Respecting the Process

This is what it is like to have a baby after 40licious, no matter which way you get it.

Here's a big difference between being 40licious and younger than that.* When you are 7 or 15 or 20 or 33 or even 38, you want what you want now. You want it to happen when you deem you are ready and you will do anything you can to make it happen. Make those phone calls, fill out those papers, get good and feng shui'd, say some prayers, organize and ready yourself so It can happen. Whatever It is to you.

But eventually, you come to realize there is a process -- and you learn to respect that process. This is for a lot of Major Life Events. Like marriage, for example. Thanking all the stars in all the galaxies all the time that I didn't marry the person(s) I really, truly thought I wanted to be married to after a rollicking first three months. And even in my current very new marriage, there was a lot of process that had to happen -- over the course of a year and a half -- before we figured it out.

But tonight I'm referring specifically to adoption. Our adoption. I'm laughing a tiny bit in my head thinking about a couple who signed on with our agency and, upon the first meeting with the social worker, demanded that they have their child "before the holidays," a scant few weeks later.  They laugh about this now as well, several years into it.

Steve and I are all set with our requirements -- together, as a couple. We've filled out every paper, taken every class, called in our favors for referrals, and created what will hopefully be a compelling profile to prospective birth parents. I think they spread out all the classes and make the paperwork slightly overwhelming to weed out the folks who don't really want it.

And now we wait.

We have beautiful, lovely, empathetic friends who squeal with delight when we tell them where we are in the process. We're done with everything -- except the waiting. "When will you know?" they ask.

We could get a call tonight telling us to go to the hospital and pick up our baby. Or it could be two more years and lots of "dates" with birth parents to see if the right chemistry is there.

It's nutty enough to not know when your baby will arrive, or not knowing if it will be a boy or a girl. The only way to go through something like this is to make friends with each stage of the process -- the required class time, the paperwork, the profile writing, the interviews with social workers -- and the waiting. It is not the hardest part, nor the easiest. It is just a part.

* I am speaking of myself. It is my blog, and that's what I do here, mostly. When I refer to "you," of course, I am referring to myself. And maybe some other people who are of a similar experience.

Trajectory

Bathroom before: I don't know what I was thinking five years ago when I chose this tile. Actually, I was thinking that if I couldn't get it at Home Depot, my wild fantasy of white subway tiles didn't exist.

We are making joint decisions about things little and big. Like the decision to stay where we live now instead of pack it all up and move closer to the beach and Steve's parents. At least, for now. The tradeoff: make our home, our modest 1947 condo that I bought at the absolutely wrong time in history, an amazing space. Which means re-tiling the bathroom and giving it a classic, beachy feel with subway tiles and barely blue paint, consulting with our neighbor about practical and stylish storage solutions, and painting pretty much any piece of furniture we find on the sidewalk white. You'd be amazed at the perfectly good things that people throw away in Glendale. Steve's mom loads us up with decor magazines she gets volunteering at the library each week. Those help.

I suppose we're nesting. Which is strange to think about -- a 49-year-old man with teenage daughters, a grown son, and a toddler grandson. And me, 40licious, who'd just as soon traipse through a tropical jungle halfway around the world than stay home for Christmas. We're getting closer. Our agency has posted our profile on the chance that it might pique interest from a birth parent who is interested in placing her child for adoption.

The dogs think that this is all for them. Trips to the home-improvement store! Mama staying home to keep an eye on the tile guy = extra attention! We'll let them go on thinking that for now.

Our bathroom as it is now.

2010: Year of the Baby

In the past 72 hours, there has be tremendous baby news for people around us -- and not in the way you normally get this kind of news. One person is expecting a baby via surrogate in December; she just told the world as she's had so many failures she didn't want to get everyone's hopes up. Another friend is taking a step with artificial insemination, and for some reason, I had a very psychic knowing before she told me -- a vicarious nausea -- I think she is pg. And, perhaps closest to me, James and Uma. We started orientation with our adoption agency on the very same day, and together, we went through the classes, saved seats at support groups for each other, and visited whenever we had our foster-adopt series in Redlands, where they live. James and Uma got a call a month ago from our social worker, who introduced them to a very, very pregnant person who wanted to place her child for adoption. They all got along well. They went with her to the ultrasound. And in a couple days, voila, the baby was born and Uma is a mom and James is a dad. They are a family.

But there's no "just like that" with all of the above. When you hit 40licious, you realize how hard-won babies are. There are tears and tries and surprises and terrible miscarriages and disappointments when surrogates or birth moms don't pan out. And then, at the end of it, there is a good news call, and a baby.

Blessings to those who have to work just a little bit harder. 

