Tuesday, November 29, 2005


CCAI just posted that CCAA has gone to the matching room! We're up, folks! Gulp! I can't help but picture a group of people armed with coffee and donuts going through a door and reaching around to hang a sign: "Matching: Do Not Disturb." I wonder what really happens in there. Do they squint at our "Family Life" photos and then at little overexposed close-ups of baby girls, going back and forth until they get an "Ah-ha! Now THAT'S a family!" I guess we'll never know.

So, all of the sudden every song on the radio seems to have something to do with my head. Right after I read the news, I was driving to yoga and heard "Time Of Your Life" by Green Day. This song already makes me cry (okay, there's a moron alert ahead) because it played over the final "Seinfeld" montage, but now it had fresh resonance. On the way home, I heard "Girls Just Want To Have Fun," (so true!) and right after, Howard Jones's "What Is Love?"

Can anybody love anyone so much that they will never fear
Never worry never be sad
The answer is they cannot love this much nobody can
This is why I don't mind you doubting

I haven't heard this song in years, but child of the '80s that I am, it has a lot of associations. In the interest of full disclosure, I should also admit that I had a lot of life experience in the '80s: all of high school, all of college, first kiss, first apartment, first grown-up job, and various other things I don't care to mention and which you'd no doubt thank me for keeping to myself. But this explains why I'm sometimes a little moony over '80s songs, in a way that doesn't seem quite sane considering people now make a sport of laughing at '80s music videos.

Anyway, I did something else in the '80s that's a little embarrassing. I filled 49 cent composition journals with seething accounts of my love affairs and unrequited crushes (let's be honest: unrequited infatuations) so wonderfully solipsistic that when I read them now I have no clue what I was on about. I mean that literally: I included no names or other proper nouns that could be used for identification purposes. I suppose I assumed I would never forget a single detail of my fascinating, fun-filled and jam-packed life. But I did. Whoops.

The one constant that offers some clue to who I was in that decade (summation: pretentious and maudlin, but passionate and well-meaning) is the pop song epigraph that began almost every entry. Songs you wouldn't imagine anyone noticing HAD lyrics, let alone believing they offered an uncanny parallel to their own life. Did someone say melodrama is wasted on the young? I hope not.

At any rate, this song thing seems to have some sort of primal roots, as I find myself reaching for meaning in this venue whenever something momentous happens in my life. This is a confession. Be gentle. ;)

Monday, November 28, 2005

Time's Wing-ed Chariot

It was such a lovely weekend, so golden and crisp like a perfectly toasted egg bagel, that I wanted to capture that loveliness for posterity. Even though we have had no news about CCAA or "the matching room" I've been having complex feelings, a mix of anticipation, excitement and dread. I understand that no one truly knows what life changes will feel like before they've happened, but that doesn't mean I can stop myself from obsessing over what they will feel like and who I will be "when." And this obsessing seems to be taking its toll in various ways. For one thing, I've been short of breath a lot, like I can't quite fill my lungs. For another, I can't prevent myself from thinking of everything I do as potentially the last time I might do it, at least as the person I know myself to be right now. It doesn't help that people keep telling us that everything will change, EVERYTHING. This is curious to me, because how can I process that idea? I mean, will I stop craving cheeseburgers? Will I no longer enjoy US Weekly? Will NIA start seeming "interesting?" How can I ponder these existential dilemmas when they are so abstract?

So, back to the egg bagel-like weekend. Saturday night I announced we were going to La Jolla. La Jolla? said David, in a tone like I was cracked. That's right, said I. I wanted margaritas at Alfonso's and some holiday strolling in the village. When I first moved to San Diego, I lived in La Jolla (well, in the cheap seats) and was enchanted by the village, its lovely shops and perch above the thundering cliffs. I have fond memories of many a night with people I no longer know, drinking pitchers of margaritas on the rocks and having the sensation, not so much of being drunk, but of being transported to a world that was not as painfully distinct as the other one. It was truly gorgeous. But David and I also had our first date there, a week after Avery's wedding. We have a framed photo to commemorate that evening, when we were young and fresh and...oh, who am I kidding. We probably weren't either of those things, but it was awfully fun.

