I am thinking about love.
We've been getting ready to move apartments. That's why it's been like a million years since I've posted. I've been clearing and cleaning and folding and boxing up our lives, and the words inside my head have been waiting to be aired out.
And now it is late, and I am sitting on the couch and our apartment is a mess and I should probably wash the silverware but I don't want to.
I want to think about love.
I like love. I love love. Always have. A good portion of my formative years were spent yearning for romantic connection, memorizing old musicals, dreaming of the day when the stories spun in my head would be for reals.
I think Paul kind of shakes his head at my shameless romanticism. Honestly, I shake my own head at my shameless romanticism. In my defense, I am far more sensible now than I was at fifteen. But I am who I am, and knowing I can frequently be somewhat silly and ridiculous in no way prevents me from being either silly or ridiculous, especially when it comes to love.
And so what I want to say is this:
The love I pictured in my head when I was fifteen is not the same love that I experience now, sitting among empty pizza boxes and odds and ends waiting to be packed.
The love I experience now is sometimes messy. There are disappointments and bad smells and unwashed silverware. Boxes to be packed, work to be done. Hard work.
But there is also Paul scratching my back and Paul smiling because I don't know how to use tools and Paul holding me when I cry and he puts his hand on the back of my neck which feels protective in a nice way.
And all of these things well up inside me and make a feeling unlike any imagined abstract passion, a feeling that is clean and constant and true.
And strong enough to withstand moving apartments.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Sunday, January 24, 2010
that about clinches it
This evening as Paul and I sat, Paul watching football and me attempting to watch football, Paul cast a loving gaze upon our cat, Gilly. As he cradled her gently in his arms, he cooed:
"I would follow you into war."
If we weren't already crazy cat people, I'm pretty sure we are now. I think once the phrase "I would follow you into war" is uttered to a cat, you are automatically inducted into some secret club and I fully expect a welcome package to appear on our doorstep tomorrow morning, complete with T-shirts and mugs.
Good grief.
"I would follow you into war."
If we weren't already crazy cat people, I'm pretty sure we are now. I think once the phrase "I would follow you into war" is uttered to a cat, you are automatically inducted into some secret club and I fully expect a welcome package to appear on our doorstep tomorrow morning, complete with T-shirts and mugs.
Good grief.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
God opens a dishwasher
You know how they say when God closes a door He opens a window?
Well, for us God closed a door and opened.....
A dishwasher.
That's right. A dishwasher. Paul and I just got the excellent news that our application to a lovely one-bedroom apartment just a block or so away from our present location has been accepted, and that apartment has A DISHWASHER!!!!
I know, I know, some might call our decision to downsize just as we are in active pursuit of posterity somewhat counter-intuitive, but we can save like five hundred bucks a month, and since this apartment comes equipped with this most desirable of amenities, it just seemed like a wise decision.
A DISHWASHER!!!!!!
No more will utensils lie unwashed in the sink because Paul and I both hate washing them. Gone are the days of letting dishes dry on top of the stove, gone are the days of....well, I guess those are the only days that come to mind. You get the idea.
We're really excited about this dishwasher.
Well, for us God closed a door and opened.....
A dishwasher.
That's right. A dishwasher. Paul and I just got the excellent news that our application to a lovely one-bedroom apartment just a block or so away from our present location has been accepted, and that apartment has A DISHWASHER!!!!
I know, I know, some might call our decision to downsize just as we are in active pursuit of posterity somewhat counter-intuitive, but we can save like five hundred bucks a month, and since this apartment comes equipped with this most desirable of amenities, it just seemed like a wise decision.
A DISHWASHER!!!!!!
No more will utensils lie unwashed in the sink because Paul and I both hate washing them. Gone are the days of letting dishes dry on top of the stove, gone are the days of....well, I guess those are the only days that come to mind. You get the idea.
We're really excited about this dishwasher.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
a dress waits to be filled (i did not expect this miracle)
"I have something I want to talk to you about."
