Tuesday, January 8, 2008
Wednesday's a-coming.
We just got a call from our case worker with some updates. Nothing has changed yet, but please keep praying...
Monday, January 7, 2008
This Wednesday
So it seems that Wednesday is going to be the best day for our day of prayer and fasting for Baby Abenezer. By then, we're also hoping to know something from what's going on in Addis right now: the judge who presided over this case has promised an official report on her ruling by Wednesday, and since they're 11 hours ahead of us (on the west coast), we're hoping for more detailed information then...which could help with knowing more how to pray as well.
Thank you so much for all of you who said you would join the ranks! Of course, if Wednesday doesn't work out best for you, feel free to pray whenever (and as often as) you want to. I'm humbled humbled humbled by this outpouring of care and can't say thank you enough. Hope is slowly creeping back into my heart...
Finally, talk about being humbled: our blogging friend Jocelyn just passed this award on to us today. What a gift from someone who has been a shin
ing example of Fortitude and Perseverance.
According to the award, "You are receiving this honor because you have embodied perseverance in the face of difficulty and shared the journey of your experiences with others proving that a single voice can both be a light of support and a source or humor for those in the midst of their struggle. You are acknowledged here today for allowing others to share in your personal story and providing camaraderie through the power of your words."
Thank you so much for all of you who said you would join the ranks! Of course, if Wednesday doesn't work out best for you, feel free to pray whenever (and as often as) you want to. I'm humbled humbled humbled by this outpouring of care and can't say thank you enough. Hope is slowly creeping back into my heart...
Finally, talk about being humbled: our blogging friend Jocelyn just passed this award on to us today. What a gift from someone who has been a shin
ing example of Fortitude and Perseverance. According to the award, "You are receiving this honor because you have embodied perseverance in the face of difficulty and shared the journey of your experiences with others proving that a single voice can both be a light of support and a source or humor for those in the midst of their struggle. You are acknowledged here today for allowing others to share in your personal story and providing camaraderie through the power of your words."
Day of Prayer
Our funny and caring friend Susan wants to organize a day of prayer and fasting for Baby Abenezer. I'm all for it, of course, and am so thankful for her willingness to "do some damage" spiritually for the sake of this babe.
Susan sent me this today to post:
Hey friends of Lori
I'm not one prone to superstition or hyper-spiritualizing things. But I do believe in prayer and fasting, to do some damage to whatever negative forces are at work here.
So I'm proposing to Lori's blogging friends that we set aside a day to pray and fast, whatever you can manage that day, that Abenezer's appeal will come swiftly, that it'll come before a more understanding judge, and that Ted and Lori can bring their baby home.
So what say you? Log in and let us know what a good day is for you. Let's do it this week if possible!
Susan
Susan sent me this today to post:
Hey friends of Lori
I'm not one prone to superstition or hyper-spiritualizing things. But I do believe in prayer and fasting, to do some damage to whatever negative forces are at work here.
So I'm proposing to Lori's blogging friends that we set aside a day to pray and fast, whatever you can manage that day, that Abenezer's appeal will come swiftly, that it'll come before a more understanding judge, and that Ted and Lori can bring their baby home.
So what say you? Log in and let us know what a good day is for you. Let's do it this week if possible!
Susan
Sunday, January 6, 2008
Somebody Loved
I'm not sure how these things work, but I'm going to chalk it up to the mysterious workings of being bathed in prayer by so many people that I've been able to sleep and sleep and sleep the last two days. Yesterday, I must have slept eleven hours, part of those in the middle of the day. Thank you is not enough to all of you who have prayed that we would have peace. Despite the fitful, heart-racing hours spent awake, sleep has come so easily, a gift from God.
First of all, I want to say how absolutely blown away we've been by all the support being poured out by friends, family, blogging buddies, and even people we have never met. All of the comments, phone calls, and emails have been such a huge blessing, truly a comfort to know that so much care, concern, and prayers are being sent our way. Thank you. I was just telling my mom last night on the phone how much harder this process would be without the support we're being given by the blogging community.
