Three Thoughts

Thought the first:

It's amazing how this baby, a person that we haven't even met, has already opened our lives up in ways we never would have expected. Last week a group of UK adopters all met up and had an Ethiopian cooking lesson, which was brilliant. It was shoddily organised by moi, (and I found out that wow, I am unbelieveably bad at organising events - useful lesson) which means that I got to know the lady who did the demonstration- she runs an Ethiopian cafe near where we live, and due to my uselessness at organising, we had to have quite a few confabs. Anyway, I saw her again yesterday and it struck me just how much I like her and that we never, ever would have met her if it hadn't been for HFB. And I certainly would never have learned to cook zelzel tibs. Later yesterday evening, we went around to another Ethiopian friend's for dinner. We met him when we went to Ethiopian church (which I blogged about a while back). He is a truly radiant person - it's such a pleasure to know him, and again, it never would have happened if it weren't for our unknown, unmet HFB.

Thanks, kiddo.


Thought the second:

I've known for a while that the most effective fertility treatment in the universe is either to be my friend, or to be related to me. I thought I would feel okay about this by now (you're expecting, I'm expecting, lets swap stories about prams) but each new announcement reminds me just how long we've been waiting, and how long we will continue to wait, and that nobody is going to keep these babies in an orphanage for two extra months while their parents wait for the courts to open again after the rainy season. I know, I know, it's not all about me, and yes, I am a sucky friend / relation and I should be cast into the depths of the ocean. Please believe that I already know this.

And yet. Rather than thinking 'oh, how lovely, more babies for my baby to play with!' I think: 'July? You mean THIS July? That is so monumentally unfair!'

Actually I think that on one occasion, I may have actually said this. See, depths of the ocean.

But I'm realising that a time is approaching when a twelve week announcement won't have that effect on me. Barring unforeseen changes (did I really even need to spell that out?), someone will stroke their belly and say 'November!' and I'll smile beatifically and say 'oh, how lovely. Our babies can grow up together'. That moment can't come too soon.

Thought the third:

J tells me that I can't get upset if people aren't understanding of what we're going through if I don't actually tell them. So, I've been trying to be more communicative with people about what this wait is really like. But these emotions are difficult to convey. I mention the uncertainty and the waiting and the most common response is : 'Oh, that's just like being pregnant!' Ummmm, no, it's really really not. I know that being pregnant is difficult. (Anybody else tempted to write a book called 'What to expect to hear when friends are expecting?') But those difficulties are not these difficulties. This baby is separated from me not by layers of skin and flesh and 40 weeks of waiting, but by oceans and continents and what feels on some days like the entire space-time continuum. I love and long for this child as much as if he or she was inside me, but I can do nothing concrete to keep this child safe. I can't eat or not-eat, do or not-do. I cannot monitor anything. And I know none of those things are guarantees, but I can't even do what I can, because I can't do anything. I don't think I ever really knew what trust was until I realised this. All I can do is pray: Lord, please look after my baby.