Well, he's not retarded

From the second I saw him on May 1 of this year, I loved him, this little dog our neighbor found on the 5 freeway. Which is why we ended up calling him Cinco. I successfully found a new home for this flea-bitten, stranger-humping, indoor peeing little tornado of a beast. But we decided to keep him. Even though he was a little dog, and neither of us had any experience with little dogs. Big dogs, no prob. But little dogs? Different planet.

We dealt with the fleas and the humping. Still working on the indoor peeing. Which, if you have enough rags handy, isn't all that bad as he figures out that going inside is not just one of many options one has for relieving oneself. But the worst was the bolting. If he got lucky enough to slip outside, there he'd go. Taunting us. Teasing us. We'd go after him or ignore him. It's always an effort to lure him back in, sometimes with the help of a willing passerby. The last straw for me was an early-morning walk, and he slipped out of an unsecured harness, and gleefully ran right into an intersection. Where a lady driving large old sedan didn't see him. She rolled slowly and stared at me as I screamed, "Wait! Wait! Wait! Stop!" Which she finally did, with some look on her face like she wasn't sure if I was going to carjack her or what.

And Cinco ran some more. "Ha ha," he said. "You always give me cheese when I run loose. I feel like some cheese for breakfast. I will run some more. Sucka!"

That very day, haggard and deranged, I got myself on the Internet and found after a quick search, found the fabulous Ronen Tivoni, who happens to live a short six blocks down the street. He's Israeli. He's got wads and wads of training certificates. And he trains really important dogs. Dogs we cannot speak about.

Last Friday, Ronen arrived for a two-hour session and we worked with a nervous but excited Cinco to sit and stay. And we learned to ignore cries and pestering. And each week, we did a little bit of homework. When Ronen came this week and Cinco kept acing everything, much earlier than it takes most dogs. He  peed under my desk and sat and sat still and came when called and ate some more cheese.

Ronen told us, "Intelligence is not his issue. He has emotional problems."

Well, you would too if someone dumped you on the 5.

The 40licious Bride: Aftermath

It's hard to be whatever you'd call the modern equivalent of a fairy princess for six months -- building to the apex of fabulousness in which you wear the BEST DRESS you've ever had, partied with the BEST PEOPLE you know, and then linked up for life with the BEST LOVER you will ever meet -- and then plunk down back to earth.

Oh, of course there is still the residual glow. Every few nights a box with something very special arrives at our door, and we are thrilled that someone thought so much of us to get us a gift. And the wedding pictures are trickling in from the amazing Alison Peacock, who didn't leave my side for three days, so each new batch we see is fun and exciting. (And, I secretly hope we get to be part of her "sample" photos so our pictures can live on her website!)

But here is the thing: I've waited 42 years to do get married. About five or six proposals, a couple live-in almost-rans, one tentative post-9/11 engagment. That's a lot of buildup. I thought that I could strike the right balance of the logical with the fantasy, the magical with the practicalities of married tax penalities (seriously, it's enough to make one consider switching to a heartless, mindless yet fiscally fair political party. I don't know which one that would be, but I'm thinking of going there).

We came back to our apartment and focused on the dogs (we are training Cinco very seriously, with a guy who trains Homeland Security dogs. I swore that Cinco's recent mad dash into an intersection at 6 a.m. where he was almost squished by a sedan was his last). And stuff to get rid of. And an article I have due.

I'm not sure what I expected to happen when we got home, after all the euphoria. It was something -- different. Stevie didn't get any richer or more powerful. I didn't become suddenly sleeker and I had my hair extensions removed. He's just this guy. And I'm just this girl. And we decided to get married. And we'll just have to make something amazing happen next.

Three Weeks Later

The wedding was above all expectations. Most of the Very Important People we love showed, and I was blown away by the generosity and sweetness of our families and friends. There was food and music and tears and remembrances from all my parents (I was a little surprised to count up how many moms and dads I have, but really, there's an astonishing amount. I think this is necessary for a child raised by Me Generation parents, but that is another topic altogether).

It has been a jammed three weeks. We came back from Oregon down the coast. So much driving, so much checking out at 11 wondering about bedbugs, so much fish & chips, so much looking at world and nature framed by the passenger window. Home, and then laundry. And then cycling out old stuff with "our" stuff from very generous family and friends. And dog training and a magazine article due way too soon and why aren't I working on it RIGHT NOW?

Because this is a long-winded way of telling you that I am back. That I LOVED being a bride and wouldn't have changed it for anything in the world. But I need my blogs. I need my life beyond staring down a Very Good Job. I need Wednesday night dinners at my beloved in-laws. I need my Sundays for sewing and yoga and napping. I need to remember who I was and justify keeping my name for professional reasons.

I missed you. I need you.

Wed

We are married. We are home.