Stats

Viv had her four month appointment today, and she was again deemed perfect.  Even the ARNP said that she has an ideally shaped face.  So, professionals have confirmed her to be so, to no one's surprise.   I mean, look at this face!

She is now 14.5 pounds, which is the 75th percentile and she is 25.25 inches long with a head circumference of 42 centimeters, both of which are in the 80-90th percentile.  Her muscular development is ahead of the curve and her sleeping habits (so far) are exceptional.  I'm so proud!  

If only these tricks were part of my audition package.

I've often thought I was born in the wrong era.  I wanted to be born in the 20s to allow me to be in my 20s in the 40s, so I could be a big band singer.  In my elaborate fantasy, Christian is a trumpeter in the band and we meet and fall in sparkly, lyrical love set to fantastic dance routines in sound stages made up to look like Paris.  However, if being a singer in the 40s would mean competing with the Ross Sisters, I would have been screwed.  I can't compete with that. 

Who are these women and why have most of us never heard of them until now?

It was the shrimp, wasn't it?

God, let's have a little chat. I gave up two things for lent: buying yarn and eating fast food. I've been incredibly devoted to that first promise, which has been surprisingly difficult. I've mentioned before how yarn is my soul's warm blanket on a cold, cold night, and not picking up a beautiful skein here are there has been utter torture. The skeins I already have are not shielding me from the bitter cold of the recession. However, not spending any money on anything, much less yarn, has been another kind of balm for my worry, so I'm at least glad for that. Oh, and everything I've knitted in the past month has been with yarn from my stash, so there.

So really, fast food was a secondary promise. I only gave it up to save us some money and calories. I don't eat it all that often, really, it's mainly a convenience thing, so when Christian brought home Ivar's shrimp and fries last night, I gladly ate the meal. It was already paid for, so throwing it away would have been wasteful, it was Friday, so no meat, and I've been sick for over a week with a sinus infection, as stated in my most recent post, so I haven't had a lot of energy to cook. So why the disproportionate punishment, oh white haired One?

That first call to the bathroom at 1 am started out blandly enough, I thought I just had a little distress from the fried food. Happens sometimes. I have tempermental bowels. But then, the violent one two to the gut, wrenching my stomach out through my belly button and wringing out the contents in front of my eyes, not one, not two, not even three but five or six times, until there was nothing left but tears in my eyes? And then, the next bout at 3, so brutal that the force of it lifted me to my tiptoes, gasping and choking. But that wasn't enough! At 5 I was so grateful to have a bathroom small enough where I could sit on the toilet and reach the tub that I could have kissed the porcelain if it hadn't been visited once before, and not by a kiss.

And now, unable to even keep water down, so wrung out and exhausted that even typing this is an effort that will render me useless for hours, wondering when it will end. And all because of that shrimp. I get it. You made your point.

Warm now, please.

In three weeks, I will be here:

Right now, I'm cold, I've been sick for over a week and I have a messy house littered with hampers of laundry.  At least it's clean laundry.  That way, if I fall asleep under it, I won't wake up smelly.

They help her self-confidence.

I have a shameful addiction, even more embarrassing than my love for Duran Duran and Easy Cheese.  I cannot stop watching pageant shows on WE and TLC.  Exploitative parents?  Check.   Unrealistic expectations?  Yep.  Enormous pressure placed on tiny shoulders?  Of course.  Women who wish they were still young enough to compete so they force their daughters to dress in matching outfits so they can compete together?  Don't you ever doubt it.  Tragic, inbred families who have one lone beautiful child they hope will save them (and their gene pool) from poverty/obscurity/institutionalization?  Yes, oui and da.  Fathers who watch blandly as their wives/sisters/mothers/grandmothers turn their children into hateful, vain, selfish, spoiled, greedy, arrogant little bitches?  You betcha.  Mothers who spend an entire month's salary on one beaded dress that makes her daughter look like a cowgirl stripper from the 50s, but keep the expense from the husband?  What he doesn't know won't hurt him.  Telling the world that no expense (nails, hair, tanning, clothing) is too great as long as it makes the little girl happy?  Paging Suze Orman.  Hiring a pageant coach/hairdresser/choreographer for a two-year-old  because only the most artificial child with the biggest hair is allowed to win?  Sing out, Louise.  Teaching the next generation that the only thing in the world that matters, aside from getting married before you get fat, is being pretty?  Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who's the vainest of them all?  All-encompassing fury boiling in my innards, so hot and violent that you can hear the enamel being ground from my teeth three counties over?  Just ask Farmer Bob in Snohomish.  He made a complaint about the noise.  

