Amusement ride?

The awesome 10 year old that I get to hang out with most mornings and afternoons each week visited the Santa Cruz Boardwalk last weekend. She rode the Giant Dipper for the first time (the famed roller coaster featured in the great '80s vampire flick - before vampires were as trendy as they are now - The Lost Boys). Anyway, she was quite proud of herself for this accomplishment because, as she told me, she's "not really a roller coaster person."

And I realized, I'm not really a roller coaster person either. At least not of the emotional variety that we've been on lately. I used to really like them - the unexpected twists and turns, not being able to see what comes next at the top of the hill, the heart-pounding, stomach dropping into your feet adrenaline rush of it all. They never lasted long enough. I always wanted to go again. Now, I just feel like stop-the-dang-thing-I'm-going-to-puke-I've-had-enough-of-this-let-me-off-let-me-off-let-me-off! 

Listen, I know what you are thinking. The roller coaster metaphor is overdone when it comes to adoption and specifically waiting for placement. I once thought that too. Come on, how bad can it really be? Roller coasters are fun! I get it. I know. But believe me, there's a reason people use this example over and over again. Because a roller coaster is exactly what it feels like. You're up, you're down, you're all around. One day, you think you could have a baby soon. Then, it's Mother's Day and it feels like you'll never be a mother. Then, you get a call from the agency and there may be someone who might pick you. Or not. It's like the longest roller coaster ever and you're stuck on it for the foreseeable future with absolutely no sign the ride will ever end and the adrenaline rush is no longer fun but just makes you feel all anxious and panicky and exhausted.  At least that's how it makes me feel. 

I think I may have misrepresented the truth in one of my earlier blog posts. I may have made it sound like Shelley was the only one with control issues, the one having a hard time with this whole waiting thing. I don't think I meant to lie. I actually think I was okay. I think my Calvinist upbringing (I was raised Presbyterian) had me convinced that things would happen a certain way because they were predestined to. Huh, that was total autopilot. Now that I've stopped to examine it, I'm not so sure.

I am no longer amused by the "fun park" we seem locked in. I'm over all the merry-go-rounds, ferris wheels, and roller coasters. I feel old. I feel tired. I feel frustrated. I feel like I'm searching for someone in a crushing crowd of revelers - sometimes I think I catch a glimpse of them disappearing around the corner over by the corndog stand so I pick up the pace, dodging around the folks lined up for cotton candy, the happy couples strolling along holding hands, the over-tired toddlers in mid-meltdown - but then once I catch up I realize, nope, not who I thought it was. And I have to start looking all over again. Frankly, it's exhausting.

But what I have to remember, and this isn't always easy, is that my life - our life- is pretty freakin' great. We live in an amazing place. I have a "job" that allows me to spend time with one of the most creative, intuitive, funny kids I've ever met. We have friends, resources, access to healthcare, a yummy Indian restaurant that delivers on a Friday night when we don't feel like cooking. We are not making the unfathomably difficult choice to have someone else parent our child. And, not only do Shelley and I love each other, but after almost a dozen years together, we still dig each other. In fact, there is no one I'd rather have beside me on the thrill ride of life. But for now I'm going to hope it's more like a slow kiddie train than a roller coaster.

Swimming with Sharks

When Shelley and I were in the Galapagos last summer, we had the opportunity to swim with sharks. Now, I'm not a super phobic type person, I have no problem with spiders and heights and flying and such things that many people fear. I've done some daring, risky things in my youth. But sharks freak me out. In fact, the thought of them is always in the back of my mind when swimming or snorkeling in the ocean. I have no idea why, but there it is.

A few days after the last post, we missed another call. Then, the bat phone rang again and this time... We answered it! We talked, then skyped, then flew down to southern California and met the couple on the other end of the phone. They told us they wanted us to be their baby's parents! We got excited. And anxious. And a whole lot of other things.

Something I fear more than sharks, though, is missing out on a rare opportunity. I absolutely can't stand the thought of being really close to doing something cool and then not going through with it. So I got on the panga (motorized raft) that was taking us out to the shark-infested snorkeling site. These were not Great White Sharks. They were Hammerheads and Reef Sharks and Galapagos Sharks. They are well-fed because people are not allowed to over-fish their habitat. They would not even notice us, the guides assured us. At this point, I was really freaked out and was wondering why in the heck I was on this boat.