That's the message Linda left on my phone last Sunday. I hadn't heard from Linda in a while, not since she and her husband and new baby moved back to Utah. I liked her. She's beautiful and soft-spoken and kind and considerate. We served in church together. Her baby made me want to shout for joy, she was so cute.
But I hadn't heard from her in like a year and half. Which is why I was a little surprised when I knew, just knew, that Linda was going to tell me she had a baby for me to adopt.
I called her right back. She answered, and we engaged in small talk until after a while I cut to the chase and was like "what can I do for you?" and that's when Linda told me about her. She told me about her friend, her wonderful, bright and very pregnant friend.
This friend was due on March 12th. It was a girl, the doctors thought. And Linda had thought of us and the birth mother wanted to give us her baby and I hung up the phone and told Paul and we were like YESSSSS and then I called Linda back and left her like three messages, each more excited than the last, telling her we would love to adopt this baby.
Paul and I got this news while we were on vacation, staying with redstarmama and her family. That night, we went to the beach and had a bonfire. The tide glowed blue and when you walked on the sand little explosions of sparkly stars appeared under your feet and while it was probably something to do with algae or plankton or something science-ish, really to me it was magic and the whole world, the ocean and sand and sky, was celebrating the start of our family.
The next day we were in the car with redstarmama and her family, on our way to the museum and Linda called to tell us the birth mom was excited and the baby would be ours and then Paul got sick to his stomach and puked and we thought that's such a good story, that Paul puked as he found out he was going to be a dad.
I couldn't stop smiling. We called our parents and siblings and we talked about names, and I looked up baby stuff online, stuff like strollers and cribs and baby swings. We got a lawyer and filled out paperwork. And when I watched Paul help with redstarmama's little girl I was thinking about what it would be like to watch him with our own little girl.
We got back from vacation, and there was more paperwork, more to be done. A lot to be done. And we had just eight weeks to do it. That was okay, though. Neither Paul or myself are prone to looking a gift baby in the mouth.
Paul and I were excited. Thrilled. Beyond words, really. We were excited and thrilled beyond words. Thursday night we couldn't sleep and we stayed up until three in the morning looking at baby clothes online and making plans and when we crawled into bed it was only because our bodies insisted on rest.
We woke late, at ten. And I stumbled into the living room and checked my phone and Linda had tried calling five times and then everything changed.
The baby had been born. Even though the birth mother had a doctor appointment just the other day and everything had looked fine, she had gone into labor and the baby was born. It sounded like everything was fine, though. Just early.
And Paul and I proceeded to push a month's worth of paperwork through in a matter of hours and it wasn't how we had thought things would happen, but everything seemed to be falling into place and it felt meant to be.
That night, Paul talked to one of the nurses who was helping care for the baby. The baby was sick, she said. So many things wrong. Words like intraventricular hemmorhage, grade three, things like the cord was wrapped around the baby's neck and she was blue and listless and nobody knew just yet how bad things were, but they sounded pretty bad.
We were up late that night. We talked and prayed and thought. Was this what we were meant to do? Could we care for such a sick little baby? Was she ours? And if she wasn't, how could we feel good about saying no? Who would love this baby? Who would give the birth mother the peace of mind I am sure she desperately needed?
The lawyer sent us a picture of her. She looked so sick, so blue, so sad. And I looked at her and felt a mixture of unidentifiable and extreme emotions and I wondered, are you mine? Who will care for you?
Paul and I decided we would wait and talk with the doctor, to get a better idea of how serious the situation was. I guess everyone wants a healthy baby, and we certainly were no exception. But not every baby is healthy, and we suddenly found ourselves faced with a choice. We hoped the doctor would say things weren't so bad. We hoped for a miracle. And we got one, but not in the way I thought we would.
That night Paul fell asleep before I did, and as I crawled under the blankets and placed my hand on his back I loved him more than life and was all of a sudden overwhelmed with reassurance. We would be fine. I knew we would be fine. And that, right there, was a miracle, because my exhausted soul could not imagine how that would ever be possible, but peace claimed my body and I slept.