I'm so deeply ashamed that I now know the what flippers are and that the Grand Supreme title is for the contestant with the highest overall score.  Now where's my shoe so I can beat some sense into these parents?

The constant struggle.

Christian and I have already started talking about schools for Viv.  I went to Catholic school, he went to a free school in Seattle and then public grade school and high school in Bellingham.  I believe the education I received at private school put me ahead academically of my peer group in public school, and, as I spent a year and a half at a public junior high and was years ahead of my classmates in math and English, I had a good basis of comparison upon which to make that judgment.  

We agree so far that Viv should attend a private high school such as Blanchette, as their academic, extra curricular and sports activities are exceptional, and by that age, she'll be able to form her own judgments regarding the things she's taught, and we'll have had ample opportunity to instill in her the values we find important. 

However, grade school has become a bone of contention.  I want Viv to have the greatest opportunities for academic success, but I'm just not sure I can send Viv to a school that teaches the things the Church taught me while I was growing up.  I don't want Viv to think that gay people are sinners and that their love is less than that of straight people and that they can change if they choose.  I don't want her to be taught that condom use will exacerbate the AIDS pandemic in Africa.  This pope is supposed to be God's representative on earth?  I find the current pope to be a reprehensible, arrogant and spiteful old man, and refuse to pay money to any organization who takes his orders as handed down from God, and am deeply ashamed that the administrators of the Church have chosen to continue to cloister themselves from the needs of their flock.

These issues chafe on a painful and long-worrying problem I've been wrangling with since I was a teenager.  My objections to the Catholic Church and its dogma make it extraordinarily hard for me to remain a member.  I've stayed because I've always believed that the Church is defined by its members and not its leaders, much as America wasn't defined by George Bush when he was in office.  However, Catholics lack the ability to make their dissatisfaction heard by voting their appointees out of office.  We are beholden to the entrenched, conservative bigots who continue to appoint individuals who forward their agenda, and those who disagree are marginalized.  I have remained a Catholic because of individuals like our parish priest, a devout, kind, welcoming, intelligent and compassionate man, but a man who is on the verge of retirement.  Who will the Church appoint in his place?  Surely not another one such as him, the man who founded the gay ministry at our parish and who jeopardized his own position by viewing it not as a career in need of advancement, but as a means to do what was right.  The direction will likely be one of revisionism, a reversal of all that I value in my congregation.  I've also always believed that change can only come from within, but if those within continue to try and downplay the importance of progress, love and tolerance and instead push the doctrine of exclusionism, judgmentalism and all of those things I find so contrary to Christ's teachings, I cannot see how those who wish for change will find a willing ear.  

I'm often surprised at how heart-wrenching I find this conflict.  I was raised Catholic, yes, but that's not why I feel a strong attachment to it. It's the fact that the Church has survived in spite of itself, in spite of the terrible deeds and injustices and greed and baseness.  It has survived because members believe in something far, far greater than themselves, and they only find that greatness in each others presence, in the sharing of that sense of love and wonder, in the ability to more as a group than as an individual.  Whether we believe that Christ was human or divine, he was a really, really great guy who came to us to forge a new relationship with God and with each other.  So much beauty has come of that message that, even though the worst kind of ugliness has resulted from it as well, I'm not willing to give up the quest to find the means to have the former without the latter, to keep the beautiful rituals that bring comfort and hope and community without having those rituals take the place of enacting real good.  Attending Mass on Sunday doesn't free one from applying the lessons of that service to the rest of the week.  Giving money to help Catholic Charities doesn't mean that you can conveniently forget that charity starts at home, or at work, or at school.  We understand the Mass, we feel that it gives us a sense of continuity with our forebears, we can go anywhere in the world and know what is being said, even if it's in a language we don't speak.  I would be loathe to give that up, I would hate to not hear the music I so adore in a context I value, but I'll do it.  I'll do it because I don't want my daughter to have a hypocrite as a mother.  

