The weekend was exactly what you would expect it to be--normal, everyday life punctuated by moments of realization that somewhere in the state, a little boy is sleeping, or eating, or playing ... and he will someday call us his family.
We will meet him (and his foster mom) on Thursday. Our social worker will be along for the ride, just to make sure that everything is kosher. I spoke to the foster mother (who is related biologically to the boy) on the phone twice last Friday and I think I have a better picture of who she is and why she is not moving to adopt Baby Boy on her own. She had wonderful things to say about him, and will clearly miss him. She liked the conversation with me enough to call her social worker and give the go ahead on Friday, and that about makes her my new best friend.
Our first meeting is planned for a public gathering spot. I wonder, will the people around us sense the gravity of the moment taking place right next to them? What will they think if I am crying as hard as I think I will? Will I even remember anything about this day, or will it instead be seared into my mind as clearly as the moment I first saw each of my other children?
Going about the business of normalcy is somewhat surreal. I have the same lingering sense of expectation hanging over me that I felt during the last days of my pregnancy with Jo, who was a scheduled induction. I had a date upon which I would have a baby in my arms--a date after which things would change forever. To plan ahead to the days or weeks afterward was just not possible because, after that date, nothing was the known quantity.
That is exactly how I feel right now. A friend just emailed to arrange a playdate between our children. On Wednesday of last week--the last time I spoke with her--I'd said this Friday looked open. Today I had to email her and say, "Well, it might be. But it might not be. I don't know. And frankly, if we don't do it this week, I have no idea when we will do it. How's Wednesday looking for you?"
I am making a grocery list this afternoon. Do I plan for some freeze-ahead meals, just in case?
Jo has 4-H clinic on Saturday. Could I possibly be taking a toddler along with me?
I am cautiously eying toddler gear and putting plans into motion. A small element of my heart is honestly afraid to fling myself completely into a child I have not yet met. What if the social worker changes her mind? What if the foster mother changes her mind? What if a judge somewhere hates us? What if--?
This whole process is laced with what ifs. Those possibilities were painstakingly laid out for us by our agency during the hours and hours of training and classes we endured just to get to the point of beginning our homestudy. We are aware of the risks, and we decided 574 days ago that those risks were worth taking. The truth is that no adoption--domestic or international, I hate to tell you--is without risks. We know that firsthand. We also know that no pregnancy is without risks. What is it--something like 50% of pregnancies supposedly end in miscarriage? Talk about risk!
I am counting down the hours, but trying to preserve status quo for Jo, Atticus and Logan. We let them in on the news and were delighted by their excitement. Jo is anxious about the whole thing I suspect; at 10, she is all to aware of the what ifs that surround the prospect of adding to your family. Atticus is seemingly oblivious, popping in on occasion with a question or comment, but otherwise nonchalant. Logan has been typically Logan. The meeting isn't until Thursday. I told him I would come back with reports and photos, and that's good enough for him. He'll just wait until Thursday to make any judgments either way. Until then, all three of them are in need of a mommy who is present in the moment and not daydreaming about the future, nor dwelling on the what ifs.