaster ride? I do. I'd like to say I've done nothing but push on diligently toward our goal for ten months, but I admit I stalled out here and there, scared and unsure, about irrational stuff. Or maybe rational stuff, depending upon how you look at it, but still irrelevant if you factor in faith. Yeah, what about miracles?

For instance, here's one: that crazy mother plant lives on. It's not a zombie, not undead; it's alive! It's been devastated, but it hangs on. It doesn't even seem to hate me. If my life was a Hitchcock film, or maybe a Kubrick, the mother plant would have strangled me in the night long ago, wrapped its horrible glow-in-the-dark tough skinniness around my neck and choked. But this show's got a finer director, so rather than whomping me with Mother Nature's curse, this little mother plant has shown me that survival is what we're made for. 

So March Forth, my very own holiday, came. A lot of good things happened that day, which I mentioned in my last post. The event that seemed the most celebratory and symbolic was finally caring for my mama possum plant. It felt like time, time to march forth in mothering and peacemaking. I found in our storage shed a pretty pot, never before used, and a new bag of potting mix. I put a magical rock from the day's hike in the bottom to cover the drainage hole. I kissed and clipped that mother plant. I cut her down again, and again, with my sharpest knife and steadiest hand, till there seemed to be almost nothing left of her. Then I carefully planted and watered her, and decorated her new home with more magical rocks and remnants of a beautiful old wall in Salt Lake, and set her on my favorite old plate to catch the extra water.

This is a lot of talk about a plant, isn't it?

The mother plant was curled and bent when I planted it two days ago. Today it's standing straight (already!) and that's an encouraging sight. I'm doting: Need a mist, love? Here you go! Such a forgiving thing, this plant. How did it go on so long in the face of my grudge and manage to survive on air? How? 

I have a habit of looking for symbols everywhere. Maybe I'm projecting too much onto this plant. Whatever happens with my own mothering, I'm through with killing-by-degrees this eager green life. I'm hoping it will soon feel well enough to possum up and make a few happy vigorous babies. If anybody wants a succulent start, I can certainly vouch for the strength of the stock. 

Reaffirming My Position

I tell you it will happen. 

I don't claim to know how or when, but they are coming. I'm not crazy. Wait and see. Migraines pass and the blur of tired vision clears. Hope and hot water bottles prevail. 

A rather long ramble about listening

Yesterday I was given the opportunity to speak briefly to a group of women about the beauty of storytelling as family history. Oral tradition. Asking, remembering, speaking, hearing, sharing—all aspects of listening. In preparation for the assignment I dug out some old family recordings—one I made of my grandmother singing, back when I was just 8 and trying out my first cassette recorder; another I made of her answering my awkward interview questions, 32 years later; and a cassette my mother recorded for me a few years after I'd left home—a Southern story, to honor Christmas—the only piece of her voice I have left. The first two I mentioned made me laugh out loud and got me singing and sniffling. My mama's tape wiped me out less than a sentence into the thing. It's incredible how powerful just the sound of someone's voice can be. I couldn't listen to Mama's tape yesterday and still be able to concentrate on getting ready for my little class. So, I stuck with Gram's singing and drawling, and the tracks I played for the women to introduce my topic seemed to charm them all. 

Yesterday I also blogged that I'd like to hear your adoption stories; I'd like to even begin recording them next month, if possible. (By the way, did you know that November is National Adoption Month? Neither did I till today. Synchronicity. Must mean I'm on the right track with this idea.) I am thrilled that a few people have responded, writing bits of their own and others' stories. I hope that some will feel brave and interested enough to share their voices as well. 

Today Rob and I spent three straight hours with a friend, recording him at the outset of what is already proving a strange and romantic international quest for... well, I'm sworn to secrecy for the time being, but I'm hoping some day to persuade him to let me write the screenplay once he's survived and recovered from his journey, has (hopefully) come off conqueror, and feels ready to share his secret and sell the movie rights. 