The cheeks are legally ours.

Since we brought Viv home, I've tried not to think about the steps we would have to take before she would legally be our daughter. I knew that if I let myself dwell on the post placement report, the additional fees, the paperwork and the final court date, I wouldn't be able to just enjoy the first few months of Viv's life, her life as our girl. Because I had so vigorously pushed down the painful what ifs that would pop into my head when people asked us questions about such things as whether the birth parents could change their minds and take her back, I had avoided thinking about the court date as it would arouse similar anxieties.

So, March 2nd's seemingly instantaneous arrival surprised me almost as much as the springlike weather that accompanied it. I had knitted Viv her berry tart hat and planned our outfits and made arrangements with those who wanted to come to the courthouse with us, but I didn't think about what the actual event would be like, or if it would make us feel any different, which is why I was so surprised to find that, upon arriving in the courtroom to meet the judge, I was actually shaking with excitement. When Judge Fair (so auspicious) signed our papers, I would have cried had I not been smiling like I was in a toothpaste commercial. I felt not just relieved, but elated, proud, indescribably grateful and bucolically happy, which I can't really say is an emotion I've ever felt before. On my wedding day, at the moment where we were told that we were married, I was happy but dazed, like the event was happening to someone else. I had planned for so long that it seemed like it would never arrive, and when it did, all I could think was, "Oh, thank God, we can go eat now."

Because I had planned for nothing and halted myself from even imagining what the event would be like, I had absolutely no expectations for the final court date. It was more different that I could have imagined from even the fragment of thought I had given it in the few minutes we were waiting for our time. It was so quick! We answered a few questions, the judge signed the papers and then held Viv while praising her sweetness, we took pictures, Christian posed with Viv in the witness box, we had lunch, and went home.

I'm now exceedingly glad that I didn't run the day in my head a million times, as I think it would have lessened the perfection of the way it really happened.

I do not think that word means what you think it means.

Just seen on the license plate frame of a Volvo, of all things, "I'm a bitch, I'm just not your's."

Now, even if "your's" was a word, it would mean, "your is," which is still just as incorrect as the contractive form. And this wasn't an email with an accidental apostrophe, it was an object whose production required foresight and special ordering, but apparently no proofreader. The driver of that car certainly isn't the English language's bitch.

Watch out, bottom feeders and scavengers, I'm coming for you.

I can eat shrimp! I tried it again (after having briefly tried it in September), and nothing, not an itch, not a swell, not a hive. I haven't eaten any since that fateful night all those years ago, where an ill-advised trip to an indoor circus ended with an ER visit for one of the worst, scariest asthma attacks in history. The negative associations with that evening led me to avoid shellfish, a beloved food group, for the past 15 years. Shrimp and pasta, shrimp salad sandwiches, barbecued shrimp, fried shrimp, garlic and butter shrimp, OH MY GOD, I can eat at Pike Place Market again! All restaurants serving seafood are no longer off limits to me. Oh, the glory. The deliciousness. The high calorie many-leggedness. So, so happy.

The Smiling Butter Bean

Stupid, stupid interwebs.

I hate the intertubes.  When I started going to therapy for anxiety, my therapist told me to never, ever do internet research on subjects upon which I had fixated.  Don't keep carting the coals to Newcastle, as it were.  However, when I went online yesterday to look up dosages of tylenol for Viv post-immunization as the bottle only listed doses for babies over 12 months, I wasn't intending to read anything about the immunization controversy, and, in fact, deliberately avoided any website with even the barest mention of autism.  We had already discussed the concerns surrounding vaccinating Viv and had decided to go with the shots as the risks of contracting the illnesses to be immunized against were greater than the risks associated with triggering autism.  In addition, I wasn't able to find any peer-reviewed research published in a reputable journal (using PubMed) that found a plausible link between the two.  