Yesterday morning I got up and sat on the couch, staring out at the ever-steady Portland rain, letting my mind go where it wanted, and it kept drifting towards the question, "Why?" This only made me frustrated and hopeless. I realized that there's a distinct possibility that we may never know the answer to that question, at least until we get to heaven. And I have to be okay with that. We've never been promised answers to all those "why" questions here on earth, so I decided to just stop asking. Instead, I've been asking myself what is to be learned through this, how can I change? What can God show me about what it means to be a child of God living in a fallen world, a world of grief and dashed hopes? I'm trying to put my faith, often mustard-seed-sized, into the hope of heaven and the love of God, despite this darkness.
One of the things I'm learning is that part of being human means living the simultaneous experience of grief and joy. This, I'm being taught through the example of certain people in my life who have experienced some of the deepest grief imaginable but who have chosen to go on, not denying the experience of grief but making it a part of their daily lives. I'm humbled by their example, how they've made friends with grief as a part of their life story, not being embittered or swallowed by it either, not allowing it to be the whole. One dear friend told me that she still curls up and cries almost daily over her particular loss but she has also chosen to let joy in as well. She lives with them both; both are her friends. I'm so thankful for her example.
There are so many other things I'm learning, too many things to write about here, but something practical is the restorative power of having a shower and putting on lipstick, both of which I finally did last night. I got rid of the pajamas, brushed my hair, made myself decent and met friends for dinner. These are some of the most compassionate, loyal, sensitive, loving friends we have, and I felt overwhelmed with gratitude for their steady presence in our lives last night as I sat across from them.
Finally, since getting the news two days ago, we've both been wrestling with whether we should have let ourselves get as attached to Baby Abe as we did, knowing that he wasn't legally ours. We've gone back and forth about this, having a hard time coming up with the answer. I'd been saying all along that I wasn't going to allow myself to feel attached to a child that had only been referred to us: that's why they call it a referral, not your own child. I've thought about it a million different ways, and I think I've come to the conclusion that, with the information and updates on his personality, along with those amazing pictures we were being sent, not getting attached would have been impossible for me. That mother-urge is particularly strong in me, an overwhelming force that swept away reason.
So now I'm heart-broken. What do I do with that? I'm still figuring that one out, but I was so encouraged by the words of a friend here in Portland, the mother of four (three of whom are from Ethiopia):
"I was thinking today about your desire to not get attached to a baby before you had them home, and although it makes this situation particularly painful, how right it is that you became attached to little Abenezer. You have ennobled him by your love! What a great gift to him and his Creator!"
And later last night, I discovered this song through another friend, and though the song is about a couple, I couldn't help crying rivers of tears, thinking about it from the perspective of children who are adopted:
Now my feet turn the corner back home
Sun turns the evening to rose
Stars turning high up above
You turn me into somebody loved.
By opening our hearts to Abenezer, we turned him into somebody loved. What a gift that is to give these children who are entrusted to us, what an example of how we've been loved by God. God's love ennobles us. So while we have hope that the tide may turn in this situation, I pray that, even if Abenezer does not get to become our own Rooney, someone along the way will tell him who he is: that he is somebody loved.
You can hear the song by clicking here.
First of all, I want to say how absolutely blown away we've been by all the support being poured out by friends, family, blogging buddies, and even people we have never met. All of the comments, phone calls, and emails have been such a huge blessing, truly a comfort to know that so much care, concern, and prayers are being sent our way. Thank you. I was just telling my mom last night on the phone how much harder this process would be without the support we're being given by the blogging community.
Yesterday morning I got up and sat on the couch, staring out at the ever-steady Portland rain, letting my mind go where it wanted, and it kept drifting towards the question, "Why?" This only made me frustrated and hopeless. I realized that there's a distinct possibility that we may never know the answer to that question, at least until we get to heaven. And I have to be okay with that. We've never been promised answers to all those "why" questions here on earth, so I decided to just stop asking. Instead, I've been asking myself what is to be learned through this, how can I change? What can God show me about what it means to be a child of God living in a fallen world, a world of grief and dashed hopes? I'm trying to put my faith, often mustard-seed-sized, into the hope of heaven and the love of God, despite this darkness.