After being matched for 3 weeks, the couple decided they didn't like the agency format and chose to go a different way - without us. This is absolutely their choice - and that choice is one of the fundamental tenets of real open adoption - but it made us really sad. And frustrated. And disappointed. And a whole lot of other things.

When we got to the site, there was a tunnel through two huge rocks that was too narrow for the panga to go in; it would have to meet us on the other side. There would be no turning back - if I jumped off the boat, I'd have to swim through this dark, narrow, shark-infested tunnel.

And that's it, isn't it? One of the great truths of life: The only way out, is through. We have jumped into the cold waters of waiting and now we are stuck in the tunnel. It's freakin' scary in here! We thought we could see the light at the end, and now the waves have dragged us back in, crashing us up against the rocks. It feels like we will never get out, like we'll spend the rest of our lives caught in a riptide with sharks circling underneath us. 

I actually have no idea how I made myself jump off the panga into the water. I remember being pretty terrified. I remember Shelley telling me it was going to be okay. And then I was in the (very cold) water and into the tunnel and the guides were pointing out sharks and I was struggling to see them. And then there they were, about ten feet below me! The guides were right, the sharks had no idea we were even there. They were just going on with their lives as usual.

And I went from being completely afraid and freaked out to completely awed in a matter of seconds.

Everything about this experience of waiting to be chosen, of waiting to be parents, feels just as terrifying and impossible as jumping into that water and swimming through that freezing cold, dark tunnel full of sharks. But I have to trust that once we're on the other side, it will feel every bit as awesome, too. 

Missed connection...?

So... The bat phone rang on Saturday. Shelley was parking the car and couldn't grab it in time and has now convinced herself that this was the one and only contact we will ever get and because she didn't answer the phone in time we have lost out on our chance to be parents. Did I mention my wonderful spouse can be a *bit* of a drama queen?

This incident led to a conversation about how we each were handling (or not handling) this whole waiting thing. I don't know what it is, maybe I figure somewhere deep down that we can't both be losing it at the same time. Maybe the thought of actually getting the call freaks me out almost as much as not getting it. Maybe I'm dumping all my anxious, angsty energy into making stuff. But for some reason, I'm pretty content in the knowledge that this will happen when and how it's supposed to and there's not much I can do to control it one way or the other in the meantime. At least I am right now. Today.

Suffice it to say, that is NOT how Shelley is feeling about the whole thing. And I would hazard a guess that my weird zen-ness is probably irritating to her.  It's not an easy thing to do, this letting go of control. I definitely have areas in my life where I am not good at it. At all. I do think pouring my anxiety about this, or anything frankly, into my artsy-craftsy-creativey pursuits probably is one of the major ways that I am dealing with this right now. It's basically how I deal with most of my feelings - good or bad - so why not this, too? And it makes me feel like I'm *doing* something to prepare for this ambiguous kid that will someday, hopefully, be ours.

Only problem is, I'm running out of room in my studio for all the mobiles I've been making. Is there such a thing as a nursery with too much art?

Messages from the Universe?

Mostly, I don't like running. I do it to stay in shape, to stay sane. A lot of times, the things I encounter when I'm out running annoy me (careless drivers who almost hit me, unaware people who almost trip me with their ginormous strollers, etc). But sometimes, sometimes I kind of love it. Of course the endorphin high is awesome, and when the weather here in SF is gorgeous and sunny and just the right temperature it's very pleasant to be outside, and the feeling of accomplishing a goal, no matter how small, is nice.  But that's not it. What I love somedays - and believe me, I know this sounds so totally hippy-dippy, wheatgrass-drinkin', drum-circlin', well, California - are the messages I get from the Universe (or whatever you want to call it) while I'm out there running. Like this:

Really think about that one for a minute. What does it mean - for you - to Occupy Your Heart? What does it mean for me? What would it mean for all of us? And not just in relation to the Occupy movement, but to life itself - adoption, parenting, work, creating art, relating to others - everything. All. the. time. If nothing else, I think it's a really good place to start. So thanks, Universe (or people on San Jose Ave that posted this in your window). 

Bouncy balls

So, we are officially in circulation. Waiting. (I don't think we are very good at waiting.) On the one hand it feels really exciting, to finally be "on the books" and knowing we could become parents at any time. On the other hand, knowing we could become parents at any time is crazy scary! And then there's the whole not-really-knowing-anything thing (which is more a not-being-in-control-of-anything thing). Balancing the fact that we could get a call anytime with the fact that it could be years and years and years is not an easy task. We're basically all over the place. Like one of those bouncy balls you get from a quarter machine at the grocery store. It's bright, it's colorful, it's fun and bouncy. It's also super unpredictable and goes wherever the heck it wants to. Lots of fun, until it bounces out into the parking lot and under a car, or into some bushes or something.