The next day we, drove to South Jersey to meet with our social worker. We stopped at a local mall on our way home and sat in the food court eating pizza and every once in a while we would exchange a weary smile or a brush of the hand and I thought we maybe looked like all the other tired couples, but there was nobody with as much love as us, and I knew the meaning behind those weary smiles.
Then we sat in the parking lot and Paul called the doctor. Paul said he was nervous, and I was too. And the doctor told us how sick the baby was, so sick that she would likely never leave the hospital, so sick that she would need care we just couldn't possibly provide. I watched Paul shake his head and take notes and Paul hung up the phone and we looked at each other.
"Sweetheart, I don't think this is our time..."
Paul looked at me and I knew, knew that this baby was not ours. "I know" I said, and we drove in exhausted silence and every so often I looked at Paul and knew there was a way to feel good again, and that we would find it, but I wondered about this baby, and who would love her, who would be her mother.
That evening, we called the lawyer we had hired to represent the birth mother. We told him about our decision, and thanked him for all of his help. We told him there was a check in the mail for his services and that's when it happened, when we got a miracle.
This lawyer knows a couple who wants specifically to adopt a special needs baby. And the couple found out about this baby and were excited to adopt her, but without financial means to do so, and the check we sent the lawyer will allow this couple to adopt this baby and that is a miracle to me, that where there had been pain there was now peace and the baby would be loved and cared for and a couple given the experience for which they have been waiting.
It is a week now since this began. I have gone from excitement to concern and from concern to grief and from grief to peace, and my body and soul rejoice in the love I feel for Paul, and for the opportunity we had to participate in the life of this mother and baby.
I am, once again, waiting. A week has passed and it could have been years for the tiredness in my soul, and I have nothing to show for the intensity of this experience, nothing except a tiny dress that hangs in my closet.
Waiting.
That's the message Linda left on my phone last Sunday. I hadn't heard from Linda in a while, not since she and her husband and new baby moved back to Utah. I liked her. She's beautiful and soft-spoken and kind and considerate. We served in church together. Her baby made me want to shout for joy, she was so cute.
But I hadn't heard from her in like a year and half. Which is why I was a little surprised when I knew, just knew, that Linda was going to tell me she had a baby for me to adopt.
I called her right back. She answered, and we engaged in small talk until after a while I cut to the chase and was like "what can I do for you?" and that's when Linda told me about her. She told me about her friend, her wonderful, bright and very pregnant friend.
This friend was due on March 12th. It was a girl, the doctors thought. And Linda had thought of us and the birth mother wanted to give us her baby and I hung up the phone and told Paul and we were like YESSSSS and then I called Linda back and left her like three messages, each more excited than the last, telling her we would love to adopt this baby.
Paul and I got this news while we were on vacation, staying with redstarmama and her family. That night, we went to the beach and had a bonfire. The tide glowed blue and when you walked on the sand little explosions of sparkly stars appeared under your feet and while it was probably something to do with algae or plankton or something science-ish, really to me it was magic and the whole world, the ocean and sand and sky, was celebrating the start of our family.
The next day we were in the car with redstarmama and her family, on our way to the museum and Linda called to tell us the birth mom was excited and the baby would be ours and then Paul got sick to his stomach and puked and we thought that's such a good story, that Paul puked as he found out he was going to be a dad.
I couldn't stop smiling. We called our parents and siblings and we talked about names, and I looked up baby stuff online, stuff like strollers and cribs and baby swings. We got a lawyer and filled out paperwork. And when I watched Paul help with redstarmama's little girl I was thinking about what it would be like to watch him with our own little girl.
We got back from vacation, and there was more paperwork, more to be done. A lot to be done. And we had just eight weeks to do it. That was okay, though. Neither Paul or myself are prone to looking a gift baby in the mouth.
Paul and I were excited. Thrilled. Beyond words, really. We were excited and thrilled beyond words. Thursday night we couldn't sleep and we stayed up until three in the morning looking at baby clothes online and making plans and when we crawled into bed it was only because our bodies insisted on rest.