This evening Rob and I visited our favorite local library and came home as usual with unreadably large armloads of books. (I was trying, on my way out to the car, to imagine how many thousands of pounds of books I've checked out and carried off in my lifetime. I hope when I die I'll get the answer to that question. One of the books Rob happened to spot was a book on music that is really a book about listening. It spoke to me before I even cracked the cover: I love you. You love me. Buy me for your li-bra-ry. Then I read the intro and first essay. Yes, indeed. I already know who's getting this book for Christmas. What I love about it is that right away it started in talking to me about something I've been fuzzling over a while: Why do some people seem so unable or unwilling to listen? And no, I won't exempt myself from the question; sometimes I am guilty of being the non-listener. If it wasn't late and I wasn't writing from my bed with my mama's quilt thrown over me and my laptop, I'd be mining and including some quotes from the book right now.

I am excited to help my sister-in-law and two friends record some oral history in a few weeks. The more listening and facilitating I do, the more I want to do. Rob has started calling us recordists. I've suggested sound hunters, and that applies sometimes, but it seems that we are merely becoming listeners. Nobody's paying us to do this yet(?), and really, I almost feel I should be paying others for the privilege of hearing their stories. Maybe listening itself is at least partial payment. 

Other interesting listening moments today:

• While recording our friend, capturing as well the sound of a (our) whining dog, and of Rob's parents talking in our backyard
• Hearing another person's hidden fear
• Horses in fields on either side of the road, running excitedly to parallel clearings, waiting and listening to yet other horses approaching, clop-clop-clopping far off down the pavement, with riders astride
• Allowing ourselves to be engaged by an old man on the Jordan River Parkway Trail and hearing his reminiscences about photographing sunsets, canoeing, traveling, and his big plans to develop museums and science centers around Utah Lake as well as historical monuments along the Provo River Trail 
• Walking on one of the last quiet country roads in our town, stopping right in the middle and listening to the wind, the bugs and other animals, and the falling night
• Paying attention to body signals
• Paying attention to brain alarms
• Receiving comfort
• Noticing body language, hearing the unspoken, understanding subtext
• Weighing options and saying yes to simplicity
• Catspeak
• Appreciating the hush of my old knitting needles made of some material that doesn't click when it meets itself
• Unpacking the car late at night, being surprised by two small boys razor scootering down the middle of our street, one of them calling me by name

Silent triad, speak!

This is really something. Please visit the link. Please listen. Please read. Tell me what you think. I can't get enough. Nowhere near enough. 

I've been thinking for a while about recording adoption stories, starting my own collection. My Rob has been thinking about it too. We attend the monthly adoption workshops required by both state law and the agency we're working with, and in those we frequently get to hear adoptive families speak about their experiences. Last week we attended the October class and the entire time was devoted to a birth mother panel. Three brave, generous, beautiful women came and spoke about their journeys as they chose to place their babies for adoption. I don't know how to quantify how much love I felt for those women. No pity, no judgment, just deep admiration and awe. It was a sacred night, I felt. I was overwhelmed by love.

I think that November is going to be my month to make a start on this pet recording project. I'm already going to be conducting and/or facilitating three different interviews next month (non-adoption-related), so the ol' mic and recorder will already be fired up and ready to roll. If you think you would enjoy talking out your adoption story, please let me know, and maybe we can figure out when to chat in the coming months. I don't know that our discussion will ever end up on Transom.org or anywhere else important, but even if just you and I are the audience that's enough to make it worthwhile. If you can't or don't want to talk face-to-face, I can always record you over the phone or probably Skype (just give me minute to figure it out). Whatever part you've played in the "silent triad"—birth parent, adoptee, or adoptive parent—or as a different kind of participant, I am all ears. 

If you want to email me and discuss this more, my address is pogofig at gmail dot com.

I'd love to.