And then, AND THEN, I found website after website claiming an elevated risk of SIDS after one particular immunization.  How could this be possible?  How did I miss this new subject specially engineered to keep me up at night, necessitating me to check Viv's breathing every time I jerked awake from an unwelcome doze, during which I had panic dreams of horrible outcomes?  So, I went to PubMed again, and there were a few case studies of infant deaths that could possibly be associated with this vaccine.  So now I'll be utterly paranoid for the next two months, convinced that any fussiness in our usually placid baby is a sign of impending doom. OK, the next five years.  Let's be realistic.  

Of course, every individual website claiming this link uses the exact same copy and even calls asthma "a condition not unlike SIDS."  That's a head-scratcher.  Still, I'm now very worried.

Stats

When Viv was born, she weighed 6.2 pounds, was 19 inches in length and had a head circumference of 13 inches.

At today's doctor's appointment, she weighed a whopping 12.1 pounds, measured at 24.5 inches her head is a planetoid at 17 inches around.  She's at the 90th percentile for head and length and 80th percentile for her weight.  And here I thought she was so little.   Of course, all the babies I know top out at the 100th percentile at around their 6th hour, so maybe the scale should be slightly altered.

Now that's tired.

I got to the show today, and put on my makeup before getting changed into my costume.  Wait, I have to start earlier. Viv and I spent the last few days in Spokane rehearsing and visiting loved ones, and we flew back today. Viv decided that, last night, she no longer needed sleep and neither did I, but at 8 am, when we had to get up to catch our flight, she suddenly decided that sleep was all she ever wanted and that I was a wretch for making her do such an absurd thing as, you know, wake.  

Once home, I couldn't take a nap as Viv was fussy with Christian and I could hear her wails through the bedroom door.  The birds also decided that my return home and subsequent laydown meant that it was the best time EVER to imitate every sound they've ever heard in their lives, ever.  Ever.  I slept not a whit, especially when Christian brought a sleeping Viv in to her bassinet so he could go to Target and then she woke up and wanted nothing but to be held on my chest so she could drool copiously into my cleavage.

Back to the show.  I had put on my makeup and done my pincurls and went to the rack to get my dress.  I pulled it off the hanger, stepped into it and turned around to have the dresser zip me up.  When I reached into my bodice to lift up my boobs so it would be easier to zip (I like my bodices tight), I noticed that I could see my feet between the boning and my bra.  Wow, and the dress was zipped up already?  Yep, I hadn't even noticed.  Huh.  I glanced at my sleeve and noticed buttons.  Huh. That's odd, I thought my dress had ties on the sleeves.  It wasn't my dress.  Huh.

Revelations of SAHM

As Christian is now back at work, I am an official stay-at-home-mother, something that I would have believed impossible and inadvisable when in my 20s.  I have made a few discoveries that will shock or surprise absolutely no one.   Here they are:

1.  A baby will only sleep when held, either while on the chest, allowing one to type awkwardly, or actually in the arms, allowing nothing to be accomplished at all.

2.  The house will never be clean again, at least not clean as it was before the arrival of the baby.  All activities directed towards furthering cleanliness will be interrupted so many times as to render said activities futile.  

3.  Laundry will reach proportions heretofore unseen outside of a correctional institution, and no matter how much is washed, the rate at which clothing is soiled is so rapid that the amount needing to be washed will never be smaller than the amount washed.

4.  Daytime TV commercials are appalling crap, unlike nighttime commercials, which are merely crap.  I don't want to buy Xenadrine, nor do I need to learn how to sell things on Ebay.  I don't have scrap gold to sell and I don't really need AARP-approved life insurance.

5.  I cannot ever find a phone, as all phones are buried deep under burp cloths and onesies.  See #3.  Consequently, when the phone rings, the house gets messier and the clean laundry again becomes soiled when the clean clothes on the bed are shoveled onto the floor allowing me to unearth the handset.

6.  The second I decide that it is safe to eat because the baby is sleeping, she will awake, ravenous for time, food and my soul, all three of which are hers for the taking. 

7.  The Golden Girls are awesome at 1 pm or 1 am, the two times at which they are on.

8.  Birds understand when they have become second fiddle and they don't like it.  There will be regressive screaming.  Spending extra scratching time with them while the baby is sleeping will make them love you again, and that is important.  I need Cyril's love in my life.  It's uncomplicated and pure.  And fluffy.