We woke late, at ten. And I stumbled into the living room and checked my phone and Linda had tried calling five times and then everything changed.
The baby had been born. Even though the birth mother had a doctor appointment just the other day and everything had looked fine, she had gone into labor and the baby was born. It sounded like everything was fine, though. Just early.
And Paul and I proceeded to push a month's worth of paperwork through in a matter of hours and it wasn't how we had thought things would happen, but everything seemed to be falling into place and it felt meant to be.
That night, Paul talked to one of the nurses who was helping care for the baby. The baby was sick, she said. So many things wrong. Words like intraventricular hemmorhage, grade three, things like the cord was wrapped around the baby's neck and she was blue and listless and nobody knew just yet how bad things were, but they sounded pretty bad.
We were up late that night. We talked and prayed and thought. Was this what we were meant to do? Could we care for such a sick little baby? Was she ours? And if she wasn't, how could we feel good about saying no? Who would love this baby? Who would give the birth mother the peace of mind I am sure she desperately needed?
The lawyer sent us a picture of her. She looked so sick, so blue, so sad. And I looked at her and felt a mixture of unidentifiable and extreme emotions and I wondered, are you mine? Who will care for you?
Paul and I decided we would wait and talk with the doctor, to get a better idea of how serious the situation was. I guess everyone wants a healthy baby, and we certainly were no exception. But not every baby is healthy, and we suddenly found ourselves faced with a choice. We hoped the doctor would say things weren't so bad. We hoped for a miracle. And we got one, but not in the way I thought we would.
That night Paul fell asleep before I did, and as I crawled under the blankets and placed my hand on his back I loved him more than life and was all of a sudden overwhelmed with reassurance. We would be fine. I knew we would be fine. And that, right there, was a miracle, because my exhausted soul could not imagine how that would ever be possible, but peace claimed my body and I slept.
The next day we, drove to South Jersey to meet with our social worker. We stopped at a local mall on our way home and sat in the food court eating pizza and every once in a while we would exchange a weary smile or a brush of the hand and I thought we maybe looked like all the other tired couples, but there was nobody with as much love as us, and I knew the meaning behind those weary smiles.
Then we sat in the parking lot and Paul called the doctor. Paul said he was nervous, and I was too. And the doctor told us how sick the baby was, so sick that she would likely never leave the hospital, so sick that she would need care we just couldn't possibly provide. I watched Paul shake his head and take notes and Paul hung up the phone and we looked at each other.
"Sweetheart, I don't think this is our time..."
Paul looked at me and I knew, knew that this baby was not ours. "I know" I said, and we drove in exhausted silence and every so often I looked at Paul and knew there was a way to feel good again, and that we would find it, but I wondered about this baby, and who would love her, who would be her mother.
That evening, we called the lawyer we had hired to represent the birth mother. We told him about our decision, and thanked him for all of his help. We told him there was a check in the mail for his services and that's when it happened, when we got a miracle.
This lawyer knows a couple who wants specifically to adopt a special needs baby. And the couple found out about this baby and were excited to adopt her, but without financial means to do so, and the check we sent the lawyer will allow this couple to adopt this baby and that is a miracle to me, that where there had been pain there was now peace and the baby would be loved and cared for and a couple given the experience for which they have been waiting.
It is a week now since this began. I have gone from excitement to concern and from concern to grief and from grief to peace, and my body and soul rejoice in the love I feel for Paul, and for the opportunity we had to participate in the life of this mother and baby.
I am, once again, waiting. A week has passed and it could have been years for the tiredness in my soul, and I have nothing to show for the intensity of this experience, nothing except a tiny dress that hangs in my closet.
Waiting.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
hiatus
I am not at home.
That's not a statement referring to the rather spacey state of my brain, although there are moments when that most certainly is the case. No, I am not at home, because Paul and I are in beautiful Aptos, CA, visiting redstarmama and her charming family.
And I loves it.