One of the things I'm learning is that part of being human means living the simultaneous experience of grief and joy. This, I'm being taught through the example of certain people in my life who have experienced some of the deepest grief imaginable but who have chosen to go on, not denying the experience of grief but making it a part of their daily lives. I'm humbled by their example, how they've made friends with grief as a part of their life story, not being embittered or swallowed by it either, not allowing it to be the whole. One dear friend told me that she still curls up and cries almost daily over her particular loss but she has also chosen to let joy in as well. She lives with them both; both are her friends. I'm so thankful for her example.
There are so many other things I'm learning, too many things to write about here, but something practical is the restorative power of having a shower and putting on lipstick, both of which I finally did last night. I got rid of the pajamas, brushed my hair, made myself decent and met friends for dinner. These are some of the most compassionate, loyal, sensitive, loving friends we have, and I felt overwhelmed with gratitude for their steady presence in our lives last night as I sat across from them.
Finally, since getting the news two days ago, we've both been wrestling with whether we should have let ourselves get as attached to Baby Abe as we did, knowing that he wasn't legally ours. We've gone back and forth about this, having a hard time coming up with the answer. I'd been saying all along that I wasn't going to allow myself to feel attached to a child that had only been referred to us: that's why they call it a referral, not your own child. I've thought about it a million different ways, and I think I've come to the conclusion that, with the information and updates on his personality, along with those amazing pictures we were being sent, not getting attached would have been impossible for me. That mother-urge is particularly strong in me, an overwhelming force that swept away reason.
So now I'm heart-broken. What do I do with that? I'm still figuring that one out, but I was so encouraged by the words of a friend here in Portland, the mother of four (three of whom are from Ethiopia):
"I was thinking today about your desire to not get attached to a baby before you had them home, and although it makes this situation particularly painful, how right it is that you became attached to little Abenezer. You have ennobled him by your love! What a great gift to him and his Creator!"
And later last night, I discovered this song through another friend, and though the song is about a couple, I couldn't help crying rivers of tears, thinking about it from the perspective of children who are adopted:
Now my feet turn the corner back home
Sun turns the evening to rose
Stars turning high up above
You turn me into somebody loved.
By opening our hearts to Abenezer, we turned him into somebody loved. What a gift that is to give these children who are entrusted to us, what an example of how we've been loved by God. God's love ennobles us. So while we have hope that the tide may turn in this situation, I pray that, even if Abenezer does not get to become our own Rooney, someone along the way will tell him who he is: that he is somebody loved.
You can hear the song by clicking here.
Friday, January 4, 2008
Conscripted Pioneers
"May all your expectations be frustrated. May all your plans be thwarted. May all your desires be withered into nothingness that you may experience the powerlessness and poverty of a child and sing and dance in the love of God who is Father, Son, and Spirit. Amen."
For today, it feels like a fair amount of thwarted plans and frustrated expectations. I have no idea what God is doing, and though I'd heard people use the phrase "desperately clinging" to faith, I'd never grasped the depth of that until today. I'm grasping for God, between gasps for air.
We were not delayed in court. There was no problem on our side, with us or with our paperwork. It's still a bit of a mystery how it all went down, but between a young girl possibly overwhelmed in a court system and issues with translators and a skeptical judge, our adoption of Abenezer was denied. His birth mother was there to verify her relinquishment of him, but somehow things went awry between her and the judge and who knows what else.
We are beyond devastated. We were prepared for the possibility of a delay. We were even prepared for the possibility of the birth mother changing her mind, and honestly, that would have been better than this. At least then, Abenezer would be with his biological family. But as things are, he is in limbo. His birth mother can't or doesn't want him, yet he is not allowed to be adopted either. We're having a hard time making sense of it.
This is the first case of this happening with our agency, so they seem to be doing their best to figure out where to go from here. There is a possibility of appealing to a higher court, but no one knows anything about what this process looks like, how long it takes, what the chances would be. Our agency has never had anything like this happen before, and it seems we're the lucky ones who get to be the trailblazers in this process.
