This weekend brought no concrete news on the adoption front.
L. has dropped out of communication. We can almost assume she has decided against adoption, but there’s still a chance she hasn’t given birth yet and could call at any time. It’s likely we’ll never hear a final word from her. Only after another several days (how long after the due date?) will it feel safe to assume it’s not happening.
This weekend I felt a little sad, a lot listless. It’s difficult to shift from expecting to not expecting. I’m trying to make some new plans for the short term to fill the time that had been reserved for a newborn.
We’ll keep trying to adopt, at least for now. We’d really like a second kid, but we’re wary of going through this again. I hate the idea of waiting up to another year for a match only to have it fall through too. There are no guarantees and with this kind of adoption (infant, domestic, private agency), anything could happen. We could get a call next week that there’s a baby waiting for us in a hospital.
In the meantime, we tried to get our minds off the adoption stuff.
We planted a garden….
Prepared some new, heirloom Maxibel beans that we found at our local market…
And we embraced the mud…
I’ve always had a vision that life with Miles would involve lots of outdoor exploration, getting dirty, and jumping in rain puddles. In some respects, my expectations are ridiculous. I loved playing outside, but especially as a smaller kid, I hated getting dirty. I tested my parents’ patience over my dramatic revulsion at “fuzzies” in the bathtub, gristle in meat, and sand in my bathing suit.
It turns out Miles is sensitive too, and despite my repeated efforts, he has never enjoyed clomping around in the rain for longer than a few minutes. He hollers immediately if there’s even the slightest dampness on his sock. He hates sticky food remnants on his fingers. And he’s also very attuned to the slightest sound.
I’ve since read some child development specialists call this (or more serious forms of it) having a low sensory threshold. Others just call it being prissy. (Fortunately, I’m much more hearty and adventurous now. I even like camping!)
If Miles were my biological child, people observing him would say, “Oh, he gets that from you, doesn’t he?” In that way that biology gives everyone the same tune to sing, a predetermined explanation for potentially unrelated things.
As it is, my mom has said a less harsh version of this to me: “Karma is a bitch, isn’t it?”
Well, something changed this weekend. It was miraculous actually.
Once again, I overcame my dread of how he’d respond to being outside on yucky day. I suited us up with raincoats, lined his boots with tightly tied plastic bags, and went into the backyard.
He didn’t hesitate for a moment and ran straight into the mud and muck. Not only did he like kicking up the water, but soon he was diving face first into the mud. The first time he fell, I waited a beat, expecting screams. Instead, he started laughing hilariously and had me laughing along with him.