9.  Friends really prove their love and devotion by endlessly and cheerfully babysitting while I'm away at tedious rehearsals and performances.

10.  Time only has meaning as it applies to others.  Nowhere to be today?  9 am or 2 pm, makes no difference to me.  Pediatrician's appointment or a show?  Time is my enemy, as punctuality, beloved and unwavering punctuality, becomes a hardship rather than a virtue.  

11.  Very little knitting gets accomplished.  Very, very little.

12.  Real baby smiles hit you like a white hot spear of transcendental love.  

13.  My latent cheeseball tendencies are no longer latent.  

14.  Getting sleep is almost worse than not getting sleep.  Once the body has realized that sleep is an elusive luxury, getting a full dose of that luxury reminds you why alcoholics can't just have one drink.  

15.  Nothing will ever matter as much to me as how many chins my child has.  Four?  We win.

Insufficiencies

I periodically write posts about my many personal failings, most of which revolve around my tendency to over-worry and inability to focus on the now.  Well, I have now reached Olympic gold medal standards of not allowing myself to enjoy the day to day moments.  I have a DAUGHTER now, a daughter, who only lives in the very moment happening.  She doesn't think about whether or not I have all of the Christmas presents purchased, or when the snow will fall again, or how much laundry there is to put away, she only thinks about her sleep, her food and her poop and pee.  These are now all things on which I fixate, but I still manage to find time to allow my mind to dwell in an out of control manner on any number of ridiculous and unimportant issues, like how I'm going to occupy my mind not having to go to a day job, how I'm going to sing and find gigs with a baby, whether or not we'll ever be able to afford to remodel our house, all things that only time and good planning will tell.  

This is all particularly ludicrous this time of year as I'm a Christmas junkie who can usually set aside daily realities to revel in the escapism of festivities.  However, I'm finding my enjoyment of the holiday dampened rather than increased by things like the gorgeous snowfall and our consequent entrenchment.  Now I'm concerned about the inevitable melt and following depression.  I feel muddled still by the change in our life, even though my mind is slowly clearing and we're finding our new situation to be pretty wonderful.  Maybe I'm just expecting too much in light of all the mountainous changes we've faced in the past month.  I just want to revel in this, our first family Christmas as parents.  

Again, they taunt us.

Olympic mountain shadow my ass.  Snow later today, please.  Why don't they just tell us the truth, that we all don't deserve the peace, beauty and serenity that snow grants us in this hullabalooing world?  Our Sodom to Portland's Gomorra, trapped in warm pockets of as little blissful billowy snow as meteorologically possible.  Wind, oh, we've got wind, rain, slush, fog...but no snow.  Never snow.  We're bad and must be punished.

Quickly Changing

I am utterly floored by how quickly Viv is changing.  She's chubbier, thankfully, and often alert. She enjoyed meeting her great-Grandmother, for whom she is great granddaughter number eighteen:

And she already has become as enamored of Christmas as the rest of our family:

What do you get a two week old baby for Christmas?  

Four Days

To begin the story of the four days that changed our life, I suppose I have to start with shopping.  At 5:30 am the day after Thanksgiving, the phone rang.  The alarm clock had gotten unplugged during the night and I had overslept.  Angie was calling to ask if I was still going Black Friday shopping with her and Shelly and Shelly's mom.  I needed a few things for Christian and the in-laws for Christmas, so I thought I'd go with them to the mall.  As I'm a shopping tard, I exhausted early and went home after seeing the line at Kohl's that went all the way through the store into the bathrooms and stock room.  

I went back to bed and didn't wake up until Christian came in to the bedroom to tell me that Anne was on the phone.  Anne is the mom of my dear friend Karen, and the social worker at a hospital south of Seattle.  I thought she was calling to check on the progress of our adoption paperwork, and asked Christian to take the call.  He came back in a few minutes later.  A young woman had come into the hospital in labor, Anne said, having previously been unaware of her pregnancy, and had given birth to a baby girl.  She felt that she would be unable to parent and wanted to find an adoptive family.  Did we want to come meet her?  I sat up in bed, and Christian and I looked at each other for what seemed like an eternity.  We jumped up then, and I ran to the shower, thinking what I wanted to wear to meet the birth mother.  I dressed up, even putting on makeup, and made Christian wear ironed pants.  