How to Spend a Successful Day Celebrating Best-Beloveds' Birthdays

• wake up early
• strike out together for adventure, forget the camera (oops)
• hike up Rock Canyon
• laugh at each other while drinking from a violently spastic water fountain and nearly drowning
• practice being in the moment
• pet a stranger's Golden Doodle puppy, make two new friends: one human (Tamara), one canine (Finnegan)
• make a memorial stop at Provo Bakery for my dad's favorite treat (raisin-filled cookies), sing him "Happy Birthday" in the car under a shade tree, make a wish he might make, and blow out a flickering "finger candle" for him
• shop at Good Earth for eggs from happy Nephi chickens
• buy 49.25 lbs. of red-banded organic bananas, cause an audible stir among the checkers and customers (we've got a big freezer, okay?)
• come home, make banana pancakes with cardamom (YUM—I finally found my pancake-making niche)
• flop, nap, shower
• talk briefly about perfume-making with Becca but be no help at all
• think about our niece, E., who turns 12 today at camp
• write a birthday love note to Rob
• wait for Rob to take a time-out for a friendly visitor
• surprise Rob with a subscription to the TLS
• compare notes about the cost of this gift
• dig anxiously through the garbage and find the unbelievably discounted offer on TLS that Rob secretly hoarded for ages and finally threw out last week
• cancel the online gift subscription immediately, fill out a happily modest check, and mail it postage pre-paid at the P.O. (how wonderful that snail mail still rules over some parts of our existence)
• marvel at how two years' worth of reading can magically turn into six with the right math skills and the right subscription offer
• watch this repeatedly: 

• work on more adoption papers
• eat at Fusion and lick our plates
• shop for backpacks
• reject Emergency Essentials' offerings
• dawdle in REI
• feel grateful and gooey while the nice sales guy who helps us fit packs tells us the story of his hero dad's Army Air Corps ring (it looks so at home there on that proud son's hand)
• decide on the red 40 for Rob, and the chartreuse 30 for me
• visit Tribal Headquarters, collect birthday gifts and family hugs and a father's blessing from Rob's very sick but very wonderful dad (whose own birthday was yesterday—three great men in a row!)
• eat exquisite salads made by Gary (hand-pressed raspberry dressing, really?)
• come home with my chakras realigned and stuck all over with medical tape and magnets, thanks to  my loving, acupressuring sister-in-law, Jeanne
• write
• sleep

Head to Toe

My last dream before waking this morning a real disturber. I was myself, but my family configuration was different—I was young and unmarried and living with a father and a sister. My mother was either dead or just gone. Some of the details elude me now, but I have a strong remembrance of discovering that I was not wanted. My father, who was never seen in my dream, wished me to leave his house immediately; he didn't love me, didn't want me in his space. His excuse was that I had an anger problem, though I didn't feel angry in my dream, just very sad and terribly confused. I asked my older sister if she wanted me to go away as well, but she wouldn't answer. She told me if I got help on my own and resolved my (so-called) problem, I could come and stay with her a while in California, but that was the extent of her response. I didn't know where to go or what to do; I only knew that my family was rejecting me. I began to wonder aloud to my sister if I could apply for a foster family, but then suddenly realized I was 37. Confusion, shame, grief, fear, loneliness, despair.

Was I ever glad to wake up. My morning prayer consisted of a long list of thank-yous having to do with being wanted. I realized in a fresh way that I am wanted—by my husband, some family, some friends, even a few acquaintances. And by God. And so on like that. What a relief. Who needs to be wildly popular? Not me. I just need my own place in the universe, that fluid spot where I belong.

The next thought that came to my mind had to do with wanting to protect others from that feeling, to sniff it out, to chase it away, to heal it. That's huge—the pursuit of a lifetime. Makes me feel fierce, the desire to defend against such ugly things as rejection and abandonment.

*sigh*

I'll keep sitting on this dream a while and see if it hatches.

(Like the broody analogy? Everything looks like a nest anymore. What's a hen to do?)

I want to tell you what Rob and I did yesterday, a creative project with friends, but it's another story I need to let gestate for a bit. I won't forget though; that's a promise.

