Whoa! So it took me, what, four months to the very day to blog again? What is that all about? It's not like I've been busy or anything. Well, just a tiny bit busy.
Today is a good day. I just re-read my last post and remembered how sad I was then. Things are good now. I'm hoping the trend lasts.
We only came back from Prague and London less than two weeks ago and already we're on the go again. Yes that's right...we got the good news that we're going to Ukraine next week. Next Wednesday. Holy shit.
We'll be gone for an entire month and the goal is to come back completely transformed as parents. That's the goal at least. If the "happy vibes" trend continues, it'll happen. But that's so fucking hard to predict right now. So, instead of predicting I'll just say what we're hoping for....we hope to go to Kiev, go to the adoption center, find a child we want, go to that child's orphanage, get the child examined by two doctors, decide whether or not we want to adopt that child and then go to court and adopt him. That's if everything goes smoothly. First off...we could get to Kiev and we'll be told "sorry but we don't have any healthy kids under the age of 8..." Will we come home with an 8 year old? Who the hell knows...but I do know one thing...you get an 8 year-old that's been institutionalized all of his/her life and there's a lot of work that needs to be done. A lot of repairation...and that's if the child can feel like he or she can trust anyone ever.
Secondly, we could go to Kiev and find toddlers but they are physically or mentally handicapped. Perhaps they suffer from Fetal Alcohol Syndrome or Fetal Alcohol Effect. Maybe they have a club foot...maybe they have a cleft palate. The question is...what are WE capable of accepting as parents? What can WE handle? That's a tough question given that I'm not even a parent yet...
So yeah I'm a little freaked. I have a lot to think about and a lot to talk about with C. I'll admit, we have visions of a perfect little puttie---but I'm not apologetic about it. I've been infertile for four years and haven't had any kids yet...I don't understand why I can't have a fantasy of a Gerber baby like everyone else. But our decision is going to be based on three-parts medical and one-part gut instinct. We may find a child over there we fall absolutely in love with and maybe he is handicapped...as long as he is reasonably healthy and has a long life expectancy...
Sometimes I wonder what I'm getting myself into!
I have to say that I wasted two years of my life in therapy...when all I needed to do was get my hormonal cycle back in balance. Since I've been seeing a naturopath, I feel much less anxious and much more at peace. Sure I'm stressed about this trip---but months ago, I would have been a walking zombie, freaking out every minute. Now I feel I'm on a more even keel and hey...I didn't need any drugs! No antidepressants, no psychological bullshit...it's amazing how much the body affects the mind. Here my medical doctor is telling me I'm entering menopause and then my naturopath is telling me not to believe that for a second. I'd like to believe she's right.
So this trip...will be a trip. Going to a strange country where no one smiles...and bribery is a form of doing business. A place where I can hardly speak the language (I do know some Russian...though the equivalent of a three year old); a place that is bitter fucking cold in January; to meet people I've only "met" online...If you would have asked me six or seven years ago if I'd ever go to Ukraine to adopt a baby...I'd be like "you're high"! But hey...it's an adventure and if it all goes well...it's something I can't wait to share with my kids. I want them to have access to their culture; I want them to want to meet their birthparents when they're old enough; I want them to enjoy life the way we enjoy it.
Monday, December 29, 2003
Friday, August 29, 2003
I'm buried in paper journals.
That's right. The minute you announce to the world you are a writer -- you are immediately given journals of various shapes and sizes -- you know, to...write.
I shouldn't complain. I think it's a nice gesture. But my handwriting sucks. I'm 35 and instead of it improving with age, it's gone from ok to horrific. I blame it on the use of computers. I blame it on using keyboards. I never took a typing class but I can type 90 words per minute and know the keyboard by heart.
So if I have so many paper journals, why am I here? Well, again, as stated above, I'm a typist...in addition to a writer. It's easier for me to type. Sounds awful, I know -- especially to some hardcore writers who think computers are evil. To me, they're not evil -- they're useful.
I've really hit a slump in terms of my writing -- or should I say, my confidence in myself to bang something out. Ever since my sister died three weeks ago, I stopped writing my novel. I tried writing a little article about dog agility for a magazine -- but it didn't come out right. The words just weren't coming. Maybe not the words -- maybe, moreso, the thoughts behind the words. The organization. The flow, if you will.
No, instead I've been in a state of paralysis. I learned that in my English classes in college. There were writers who defined paralysis. Who were they? I can't remember -- though I bet if I phoned Barbara and asked her, she'd name all of them in 10 seconds or less. Me -- I just studied before the tests. That stuff didn't sink in far enough. Though I do remember that James Joyce coined the term "epiphany." I just can't remember who the hell wrote essays on paralysis. I think we spent, like half a semester on that too. I'm ashamed...but not that much. Hey, it was over ten years ago.
So here I am -- not ready to expound on the origins of literary paralysis -- but instead to explain my very own. As I said, my sister died. Unexpectedly and suddenly. Lots of stuff happened this past year -- but I think that was the clincher. It definitely runs neck and neck with the problems we are experiencing in our quest to adopt a baby in Ukraine.
