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4.10.02
Bob and I have been talking about and researching international adoption for over a year. We have finally found an agency and program that suits us, that matches our personalities, that we both feel really good about, and we're going to start the "paper pregnancy" this weekend. It boggles our minds to imagine that somewhere in the Ukraine, under the same sky, the same stars, there is already a little baby that will be a part of our family.
(This is where you should start singing that song that Feival the Mouse sang in "An American Tail.")
We went to an adoption seminar last year, and I heard some things that I'll never forget. "Adoption is not God's Plan B," the guy said. "It's not, if you can't have your own kids, then oh well, adopt. It's all Plan A to God." We've both become completely sold on the idea, convinced and convicted that everyone who can should adopt, because the world is full of millions of homeless kids who need families. Pretty simple, straightforward concept.
So now I have to think about parenthood, and what kind of parent I will be. My mom says I'll be a good mom. So does my husband, and so do my dad and sister, and my friends. But I'm still scared. I didn't realize that life would go by so fast, and that I would be 36 but that 12 years old would feel like yesterday. I know this is because every year of my life is an increasingly smaller percentage of the total of it, so that life will seem to speed up the longer I live. Is this the theory of relativity, or is that something else?
Whatever it is, I'm shocked to realize that I am a grownup and other grownups like me are running the world. Terrifying thought.
I was explaining to my friend Henry that I had a bit of an identity crisis when I got married (at age 30) because I quit my job, got married, moved from one coast to the other, and changed not only my last name, but also my first.
Henry understood this because he used to go by the name "Bud," but switched to "Henry." "It was
impossible for anyone to address me without reference to the latest antics of the Budweiser frogs or some character on the Cosby show who everyone called Buuuuud or some other nonsense, so I decided to drop the nickname for a while," he explained.
I replied, "I prefer the actual sound of the name 'Henry' to 'Bud,' but it is interesting how the name you first called somebody is hard to let go of. Even when I'm writing 'Henry,' it is followed in my head by "But what I really mean by that is 'Bud.'" As if 'Henry' is just what you write on one of those "Hello, my name is . . . " nametags, but your ACTUAL name that is inside you is 'Bud.'"
And sometimes if I'm having a bad day at work or something, I think "Yes, but nobody knows I'm really actually Suzie, and therefore she is not having a bad day."
Henry/Bud understands, and replied, "Sure, my clinical nomenclature is Henry, but if I startle or surprise myself (like hit my thumb with a hammer) I think 'Ouch! Bud!'"
My husband Bob was Bobby as a child. He was Bobby Bailey, to distinguish him from the other Bobbys in kindergarten. But the kids, newly socialized and unfamiliar with the convention of using last names, thought he was Bobbybailey. "What is Bobbybailey's last name?" they asked the teacher. "Bailey," the teacher explained.
One day Bob explained, in his logical, straightforward way, that he knew his dad was actually the Easter bunny. The class went wild with joy, and ran around in dizzy circles yelling "Bobbybailey Bailey's dad is the Easter bunny! Bobbybailey Bailey's dad is the Easter bunny!"
"No!" Bob yelled in dismay. "My dad is the Easter bunny to me! Your dad is the Easter bunny to you!" But they didn't listen.
I wonder if our Ukrainian baby has been born, if she has a name, if her mom has looked at her and thinks she looks like a relative, if she wants to keep her baby but can't, if the baby is old enough to have looked at the stars, if she knows she is not just a nameless speck in the universe. If she knows that we can't wait to meet her.
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