What I can say is that two nights ago I stayed up late and hung pictures. (Family, are you gasping from the shock?) This will mean very little to you if you've not been in my house since I painted it white from floor to ceiling. That's right—white! Rob and I have been passing through some kind of phase—the emptier the better, in a way. Lots and lots of clean negative space. I have my hypotheses, but won't get into them now. Our house has been in this whitened, echoey state for some time now. But I dug around in the basement and pulled up some dusty adornments and measured and nailed and arranged. It's like Christmas. I was determined that the first items out of mothballs, so to speak, would be two large portraits of some ancestors of Rob's, either great-greats or great-great-greats; he doesn't recall. It's been years since we've seen these portraits out in Rob's grandmother's house, and for a long time the idea of them felt heavy and intimidating. I mean, even just space-wise, these family members ask a lot of us. But something finally opened in my head and I felt perfectly ready to find them honorific spots somewhere on the walls. Rob pried the nails out of the crate they were stored in and out first came the grandmama. We both had forgotten that she was painted with a baby on her lap, a round little child holding a beautiful Johnny jump-up in its hand. We had both remembered these ancestors as being older and more solemn, but looking at them now it's obvious that they were lovely, youthful people. They are not heavy presences in the least, but really delightful to have around. They watch over us as we eat together in the dining room. such welcome guests, and their absolute arrival feels like such a good omen.

Today, I babysat two of my young cousins, 6 and 2. Have you ever made life-sized paper dolls using little girls as templates? You should get yourself a roll of kraft paper and some markers and crayons and try it. It's the mostest fun, and who doesn't love having a flat, gaudy version of herself nearby to drape on the couch or tape to the wall?

Ready for more out-of-characterness? I made up a crochet pattern. For baby booties. One or two of you might remember the last attempt I made at baby booties eons ago when I hosted a knit group. They turned out really warm and... well, memorable. Frankenstein meets Ziggy Stardust, or something like that. Technicolor. I never had the guts to give them to anyone. I like to make babies happy, not give them issues requiring therapy later in life. My booties were great for some laughs. But today's? Cotton and silk, sweet, just right. Nothing remotely nightmare-inducing, just tiny toasty toes. (By the way, they're not for anyone at my house. Just in case you were wondering.)

That's about it for the progress report. Goodnight.

Day Four Through Day Umpteen

Here's the latest Adoption Progress Report from Bright Street:

• Got a replacement Social Security card and copied it for the agency so now my background can be checked for criminal activity. (Glad to know this will not include reports from the Fashion Police.)
• Have heard from a few people that requests for character referencs and official inquiries are being made about us.
• We've been given the key to the front door of the LDS Family Services adoption site. The key won't turn in the lock yet (some strange password issue we're waiting to have resolved), but soon we'll be working our way through the next round of paperwork, online this time.
• We have been assigned an actual case worker. Her name is Paige. We have our first meeting with her this Tuesday. Every time I think of it my stomach does tuck and roll.
• My mum-in-law gave me a beautiful black mantilla which belonged to Rob's great-grandmother, Josie. Josie wore it while she was pregnant with Rob's maternal grandmother, Daphne. I love Grandma Daphne very much, and was privileged to live near her in the last years of her long good life. She once made a present of a piano to me, her mother Josie's. I was shocked, and still am. But there it stands, in the living room of a novice pianist, adored. Now I feel really honored to have this mantilla, especially as we try to move through this journey of growing our family. I wore it on Friday to the temple. It felt beautiful around my shoulders, like support, like protection, like knowing, like grace.
• It seems that I've been given a magic looking-glass. It's no circus mirror like the one I've made a long habit of staring at; this new glass shows accurate dimensions. Each time my attention's been directed to peer into it these past couple weeks, I've been shown something important about myself. None of it's been pretty, which is to say that this is not a mirror invested in flattery or petting; I see the shape of things now and what's possible (that's the more appealing part which keeps me willing to continue studying). The first good look I took made me go quiet, stopped me cold. I've got a blog post that ventured halfway into that particular vision; I really meant to write it all, but it got too intense to publish and I had to let it go. I do take comfort in the fact that something in me is apparently ready to receive such information and not bolt. Anyway, each look has been different; one that happened on Friday night was really fascinating. I got to observe and help someone else going through a personal crisis, and got all sorts of understanding. I got my lesson and a satisfying twist of irony. I don't mean to skip over stories here, but it doesn't feel right to elaborate further. I'll just say the glass and I had an eventful weekend. 
• (And just in case you're wondering, I do equate the last bullet point with adoption progress.)
• On the 17th I decided to start a scripture-reading program. Five chapters a day will see me through the entire Standard Works  in a year's time. For me, an important aspect of parenting is being able to teach from the scriptures as well as from life and nature and all good sources. That means I gotta know my stuff. Or at least be better acquainted with my stuff. Or simply be in the habit of finding my stuff. So, I downloaded some handy-dandy bookmarks to track my reading, and right now I'm working on the Book of Mormon and the Old Testament. I'm enjoying the time, and it goes by quickly. To keep myself moving forward—march, march, march—I'm simultaneously reading and listening. Makes for an interesting experience. Sometimes it's useful to hear a different delivery than the one that speaks out in my own head. Also, with two senses engaged at once it's easier to keep my mind focused. I've had a tough time with that lately—a result of anxiousness, I'm sure. 
• I'm de-hoarding the basement. Construction will soon follow. 
• We had our dandelions treated. Obliterated. So our neighbors will be like us better and not hold our future children for ransom (their single demand: "Kill the weeds!"). Mind you, I'm a great believer in dandelions as a concept (and they make excellent tea), but I'm not as recklessly anti-social as one might think. I do love my neighbors. And their tidy nice-people lawns. 
• I'm dusting off a colorful blankey project I started last time I was pregnant. Man, is it pretty. And I find I can look at it again now without too much emotional kickback. I'm going to finish the thing, whatever happens.
• I'm gearing up to become an early morning person, as of tomorrow. Wish me luck. Now, goodnight.

Day Two

(Celebratory Cinco de Mayo wall art done by Bec o' my heart. 

If you don't know what "Sophie" means, maybe I'll let you in on the secret sometime.)

We attended our first Adoptive Couples Education Workshop this evening. By the time the two+ hours had passed, my brain was ready to explode. But it was good. The topics for tonight included (but were not limited to) presentations and discussion about open vs. closed adoption, adoption tax credit, and gift ideas for birth mothers. Both our heads were buzzing when we left the BYU Law School tonight. I think all the cute scrapbooking stuff at the end is what finally did Rob in. (Okay, and me too.)

I didn't make it to Social Security today for my replacement card. I was feeling too raunchy today for an errand I knew could wait till tomorrow. I'm guessing it's perfectly normal to feel as if I'd been hit by a truck, under the circumstances. On our way home and after an emergency stop for a hospital cheeseburger with fries, Rob swung by Smith's and bought me an adoption-sized bottle of pot pourri-flavored chewable sidewalk chalk tablets to kill my rot gut. It's helping a little, but I may be up a while yet, waiting for some "Peace, be still" to happen.

By the way, did you know the law says you may only ask Social Security for three replacements per year, and ten total your entire life? Even though I've gone for many years with the same card, learning there was a limit sent me into a small panic. Suddenly I'm thinking of scenarios that might make it necessary for me to repeatedly order replacements and reach the dreaded quota. What then? Would I be assigned a new identity or simply exiled? 

Neurotic Question of the Day: What if the child(ren) we adopt can't stand us? I mean, we are from Planet 10. That makes us high-risk parents.

And since I think I missed asking my Neurotic Question of the Day yesterday, here's the most basic one I can think of: Will anybody choose us?

You don't have to answer those. I just need to get them out of my system, one by one. If they get too personal, I might have to go underground.