There are so many things to consider and try to figure out in the next few days, and we still feel like our heads are spinning. We found out this news this morning around 10:00 am, and because I was taking care of a friend's two kids, ages 2 and 4, I somehow managed to shove it all down until they went home. I understood today really for the first time Ted's mom's adage not to cry over spilled milk: you can't fall apart when you've got people depending on you.
But from the moment they drove away, it all hit me. I can't stop shaking and I have physical pain across my chest, from one shoulder to the other, as well as down my back. Breathing isn't the easiest thing to do either, and I have waves of grief wash over me--about three since sitting down to write this post. And in a particularly cruel twist, we received three pieces of mail today addressed to Abenezer from some sweet people in our lives hoping to get to know him soon.
After hearing the news, I took the kids down the street to our coffeeshop to let them play (yes, most Portland coffee places have play areas for kids) and sat down in a fog and scribbled this out into my notebook:
"...for those of us who struggle to attain the satisfaction of those human urges like the desire to parent, the world becomes an alienating, isolating place. Today, I look around my world and can't connect. "Convoy" is playing in the shop, a funny song that makes me happy, yet I feel nothing. I look at a newspaper and can't read it. This feeling is deeper/beyond an ache. It's not a hopelessness--I do have hope. I know God has a story for us. It's a feeling of wandering blindly in the darkness. I smile at Sophia, who has two black plastic horses in her hand. I can't form words though. A smile is the best I can muster. For a blind stumbler, I guess that's not bad."
Ted suggested I put the qualifier out there not to worry about me. He's right. Writing this here is just cathartic for me, and I apologize to those of you who've called and emailed, wondering what's going on. I just didn't have it in me to talk much today. I appreciate your concern.
For today, it feels like a fair amount of thwarted plans and frustrated expectations. I have no idea what God is doing, and though I'd heard people use the phrase "desperately clinging" to faith, I'd never grasped the depth of that until today. I'm grasping for God, between gasps for air.
We were not delayed in court. There was no problem on our side, with us or with our paperwork. It's still a bit of a mystery how it all went down, but between a young girl possibly overwhelmed in a court system and issues with translators and a skeptical judge, our adoption of Abenezer was denied. His birth mother was there to verify her relinquishment of him, but somehow things went awry between her and the judge and who knows what else.
We are beyond devastated. We were prepared for the possibility of a delay. We were even prepared for the possibility of the birth mother changing her mind, and honestly, that would have been better than this. At least then, Abenezer would be with his biological family. But as things are, he is in limbo. His birth mother can't or doesn't want him, yet he is not allowed to be adopted either. We're having a hard time making sense of it.
This is the first case of this happening with our agency, so they seem to be doing their best to figure out where to go from here. There is a possibility of appealing to a higher court, but no one knows anything about what this process looks like, how long it takes, what the chances would be. Our agency has never had anything like this happen before, and it seems we're the lucky ones who get to be the trailblazers in this process.
There are so many things to consider and try to figure out in the next few days, and we still feel like our heads are spinning. We found out this news this morning around 10:00 am, and because I was taking care of a friend's two kids, ages 2 and 4, I somehow managed to shove it all down until they went home. I understood today really for the first time Ted's mom's adage not to cry over spilled milk: you can't fall apart when you've got people depending on you.
But from the moment they drove away, it all hit me. I can't stop shaking and I have physical pain across my chest, from one shoulder to the other, as well as down my back. Breathing isn't the easiest thing to do either, and I have waves of grief wash over me--about three since sitting down to write this post. And in a particularly cruel twist, we received three pieces of mail today addressed to Abenezer from some sweet people in our lives hoping to get to know him soon.
After hearing the news, I took the kids down the street to our coffeeshop to let them play (yes, most Portland coffee places have play areas for kids) and sat down in a fog and scribbled this out into my notebook:
"...for those of us who struggle to attain the satisfaction of those human urges like the desire to parent, the world becomes an alienating, isolating place. Today, I look around my world and can't connect. "Convoy" is playing in the shop, a funny song that makes me happy, yet I feel nothing. I look at a newspaper and can't read it. This feeling is deeper/beyond an ache. It's not a hopelessness--I do have hope. I know God has a story for us. It's a feeling of wandering blindly in the darkness. I smile at Sophia, who has two black plastic horses in her hand. I can't form words though. A smile is the best I can muster. For a blind stumbler, I guess that's not bad."
