The baby that got away….
It’s taken me forever to sit down and write again; mostly because I don’t want to re-live the stress of this last month.
Just after my last post I decided it was time to finish the nursery…I guess I thought that if I finished the nursery I would be ready for a baby and we’d get a call.
My best friend came over and we painted the tree in the corner of the room and it’s beautiful. I arrange the furniture and it was done. On the morning of the 7th I hung the last shelf in the nursery and jokingly told Techie (my husband) “okay the nursery is done, now we’re ready for a baby.”
My grammy was in town so I went out with the girls and mid morning Techie called to tell me that Kim from the IAC had called…a woman from Omaha had called saying she was having a scheduled C-section on the 9th and that she wanted to make an adoption plan. Kim told Thor that the woman had used meth once and she wanted to know if it was okay to send our letter, since we’re not open to meth addicted birth moms.
Of course he said yes. She said she would send the letter and we could expect a call from the IAC or the birth mom. So after he had a heart attack he called me. After I started bawling I called him back and had him tell me the details all over again. Three days went by and we heard nothing…she didn’t place. It was a crappy way to spend the anniversary of our first date.
I still can’t even touch the feelings of sadness that those few days held for me. I think I’ve just gone numb. We had an email from a PBM that weekend and nothing since. I’ve had hundreds of visitors to our website and still nothing. I’ve done everything I can to boost our webstats, emailed, snail mailed everyone I know. All I can do is wait, but I can’t keep waiting for the damn phone to ring. I’m very busy with my photography classes, the neighborhood association, etc. but not busy enough. My nursery is done and beautiful, I’ve read, researched, saved, planned, and I’m ready to be a mom in a way that women who can birth their children can’t understand. It’s like a craving from deep inside that can’t be satisfied, that surges and takes over and dies down only to a low roar. At night I dream of soft sweet baby feet and chubby little hands, of their smell and weight and feel. When, when, when?