So, I am taking a teeny tiny blogging break. Until Thursday. And then I will regale you with tales of wonder, tales of hearbreaking depth and beauty, tales of bacon and twinkies and smoked ribs and fireworks on the beach.
Not now, though. Right now I'm going to eat eclair cake and pass out.
That's not a statement referring to the rather spacey state of my brain, although there are moments when that most certainly is the case. No, I am not at home, because Paul and I are in beautiful Aptos, CA, visiting redstarmama and her charming family.
And I loves it.
So, I am taking a teeny tiny blogging break. Until Thursday. And then I will regale you with tales of wonder, tales of hearbreaking depth and beauty, tales of bacon and twinkies and smoked ribs and fireworks on the beach.
Not now, though. Right now I'm going to eat eclair cake and pass out.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
a slight miscommunication involving pirates
"Kevin and Ryanne are going to spend the night."
Paul says this to me on our way home from church. This makes me happy. Ecstatic. Kevin and Ryanne are among my favorite people in the universe. And Paul and I walk to the subway and my brain is having all these happy thoughts about playing with my nephew and then my brain is like,
"You have to clean, Andrea." And in case you were wondering, my brain has a voice that sounds like Judi Dench so it can be kinda intimidating. My brain means business.
And then I am ecstatic and also freaking out about the fact that I'm pretty sure I threw the entire contents of my dresser onto the floor in a frantic search for my magenta turtleneck and I NEED TO REMEDY THIS NOW.
We get back from church, and I walk into our bedroom and Paul follows me with the look on his face that says "I will do whatever you say because I think there's a good chance you're unstable at present" and I start throwing stuff in closets and drawers and I make this noise:
"AAAARRRGH"
And by "AAAAARRRGH" I mean "I am feeling mildly unhappy about my inability to make my bed before leaving the apartment."
Paul doesn't get that, though. Paul thinks I'm doing a fun pirate voice and he responds:
"AAAAAAARRRRGH, shiver me timbers, we be having a lot of cleaning to do, matey!!"
And I glare. Just to make clear the fact that I am not, in fact, playing pirate, and that I am engaged in some very non-pirate like cleaning. And then I laugh.
Because that's just funny, man.
Paul says this to me on our way home from church. This makes me happy. Ecstatic. Kevin and Ryanne are among my favorite people in the universe. And Paul and I walk to the subway and my brain is having all these happy thoughts about playing with my nephew and then my brain is like,
"You have to clean, Andrea." And in case you were wondering, my brain has a voice that sounds like Judi Dench so it can be kinda intimidating. My brain means business.
And then I am ecstatic and also freaking out about the fact that I'm pretty sure I threw the entire contents of my dresser onto the floor in a frantic search for my magenta turtleneck and I NEED TO REMEDY THIS NOW.
We get back from church, and I walk into our bedroom and Paul follows me with the look on his face that says "I will do whatever you say because I think there's a good chance you're unstable at present" and I start throwing stuff in closets and drawers and I make this noise:
"AAAARRRGH"
And by "AAAAARRRGH" I mean "I am feeling mildly unhappy about my inability to make my bed before leaving the apartment."
Paul doesn't get that, though. Paul thinks I'm doing a fun pirate voice and he responds:
"AAAAAAARRRRGH, shiver me timbers, we be having a lot of cleaning to do, matey!!"
And I glare. Just to make clear the fact that I am not, in fact, playing pirate, and that I am engaged in some very non-pirate like cleaning. And then I laugh.
Because that's just funny, man.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
my life begins with balloons and streamers
It is New Year's Eve.
I am sitting on the couch next to Paul, while he watches Survivor Man. Survivor Man just caught a fish and Paul is watching all intent-like. I bet he's taking mental notes on what to do should he ever find himself stranded in the arctic with nothing but a canoe and his wiles.
We ordered Indian food, and when I am done posting I will make hot chocolate and I will ask Paul about his favorite part of Survivor Man and then I will fall asleep while reading. Maybe I will be awake at midnight, but probably not.