I've been sloth. All week. I originally thought it was because I ran too hard for the race last weekend. There I was -- running the perfect 8 minute mile...when all of a sudden, I was wracked with cramps. Luckily there was a bathroom within reach and so I spent five minutes on the toilet in a public bathroom, doubled-over in pain. If the cramps weren't going to kill me, the bacteria from sitting on the toilet surely would. And I watched my watch advance from 18 minutes to 23 minutes and counting...and I went from my perfect 8 minute mile to a 10:30 minute mile...how bad did I suck? I came in 158 out of something ridiculous like 200.
No -- my laziness isn't just from that pitiful race. It was a combination of things. I began freelancing in the mornings, making my ritual of going to the gym at noon disappear. I'm wondering what I'm going to do when Dave gets back from his tour. How am I gonna workout with my rock star gym buddy when I'm stuck behind the desk making media calls?
It's because my ability to have a child is in someone else's control right now, preventing me from going to Ukraine and choosing my child.
It's because my husband got sick this summer and then threw himself in to his work -- which is why I'm sitting on the couch right now, right next to him, typing this stupid entry whilst he works on his laptop. Such a cute couple.
No, it's not just one thing -- it's a combination of many...and I'm stuck wondering when I'll get out of this rut I'm in. It better happen soon or my body is going to go from a size 4 back to a size 14 soon enough. (I forgot to mention, too, that ice cream has become my new perfect food).
And so, here I sit and type. Contemplative over my next move. Will I turn on the tv or suggest we go to see "American Splendor"? Shall I log off and grab the ice cream or try my hand at "Pop and Drop" -- my new highly addictive computer game? That's just it, see -- in my weeklong disability, I've not been able to make a friggin decision to save my life. That's how paralysis works.
~M
That's right. The minute you announce to the world you are a writer -- you are immediately given journals of various shapes and sizes -- you know, to...write.
I shouldn't complain. I think it's a nice gesture. But my handwriting sucks. I'm 35 and instead of it improving with age, it's gone from ok to horrific. I blame it on the use of computers. I blame it on using keyboards. I never took a typing class but I can type 90 words per minute and know the keyboard by heart.
So if I have so many paper journals, why am I here? Well, again, as stated above, I'm a typist...in addition to a writer. It's easier for me to type. Sounds awful, I know -- especially to some hardcore writers who think computers are evil. To me, they're not evil -- they're useful.
I've really hit a slump in terms of my writing -- or should I say, my confidence in myself to bang something out. Ever since my sister died three weeks ago, I stopped writing my novel. I tried writing a little article about dog agility for a magazine -- but it didn't come out right. The words just weren't coming. Maybe not the words -- maybe, moreso, the thoughts behind the words. The organization. The flow, if you will.
No, instead I've been in a state of paralysis. I learned that in my English classes in college. There were writers who defined paralysis. Who were they? I can't remember -- though I bet if I phoned Barbara and asked her, she'd name all of them in 10 seconds or less. Me -- I just studied before the tests. That stuff didn't sink in far enough. Though I do remember that James Joyce coined the term "epiphany." I just can't remember who the hell wrote essays on paralysis. I think we spent, like half a semester on that too. I'm ashamed...but not that much. Hey, it was over ten years ago.
So here I am -- not ready to expound on the origins of literary paralysis -- but instead to explain my very own. As I said, my sister died. Unexpectedly and suddenly. Lots of stuff happened this past year -- but I think that was the clincher. It definitely runs neck and neck with the problems we are experiencing in our quest to adopt a baby in Ukraine.
I've been sloth. All week. I originally thought it was because I ran too hard for the race last weekend. There I was -- running the perfect 8 minute mile...when all of a sudden, I was wracked with cramps. Luckily there was a bathroom within reach and so I spent five minutes on the toilet in a public bathroom, doubled-over in pain. If the cramps weren't going to kill me, the bacteria from sitting on the toilet surely would. And I watched my watch advance from 18 minutes to 23 minutes and counting...and I went from my perfect 8 minute mile to a 10:30 minute mile...how bad did I suck? I came in 158 out of something ridiculous like 200.
No -- my laziness isn't just from that pitiful race. It was a combination of things. I began freelancing in the mornings, making my ritual of going to the gym at noon disappear. I'm wondering what I'm going to do when Dave gets back from his tour. How am I gonna workout with my rock star gym buddy when I'm stuck behind the desk making media calls?
It's because my ability to have a child is in someone else's control right now, preventing me from going to Ukraine and choosing my child.
It's because my husband got sick this summer and then threw himself in to his work -- which is why I'm sitting on the couch right now, right next to him, typing this stupid entry whilst he works on his laptop. Such a cute couple.
No, it's not just one thing -- it's a combination of many...and I'm stuck wondering when I'll get out of this rut I'm in. It better happen soon or my body is going to go from a size 4 back to a size 14 soon enough. (I forgot to mention, too, that ice cream has become my new perfect food).
And so, here I sit and type. Contemplative over my next move. Will I turn on the tv or suggest we go to see "American Splendor"? Shall I log off and grab the ice cream or try my hand at "Pop and Drop" -- my new highly addictive computer game? That's just it, see -- in my weeklong disability, I've not been able to make a friggin decision to save my life. That's how paralysis works.
~M
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