Ted suggested I put the qualifier out there not to worry about me. He's right. Writing this here is just cathartic for me, and I apologize to those of you who've called and emailed, wondering what's going on. I just didn't have it in me to talk much today. I appreciate your concern.
Thursday, January 3, 2008
Pins and Needles
If I knew for a fact that it would not embarrass this sweet darling in the photo here with Baby Abe, I'd ask for a caption contest for this photo. Her expression is...I don't know what. I just know that I want this girl to move to Oregon and be our regular baby-sitter. Another sweet family picking up their daughter sent us a couple of new pictures yesterday, which of course I am so thankful for. Getting any kind of news and especially pictures is such a God-send.
I've been so surprised by how difficult this part of the process has been. The first few days after getting the referral for Nezer, we were riding high in a constant state of euphoria. After about a week, we're still excited, but I think I'm becoming manic. I want to be with this baby now. I have never in all my life felt a greater loss of control about anything. All I know is that there's this baby out there who we are desperately praying will become Our Own Rooney tomorrow in court, and that I'm dying to figure out what that foot rash is about and get the right medication for it. I'm dying to hold him, to smell that hair that everyone who has seen him says is the first case of Ethiopian blond hair they've seen, to feel his little heart beat as he snuggles on my chest, to hopefully coax a smile out of him...to be his momma.
But here we are so far away and all we can do is wait. And I've never had to run to God more. You are right, Jill, trust is the opposite of control, and that's a lesson I'm trying hard to learn. Well, it's being forced upon me, I should say, but I do want to learn it.
A lot of crazy things go on in your brain when you know you're about to become a parent. Yesterday I took a niece and nephew to see The Water Horse and cried through at least half of it, even at parts that weren't intended to be sad. I cried when I saw all the old-fashioned wooden toys the boy was playing with in his room, longing for our son to have a similar imaginative place to play, free of ugly plastic things with bells and whistles. I cried at the beautiful scenery of Scotland, remembering the drives Ted and I went on there two years ago and how we'd stop at every curve to get out and explore this phenomenal place of beauty. I cried at the way this boy was so gentle with a wild creature and how I want our kids to respect and have compassion for animals (it makes me crazy to see children chase and kick small animals--I think this is the ugliest side of human nature, to terrorize a being weaker than oneself). I cried at all the flashback scenes of the boy and his father, knowing that Ted is going to be the same kind of dad--one who takes time to encourage and teach our boy to stand tall.
I spent the day today as far away as possible from the kitchen remodel situation. I discovered yet another children consignment shop in our neighborhood where I got a whole bag full of stuff, from a few more clothes to blankets to an African lullabies CD to one of those night-time sleepers (so no need for blankets). I even found a pair of shoes: the cutest little fuzzy lined leather boots you've ever seen, perfect for winter in Portland.
A friend lent me her Moses basket this afternoon and showed me the ins and outs of the various baby carriers, from the Moby wraps (spelling?) to Ergo carries, and some sling thingee too. She even let me try them out with her Baby E, the one who is twice the weight of Nezer.
Then lo and behold, I came home to discover that the first upper cabinet has been installed in the kitchen, along with a functioning sink and dishwasher! I am blessed beyond measure. I consider the sound of our running dishwasher in the other room to be our first miracle of 2008.
We found out yesterday from Gladney that Abe has gained a full pound since we last heard and has grown two inches. He seems to be a laid-back kind of fella, one who doesn't put up much of a fuss about too much. We're hoping he's our Zen-baby who sleeps all night and goes with the flow. Gladney also sent us this photograph which I'll leave you with.
What a miracle it will be if we pass court tomorrow. I'm trying to prepare myself the best I can for the real possibility of some sort of glitch or delay, which seems to be happening more and more often these days. It's the same coping mechanism I used to handle the Waiting for a referral; it's just a heck of a lot harder now that we have big brown eyes and dimples to look at...
