There is a level of self-pity that I cannot bear to even inflict on the blogosphere. I've been hiding (OKAY, wallowing) for the last week or so, just feeling devoid of hope.
I haven't planted any mint
My eyebrows are a mess
(I have done some amharic practise though).
As is usually the case, though, after a few days of feeling intensely sad, things are beginning to look up a bit. Nothing has actually changed, it just all feels a bit more manageable. If we have to wait until October, when courts open again, to find out about our baby, I will live.
After all, that's only 8 weeks, and I've been alive for about 1564 weeks, so it's only about half a percent of my life. A drop in the bucket, really.
If our baby lives to be seventy, it's only 0.2 percent of their total life. Hardly noticeable. The turn of a page.
It would mean waiting 14% longer than we already have, and that feels like a long time. But we've managed so far.
And we'll get through this last bit.
I'm sure of it.