So, somedays, we're all about embracing the excitement, thinking about the future, planning for a kid. Until, suddenly, we're not. (Okay, I'll confess, mostly that's me. The one who gets overwhelmed by the whole planning thing in general.) Here's an example:

Me: Hey, do you want to go to the furniture store and look at rockers or gliders for the nursery?
Shelley: Sure. Let's go.
A little while later, after walking around a very large furniture store and finally making our way to the floor with the kids' stuff...
Shelley: What about this one. I like it.
Me: Nah. I don't like that one.
Shelley: Really? What's wrong with it?
Me: I don't know. Can we go? I can't do this right now.
Shelley: What? This was your idea.
Me: I know. Can we just go?

In my defense, I'm not the only one acting a little cray-cray about all this, either. Shelley has somehow convinced herself that the Universe will not see fit to add to our family until our house is clean! I'm not making this up - she said some version of this to me just the other day.

Mostly, we are trying to focus on the exciting, fun stuff about becoming parents. We have bought some things for the nursery, and I've made some arty stuff for it too. I don't actually know what it was about the rocker/glider that day, but on pretty much all things I am the procrastinator in the relationship, so maybe I was just playing my role. I don't know. I do know that our difference in personality in regards to planning is one reason Shelley and I work so well together. She "speeds me up" and I "slow her down" and we *mostly* achieve a nice balance on things. (We're also lucky to have some helpful "Guides" in our life that remind us to focus on that balance, among other things.)

But for now, until we get the hang of this waiting thing, it seems we're just going to be a little goofy - stress-eating leftover Halloween candy, furiously cleaning the house to appease the Universe, slowly edging towards (and then away from and then towards again) getting a nursery ready. Basically, I think we're probably going to just keep bouncing all over the place for a while!

Open heartedness

It seems like I've been getting a lot of messages about open-heartedness recently. My dad is facing open-heart surgery, a literal opening of the heart to repair it. So this has me thinking a lot about the figurative implications of opening the heart. It's really only in western traditions that we believe these two are separate. Many traditions believe that the "figurative" healing leads to actual, physical healing. Beyond that, though, it feels really important to open my heart during this adoption process. Obviously I want to open my heart to a child, but also to potential birthparents who are struggling with an extremely difficult decision. I need my heart to be open to whatever possibilities lie ahead, be they painful or jubilant. We are too often taught, I think, to keep our hearts closed, for fear they will get bruised or broken. But it seems that just as in a procedure for physical repair, our hearts have to be opened to heal; to let the good stuff in and the bad stuff out.  I'm not saying it's easy - it's not. But if we allow ourselves to be open, to let our hearts break and get put back together again, over and over, then each time we can make more and more space in between the cracks for openness. For love. And isn't that what it's all about?

Diving in

It took me a long time to learn to dive off the diving board. I didn't have a problem diving into the water from the side of the pool, but something about that extra 3 feet really freaked me out. I'm pretty sure I may have climbed back down and given up at least the first time I tried. I distinctly remember a series of jumps from the board where I lost my nerve at the last minute. I can still remember the feeling, though, of standing out on the edge of the diving board, looking down at the water, and being momentarily paralyzed.

I don't know what it was about the diving board that freaked me out. Perhaps it was the fact that the water was so deep. I wasn't (still not) the world's strongest swimmer, so maybe I feared something would go wrong and I'd drown. Maybe it was a fear of "doing it wrong" while others were watching. Or just that I really wanted to get it right the first time.

We are about to "go in the pool" for the adoption - meaning, all our paperwork will be checked off and we will be "waiting" for someone to choose us to parent their child. I feel like I'm on the edge of that diving board again now, looking down at the water, paralyzed.

Except this time, I'm acutely aware of all the things that are freaking me out: the water is deep, maybe I'll drown, I want to get it right.

As a kid, I couldn't stand on that diving board forever - there was a line behind me, waiting their turn, after all. So, finally, I took a deep breath and dove in. It wasn't pretty. I made a loud smack. It hurt. But, then, I came up for air. Swam over to the ladder. And got out to do it again.