I've been so surprised by how difficult this part of the process has been. The first few days after getting the referral for Nezer, we were riding high in a constant state of euphoria. After about a week, we're still excited, but I think I'm becoming manic. I want to be with this baby now. I have never in all my life felt a greater loss of control about anything. All I know is that there's this baby out there who we are desperately praying will become Our Own Rooney tomorrow in court, and that I'm dying to figure out what that foot rash is about and get the right medication for it. I'm dying to hold him, to smell that hair that everyone who has seen him says is the first case of Ethiopian blond hair they've seen, to feel his little heart beat as he snuggles on my chest, to hopefully coax a smile out of him...to be his momma.
But here we are so far away and all we can do is wait. And I've never had to run to God more. You are right, Jill, trust is the opposite of control, and that's a lesson I'm trying hard to learn. Well, it's being forced upon me, I should say, but I do want to learn it.
A lot of crazy things go on in your brain when you know you're about to become a parent. Yesterday I took a niece and nephew to see The Water Horse and cried through at least half of it, even at parts that weren't intended to be sad. I cried when I saw all the old-fashioned wooden toys the boy was playing with in his room, longing for our son to have a similar imaginative place to play, free of ugly plastic things with bells and whistles. I cried at the beautiful scenery of Scotland, remembering the drives Ted and I went on there two years ago and how we'd stop at every curve to get out and explore this phenomenal place of beauty. I cried at the way this boy was so gentle with a wild creature and how I want our kids to respect and have compassion for animals (it makes me crazy to see children chase and kick small animals--I think this is the ugliest side of human nature, to terrorize a being weaker than oneself). I cried at all the flashback scenes of the boy and his father, knowing that Ted is going to be the same kind of dad--one who takes time to encourage and teach our boy to stand tall.
I spent the day today as far away as possible from the kitchen remodel situation. I discovered yet another children consignment shop in our neighborhood where I got a whole bag full of stuff, from a few more clothes to blankets to an African lullabies CD to one of those night-time sleepers (so no need for blankets). I even found a pair of shoes: the cutest little fuzzy lined leather boots you've ever seen, perfect for winter in Portland.
A friend lent me her Moses basket this afternoon and showed me the ins and outs of the various baby carriers, from the Moby wraps (spelling?) to Ergo carries, and some sling thingee too. She even let me try them out with her Baby E, the one who is twice the weight of Nezer.
Then lo and behold, I came home to discover that the first upper cabinet has been installed in the kitchen, along with a functioning sink and dishwasher! I am blessed beyond measure. I consider the sound of our running dishwasher in the other room to be our first miracle of 2008.
We found out yesterday from Gladney that Abe has gained a full pound since we last heard and has grown two inches. He seems to be a laid-back kind of fella, one who doesn't put up much of a fuss about too much. We're hoping he's our Zen-baby who sleeps all night and goes with the flow. Gladney also sent us this photograph which I'll leave you with.
What a miracle it will be if we pass court tomorrow. I'm trying to prepare myself the best I can for the real possibility of some sort of glitch or delay, which seems to be happening more and more often these days. It's the same coping mechanism I used to handle the Waiting for a referral; it's just a heck of a lot harder now that we have big brown eyes and dimples to look at...
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
Happy New Year
Recent goings-on round here:
I keep having dreams about babies, sometimes about poopy babies and sick babies and snuggly babies that are the size of newborn kittens. In one part of last night's dream, the kitten-sized baby was being sat upon by Chitty, our fat cat. I panicked, running to shoo fat-cat away and get the squished baby (he ended up being fine, even smiled at me). Why can't I just have normal dreams? Is there even such a thing?
Some friends are throwing a donations-shower for us Sunday to help us gather together all the goodies we want to bring with us to Ethiopia. I'm hoping we can even get everything all packed up and ready to fly.
I'm checking email obsessively for new pictures of Abenezer some good folks said they'd send our way...just dying to get those, finding it hard to believe that patience is a virtue (I know they're super-busy right now, picking up their own daughter and getting settled in).
