Tuesday, February 2nd, 2010
Last week, my mom and I went on our annual buying trip to Houston. I’d forgotten until I stepped off the airplane and into Terminal B that this airport was the very place where 2009 began to spin out of control. It was here, on the tram, that I got a phone call from our facilitator, telling us the mother of those three little kids wanted to talk to us. It was here, in Terminal B, that Mom and I sat across from that coffee shop and brainstormed questions to ask when I talked to the birthmom that afternoon.
I remember the giddy excitement, the fluttering in my stomach, the way I could think of absolutely nothing else that entire day.
But more than that, I remember the bad stuff that came after, the two weeks of arguing and crying and bitterness. I remember how long it took before I could be in my mother-in-law’s presence again and how much longer before I could be around her without vibrating with hatred.
I remember the eight more months of waiting, the escalating disappointments, the desperation, the flare-ups of crying and begging D to ignore his mother’s opinion and open our adoption preferences to any race. I remember the sadness in his eyes, the helplessness, torn between saving me from all this pain and saving a black child from being in an extended family that would never treat him or her quite the same.
Then came September and the little boy that was almost ours and then, suddenly, wasn’t. Little did I know, while I was immobilized by pain and melting into tears over my Chik-fil-A nuggets, I was already pregnant, just barely, with this child.
It’s a lot of pressure on a child to save someone, but already she has. 2010 is already so different from 2009. There is still uncertainty – no, terror – that something could go wrong and we’d be back where we were, only worse. But there is also hope, and progress, and a baby stretching and turning flips and growing in my belly. I can finally feel her moving – little tickles and nudges that are at once miraculous and strange.
We’ve chosen a name for her, and every time I say it, she seems more real. I’ve bought her snowflake tights and polka dot hats, and a bubble suit with a flower on the butt, and when I close my eyes, I can almost picture her in them – our little blonde-haired, blue-eyed baby, because that’s what we both were.
Already, we are in love with her, the way we’ve been planning to be for so long. We are in love with each other, too. Though the pregnancy hormones seem to make me more annoyed with everyone else, the opposite is true with D. Lately I feel even more that he is my home, my comfort, my safety. I love to look at him, this man of mine, and marvel at how he gets more handsome all the time, even when he hasn’t shaved in a few days and is wearing a lumberjack shirt. I love to share the sofa with him and two cats and a dog and talk about where our baby will fit in when she comes.
These days, there is no more hopeless weeping to come between us, no more sadness or blame or confusion or desperation. We are happier now than we have ever been. I am happier now than I have ever been, even if it is all still tinged with worry.
Because that is to be expected – loving people goes hand in hand with worry. And it’s worth every forehead crease or moment of panic. I’d much rather be worrying about this baby than worrying I’ll never have one. Thanks to her, this is going to be a much better year than 2009. It’s only been a month, and there’s already been a year’s worth of happy.