We drove as fast as we could to the hospital, slowing down due to an accident (not ours, fortunately) and got there around 2:30.  We were taken to a small waiting room where we were told that the birth mother didn't want to meet us and asked if we wanted to meet the baby.  This was not what I was expecting.  According to the usual practices, a birthmother who had not chosen an adoptive family would be presented with a variety of information packets provided by adoptive parents and then choose several with whom to meet before deciding on one.  And, our homestudy wasn't done, the social worker who had come to our house in September never wrote the report.  She emailed us on Halloween to tell us that she had been delayed by family health problems and would do the homestudy immediately. That was the last we heard from her.  

We agreed to meet the baby and were taken into the nursery.  There something that those who have never done an adoption have to understand.  From the moment you first begin reading your first book or your first website, you are told repeatedly that 50% of domestic adoptions fail. That's half.  We were also told that there are few babies available in Washington State and that the means of starting our family would be painful and arduous.  But here we were, in a nursery, holding a tiny, perfect baby to whom we really weren't supposed to get attached.  The hospital had a room for us to stay in, Anne said, so we could get to know the baby.  We pushed her hospital cradle down the hall to the empty room and looked at her for a while.  She was so calm.  We took turns holding her and started talking about what the hell we were going to do.  Anne had told us to call our lawyer right away, but she was out of town.  We couldn't get in touch with the social worker who never finished the homestudy, so we sat and held the baby and talked.  I was supposed to be in a dress rehearsal that night for Hansel and Gretel, but I called the company and begged to be released.  They had mercy on us, and we decided to stay the night, and called Shelly to ask her to bring us some clothes.  The birthmother, though, wanted to have the baby in her room that night, as they had some things to discuss, she said.  We went home, calling everyone we knew on both of our phones, trying to get an attorney.  We spent the next three hours rearranging our bedroom and the bird room to give us more space.  

We woke up early the next morning and saw that an attorney recommended to us had emailed us, asking us to call him.  We spoke, he knew exactly what to do, and so we hired him on the spot.  He gave us the number of two social workers who might be able to redo our home study for us that day.  One of them agreed to come over at 1.  We tore around the house, cleaning and organizing, wanting to get back down to the hospital to see the baby.  The birthmother asked for the baby to be taken back to the nursery early that morning, and the nurses told us to come at any time.  We drove the forty minutes each direction, seeing the baby for a half hour, before getting back to the house, where the social worker was in conversation with Chris and Angie, who we had asked to wait at our house for her.  They showed her around, talked about us and our marriage, and generally saved our bacon.  The social worker was incredibly gracious and we talked for almost four hours, until Christian left to go back to the hospital and I had to get ready for the first performance of Hansel.  I remember very, very little of that evening, other than the two blackouts we had on stage due to the light board overloading.  

After the show, I drove down to the hospital and spent the night with the baby we now thought might possibly be ours.  We were still reserved, though.  Anne and our attorney met with both of the birth parents that day and had them sign all of the paperwork, but there was always the chance of one or both of them changing their minds before their 48 hour window had passed.  She was so sweet and easy and alert that we couldn't help falling painfully for her, but the idea that this whole thing might not work made me withdraw somewhat.  Both social workers told us that this wasn't uncommon, though, and that it could take a while to allow our emotions to take ahold.

The next morning, we waited to hear from all of our people about our progress.  We had so much to gather, our fingerprints we had submitted six weeks before to the FBI, our medical reports for the homestudy which had been sent to the first social worker and which we would have to redo the next day, the DSHS report which we had faxed in, all of which couldn't be gotten until Monday.  So, we waited, getting to know the baby we now tentatively called Viv, as that would be her name if she was ours.  I had to sing Hansel again, one more time, and there was no new news upon my return to the hospital.  