Two nights ago, during an attempt to learn to play bridge, I had a mild meltdown. My brain couldn't take it, and while the two experts were explaining the subtleties of the game at once while I was still trying to get the basic point, this lump started rising in my throat triggering tears that I willed myself to force back, repeating in my mind, "You must not cry, You must not cry. It's just a game, Don't cry!" Luckily, my cell phone started to ring, so I escaped tearful humiliation with a 30 minute phone call. My friend who had called advised me to go have a strong drink of whatever the bridge-players were offering. This is why I like her so much. But such is the state of my mind these days; thinking about our upcoming court-date this Friday and all the things to get done in the next couple of weeks, I cry over card games.
Last night, as Ted and I sat on the couch around 1:00 am drinking our Kirkland brand, Costco-bought "champagne" after returning from a New Year's Eve gathering, I got a serious case of the hiccups (a regular occurence). So all at once, I was hiccuping, sniffling, sneezing, coughing, and burping--thanks to the bubbly. That was fun, maybe the best part of our New Year's.
We canceled our annual holiday book-swap party where I make pots of soup and everyone brings a book they don't want anymore to trade with other guests. This would have been our fourth year to do it. We canceled because this is what our kitchen looks like today:
And here is the view down from where the kitchen sink used to be into the basement laundry room.
The living room and dining rooms are full of our yet-to-be-installed cabinets. Not the best time for a party. Probably not the best time to start a kitchen remodel either (though in our defense, we started this project back before Thanksgiving when we didn't think we'd hear about Baby Abe until well into 2008). We're hoping it gets done before we leave for Ethiopia. I'm choosing not to worry about it, just like I chose to shove down the bridge-induced tears.
And lordy lordy, I'm not even thinking about resolutions...
Happy 2008!
I keep having dreams about babies, sometimes about poopy babies and sick babies and snuggly babies that are the size of newborn kittens. In one part of last night's dream, the kitten-sized baby was being sat upon by Chitty, our fat cat. I panicked, running to shoo fat-cat away and get the squished baby (he ended up being fine, even smiled at me). Why can't I just have normal dreams? Is there even such a thing?
Some friends are throwing a donations-shower for us Sunday to help us gather together all the goodies we want to bring with us to Ethiopia. I'm hoping we can even get everything all packed up and ready to fly.
I'm checking email obsessively for new pictures of Abenezer some good folks said they'd send our way...just dying to get those, finding it hard to believe that patience is a virtue (I know they're super-busy right now, picking up their own daughter and getting settled in).
Two nights ago, during an attempt to learn to play bridge, I had a mild meltdown. My brain couldn't take it, and while the two experts were explaining the subtleties of the game at once while I was still trying to get the basic point, this lump started rising in my throat triggering tears that I willed myself to force back, repeating in my mind, "You must not cry, You must not cry. It's just a game, Don't cry!" Luckily, my cell phone started to ring, so I escaped tearful humiliation with a 30 minute phone call. My friend who had called advised me to go have a strong drink of whatever the bridge-players were offering. This is why I like her so much. But such is the state of my mind these days; thinking about our upcoming court-date this Friday and all the things to get done in the next couple of weeks, I cry over card games.
Last night, as Ted and I sat on the couch around 1:00 am drinking our Kirkland brand, Costco-bought "champagne" after returning from a New Year's Eve gathering, I got a serious case of the hiccups (a regular occurence). So all at once, I was hiccuping, sniffling, sneezing, coughing, and burping--thanks to the bubbly. That was fun, maybe the best part of our New Year's.
We canceled our annual holiday book-swap party where I make pots of soup and everyone brings a book they don't want anymore to trade with other guests. This would have been our fourth year to do it. We canceled because this is what our kitchen looks like today:
And here is the view down from where the kitchen sink used to be into the basement laundry room.
The living room and dining rooms are full of our yet-to-be-installed cabinets. Not the best time for a party. Probably not the best time to start a kitchen remodel either (though in our defense, we started this project back before Thanksgiving when we didn't think we'd hear about Baby Abe until well into 2008). We're hoping it gets done before we leave for Ethiopia. I'm choosing not to worry about it, just like I chose to shove down the bridge-induced tears.And lordy lordy, I'm not even thinking about resolutions...
Happy 2008!
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