Inspiration of the Day: It's time to start praying for the protection of our kid-to-be, whether in or out of the oven already. It's also time to pray for the birth mom.

Haps Du Jour:

• Clean sheets and pillowcases 
• Loving messages from people I adore 
• Being treated to another mini-concert by our neighbor the rockstar 
• Birds of my neighborhood 
• Listening to The New Pornographers on Lala (you'd better get your fill of Lala by the end of the month, y'all) 
• Cooking my first Pad Thai 
• Inventing a new sweets recipe in honor of a new friend—I call them "Blueberry Hackworths," and they're a cross between fruit snacks and Turkish Delight. They didn't set up in time for delivery this afternoon, but might by tomorrow. They need time to breathe. 
• Looking at proofs with Mum and Justin and talking about beautiful Haitians 
• Getting the hang of the budgeting program 
• Jeans getting loose, even if it means having to make alterations 
• Becca's bright color wall—better than a lava lamp! better than Consuelo's door-to-door chicken tamales! 
• Clean sheets and pillowcases (oh yeah, those—time to sleep)

But first, this, to empathize with my ailing guts (and thanks so much for the loan of your cute baby Henry's face, YouTube user oregone)—

(Becca, I vote that you try living with that red for a while. 

I'm betting it'll win you over in no time.)

Day One

Some joke, that post title. Day One, my eye! It's Day Six Thousand and Something, at least. Maybe Seven Thousand Plus. But I suppose it is Day One in a sense, since today's the day we signed our names and laid our money down, so far down. By tomorrow we'll have an official file—after I go in the morning to stand in line at the Social Security office and get a replacement card, then I will drop off a photocopy to LDSFS. And our initial paperwork will be complete.

Now that we've made it through our orientation/intake meeting, the sickness I've been feeling begins to melt away. Might take another day or two to feel normal, but it's better than it has been for several days. As soon as the meeting was over we went for ice cream at The Creamery on 9th and overdosed on sugar. Not too smart, but it was right there, and both of us were in the mood for some emotional eating.

The meeting was run by two social workers from the agency. We were there just one hour but covered a lot of ground. I am still having something like an out-of-body experience as we go through this process. Is this happening? Is this real? It felt real enough at home when I was scrambling for some addresses for our references at the last minute. We were undoubtedly the oldest couple there at the meeting. Ha. We might have been able to adopt a few of the young hopeful parents present. Should have thought to ask.

When it was time to hand over a check to the secretaries in a different part of the office, I said, "We're here to make a downpayment on a person," and the two mild women at the computers laughed and laughed. "We've never heard that one before!" And after we made the transaction, they smiled and said, "Congratulations, you two!" as if we were walking out with our child right then.

Twice I heard a social worker telling some couple that adoptive parents have been chosen as soon as three days after being approved. While I'm sure that's true, it's a crazy thing to have to hear when you're just starting. It's too easy for hopes to rise too high too fast. I won't be a pessimist though; you never know. But I do imagine it's very likely Rob and I will have to wait longer to be chosen than some younger couples.

The thing I keep saying to myself is God's hand will be in this, whatever the result. I have great confidence in him to help us find the right souls to receive into our family. I mean, hey, if the hand of Providence was kind enough to bring the two of us together, then why not kind some more in continuing to bring together the right people at the right time? A precedent's been set. I'm not afraid to put my faith in that kindness. (That doesn't prevent me from feeling the wait and the mystery in my stomach though.)

Chris and Amy came by this evening to show us their sweet rides: terrific new bikes. I shared the Day One report with them. It's nice to not be keeping this a secret anymore. While they were visiting, another set of dear ones (who shall remain nameless till they're ready to reveal their own secret) came by... to tell us they're pregnant with #1. After a few rounds of bear hugs and big hurrahs, I shared our own family-growing news with them, and we were all happy for each other. Nothing's certain at this point for either of our families, of course, but it's good to be on the road, traveling.

And now, I'm pooped. Time for sleeps, time to head for tomorrow.