I'm drinking Kool-Aid

I’m drinking Kool-Aid. It’s the cherry flavor. It tastes good. I’ve got lots of ice and a big plastic cup and I’m crunching on the little stray bits of ice that are floating to the top of the cup every time I take a sip.

I like Kool-Aid…even the sugar-free kind, which is what I’m slurping at the moment.

slurp, slurp, slurpity, slurp

Have I ever told you I have days when I admit I know nothing about adoption? That all this is like walking an unmarked path through the woods?

GAH.

Guess what? *giggles* I’m having more of those days. Not only am I forging my own way through motherhood, I’m forging my own way through motherhood of someone else’s biological child. Let me tell you something: some days the experience can be intense.

righteous, dude

Sometimes I go through months of dark contemplation of my actions, wondering how to control a situation that’s completely out of my control. Now, you’d think I’d have learned by now that even my own perfectionism cannot extend past my own little world. I cannot create the perfect adoption experience for any of us. Not eBaby, not me, not my husband, and most certainly not Crettie or Arthur. Yet here I am, trying my damnedest.

And now I have to laugh at myself and my own self-righteous ridiculousness. I always want to make this shit about me. Me.

It’s not about me.

smacks self and giggles hysterically

Crettie’s back. She needed some time to process. She hasn’t said much about it other than the one thing that completely unhinged her; the one thing she cherished above all others regarding our visit; the one thing that broke her down completely:

When eBaby gave her a hug and kiss good-bye, and then she crawled into Arthur’s arms and did the same thing…at a time when her stranger anxiety was at full-tilt. She smooched and hugged them like they’d been here every day.

And I want to make this shit about me. Or the house. Or whether I fucking made the tea sweet enough. It’s not about me. It’s about losing your child to another mother. It’s about having to accept that kiss and walk away…to have to hand over the Christmas present, watch your child crawl all over some other woman and call her ‘Mommy’ all afternoon, accept these sweet, little kisses and then somehow get into your car and function well-enough to get yourself from Point A to Point B in one piece.

Could I do it? Probably not. Would I need a few weeks or months to get myself together in order to communicate with Mom 2.0? Oh, yeah I would.

years, I’d need years…

Crettie emailed me and apologized. She apologized. The woman I find stronger than anyone I’ve ever known…someone I grow to love more and more each day — she apologized TO ME.

No, Crettie. It’s me who owes you the apology. It’s not about me. I’m going to stop drinking the damn Kool-aid and start slurping a more grown-up drink. It’s time, don’t you think?