The next morning saw us up very early on the phone to the adoption agency in Texas with whom we thought we were going to do our adoption, as they were supposed to have received the fingerprint reports.  They hadn't gotten it yet, but called the processing office and got a copy to fax to our attorney.  We each then had to go see our respective doctors to get the medical reports, which I then had to fly home to scan in and send for our homestudy.  I brought the scanner back to the hospital for Christian's medical form and waited for 3:30 pm, the 48 mark after which no one could change their minds.  Our attorney wanted to make absolutely certain that the birthmother, who still hadn't wanted to meet us, was protected, so he arranged for her to meet with her own attorney when she returned to the hospital for her post-partum visit.  She and the attorney met right outside the doors to the ward, and when I went to the cafeteria that evening, caught a glimpse of the baby's birthmother as she was counseled.  I wish we could have met.  The day passed beyond the time we could make it to court, so we settled in for another night at the hospital, hoping that DSHS would come through first thing so we could make everything final.  We did manage to make dashes to the store to buy a stroller and car seat, however, and made it to the home of a couple selling a bed on Craigslist, so at least we'd have a place for her to sleep and a means to get her home.  

DSHS didn't come through that morning.  We had to resend all of our forms as they claimed to have never received them.  Christian drove to meet the social worker to pick up the notarized homestudy to give to our attorney.  We waited extremely impatiently, me at the hospital and Christian at home, for our attorney to call when we had been approved by DSHS and Christian and the attorney could get to court before it closed at 4.  At 3 pm, just in time, the form came through.  We were legally made parents at 4:45 pm on Tuesday, December 2nd.

We had nothing at home.  No crib, no clothes, no diapers, absolutely nothing.  It's said that, in times of trial, those who are your real friends will reveal themselves.  Ours did with a vengeance.  Everything we could need, all washed and ready for little Viv's arrival home.  

It's Saturday, a week and a day after we first met our little daughter.  I still feel bewildered, as though I suddenly grew another arm and have no idea what to do with it.  It won't fit in any of my shirts, after all.  Everyone told us that this would happen, as the whirl of those four days gave us little time to prepare in any way, and that, once we were home for a while, we would stop feeling as though we were babysitting, and start feeling like parents.  I've only had 10 or 11 hysterical breakdowns, which has to be a record for me.  

My parents have now met her, as I begged Mom to come over the day we brought her home, as I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing, and Dad drove over today to meet his first granddaughter.  We're anxiously awaiting the visit of Christian's parents, who want to come down when the dust has settled.  She's to be their one grandchild, so I hope they approve.  I don't see how they couldn't, as she's perfect.  

We've already made some rookie mistakes.  The bed we bought her was not rigid, so we'll have to resell it.  A bassinet was purchased instead.  I got drenched bathing her as I've never bathed a newborn before, but she didn't seem to mind.  However, her disposition is so sweet that she forgives us as soon as we make a mistake.  

I want to do what's right and best for her.  We are now a racially diverse family, even more so than usual, so we have to find the means to show her that she's not the only one whose family looks like ours.  I'm already worrying about what schools she'll go to and what friends she'll make, and whether or not she'll struggle with her identity.  Will we be good parents?  Will we meet her needs, emotional and physical?  Is our house too small?  The list goes on.  

I'm waiting for the moment when I finally realize that she's ours.  Tiny Viv, the four day baby.  I know it will come soon.

I had no idea.

I really adore sock yarn, especially hard to get, desirable, expensive, European sock yarn.  Last night, when I wanted to go online and buy and buy to soothe the bitter gaping babyless hole in my heart, I thought, wouldn't it be better if I pulled out all of my sock yarn to see what I had and to maybe, just maybe, convince myself that I didn't need anymore?  Yeah, it worked.  

As I also have five more skeins of the expensive, super-excloosive, you-have-to-wait-up-all-night-to-get-it German yarn coming soon, I think I need to knit for a few more years until I can justify the next purchase.  Of course, Christmas is coming, and yarn is a perfect stocking stuffer.  

I miss the magic.

I'm getting the itch, the yen, the longing.  I need to visit Disneyland.  I ache for some escapism.  We promised to take Jayden to Disneyland for his seventh birthday, which is next year, so we're thinking maybe February, when the parks have historically low attendance and the desperate state of the economy means that Disney will need to offer progressively lower prices and greater incentives to guest to get them to spend what little money they have to make the trip.  I'm hoping for deals so absurd that Christian will be unwilling to say no.  I need a rice krispie treat with candy coating.