I am thinking about my brother John. He just turned fourteen and he gets to go to his first church dance tonight. And that makes me think about my first dance, on New Year's Eve after I had turned fourteen.
I curled my hair and I wore this new plaid dress that I got for Christmas and I think I went with friends but I don't remember. I just remember walking into the church building and you could hear music from inside and it was so exciting my heart was beating all fast because I might meet the love of my life.
The room was all decorated with streamers and balloons and the lights were dim and people were dancing and it was like life began right there, like life began with balloons and streamers and boys.
I know I was there with friends but why can't I remember who? It was probably Stacy, or Gail, or Jenn, but I can't see their faces in my memory. In my mind it is only me, in the middle of my life beginning.
We stand in a circle, me and my faceless friends, and it is a fast song and I try to find the beat, try to learn how to move to the music and I am awkward but it gets better and someone taps me on the shoulder and it's a boy.
He tells me I look beautiful and my heart soars because I have waited my whole life to hear that and I have braces and my nose is too big for my face but I can't afford plastic surgery and my mom wouldn't approve anyways and so to hear this boy tell me I am beautiful is amazing.
His name is Keith and he asks me to dance twice and he maybe holds me just a little too close but it's exciting and he's sixteen and he lives in Camarillo. I think Keith is a good name and I wonder will I marry Keith because I'm always wondering who I will marry.
Then the dance is over, and the lights turn on and everyone is standing there, all sweaty, and nobody looks quite as good as they did when the lights were dim. Mom picks me up and I am floating as I ride in the blue minivan because my life just began.
And now I am sitting on the couch and I think about John and I want to reach three-thousand miles to California and give him a hug. I wonder if he'll feel like his life is beginning.
Probably not. I don't think balloons and streamers have quite the same effect on him.
I am sitting on the couch next to Paul, while he watches Survivor Man. Survivor Man just caught a fish and Paul is watching all intent-like. I bet he's taking mental notes on what to do should he ever find himself stranded in the arctic with nothing but a canoe and his wiles.
We ordered Indian food, and when I am done posting I will make hot chocolate and I will ask Paul about his favorite part of Survivor Man and then I will fall asleep while reading. Maybe I will be awake at midnight, but probably not.
I am thinking about my brother John. He just turned fourteen and he gets to go to his first church dance tonight. And that makes me think about my first dance, on New Year's Eve after I had turned fourteen.
I curled my hair and I wore this new plaid dress that I got for Christmas and I think I went with friends but I don't remember. I just remember walking into the church building and you could hear music from inside and it was so exciting my heart was beating all fast because I might meet the love of my life.
The room was all decorated with streamers and balloons and the lights were dim and people were dancing and it was like life began right there, like life began with balloons and streamers and boys.
I know I was there with friends but why can't I remember who? It was probably Stacy, or Gail, or Jenn, but I can't see their faces in my memory. In my mind it is only me, in the middle of my life beginning.
We stand in a circle, me and my faceless friends, and it is a fast song and I try to find the beat, try to learn how to move to the music and I am awkward but it gets better and someone taps me on the shoulder and it's a boy.
He tells me I look beautiful and my heart soars because I have waited my whole life to hear that and I have braces and my nose is too big for my face but I can't afford plastic surgery and my mom wouldn't approve anyways and so to hear this boy tell me I am beautiful is amazing.
His name is Keith and he asks me to dance twice and he maybe holds me just a little too close but it's exciting and he's sixteen and he lives in Camarillo. I think Keith is a good name and I wonder will I marry Keith because I'm always wondering who I will marry.
Then the dance is over, and the lights turn on and everyone is standing there, all sweaty, and nobody looks quite as good as they did when the lights were dim. Mom picks me up and I am floating as I ride in the blue minivan because my life just began.
And now I am sitting on the couch and I think about John and I want to reach three-thousand miles to California and give him a hug. I wonder if he'll feel like his life is beginning.
Probably not. I don't think balloons and streamers have quite the same effect on him.
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