The margaritas were as delish as I remembered (though disturbingly small, now that age and prudence forbids the ordering of pitchers) and sitting in the heat-lamped patio next to Prospect St. and dispatching the perfectly greasy chips retained all its charm. We shared some middling Mexican goodies and, dear reader, to cap off the experience: I was carded! I wanted to leap up and plant a juicy one on the haggard waitress, but she was probably just as alarmed by my radiant smile and gushing "Thank you! It would be my pleasure to show you my I.D.!"

There was a classic moment later when I was admiring the holiday finery in Express (with David uncharacteristically feigning interest) and I pulled out a hip-length pink silk top, caftan-style with a fitted bodice. "This is pretty!" I crowed. "It is pretty!" David agreed (insert Australian accent) "But that dress is VERY short!" I almost fell over laughing.

Sunday my nostalgia raged unabated, so I announced we would be hiking in Torrey Pines after a terrace lunch at Pacifica Breeze in Del Mar. Scrumptious! The sun was winking through the eponymous trees and the horizon was sharp as a paper cut, so clear was the day. For some reason the beach trail access was closed (erosion, perhaps?) and the vehicle entrance fee has soared to six dollars (!) but such details could not dampen our enthusiasm once we began our stroll through the scrub and sand, the blue sea spread out before us, smooth as glass.

As if we were foot-loose and fancy-free (and for the moment we are), we dashed home and changed into evening wear in five minutes, dashing out again to meet Renee, et al in the East Village (across from Petco Park) at a new restaurant called Soleil @ K for drinks and tapas, and then on to Dizzy's to see her band Erroneous Funk live for the first time. They rock! One of my favorite aspects of the performance was watching the obvious delight in the band members' faces as they discovered new riffs in their jazz improv, and pursued them with gusto. They were delightful (though that place is too loud for the size!)

Friday, November 25, 2005

Holiday Cinema

We just got home from seeing "Good Night, And Good Luck." The title is a little like the movie: plodding and muzzy. It's the story of how Edward R. Murrow stood up to Senator Joe McCarthy on CBS News. It's filmed in luxe black and white and may take the record for the most cigarettes smoked in a 90 minute movie. Murrow (David Straithairn) even smokes during his broadcasts. It seems problematic that I want to say the amount of smoking in the movie was the thing that interested me most. I didn't learn anything about the McCarthy hearings (they are shown as original footage, not re-enactments) and not much seemed to happen outside of a few (admittedly brave) character attacks on McCarthy by Murrow on the air. A bunch of people of no given designation played by famous actors (Patricia Clarkson, Robert Downey, Jr., George Clooney, etc.) mull around, smoking and concentrating intently on various monitors. A couple tries to hide their marriage from the CBS company, which prohibits employee marriage for some undisclosed reason. Occasionally we zoom in on a big-bosomed gal in a sound booth singing standards like "How High The Moon." Sometimes Murrow stares at her, but I don't know why, or where she is relative to where he is (down the hall from the newsroom?) And that's pretty much all that happens. Murrow is often shot in close-up, with half his face illuminated, like a Rembrandt. Though he is clearly smart and knows his way around a turn of phrase, his face is like a block of wood. He didn't seem like a person, just a "newsman." His personality remains impenetrable throughout.

Speaking of which, reviewers have been whining that they didn't get to know the "real" Johnny Cash in the new biopic "Walk The Line." I had no such complaint. I was so riveted by his love for June Carter that I totally forgot about the legend of "the man in black." I first heard about their 35 year marriage and torrid 10 year courtship in an NPR piece by Sarah Vowell, in which she talked about the song "Ring of Fire" and how passionately Carter wanted to resist Cash, who was married and addicted to pills. She herself was divorced with two small children, a fact that her core audience frowned upon. Although the early scenes of the movie are a bit hackneyed, once Cash and Carter meet the electricity is continuous. That Joaquin Phoenix and Reese Witherspoon sing their own songs is a major perk. They do an amazing job, and when they duet, it's passionate. I could watch them sing for hours, even though I wasn't previously familiar with any of their music. I kind of didn't care about any cliched bits because the performances are so good, and because I was so busy rooting for them to get together. I'm sensing nominations for both of them, and well-deserved.

On the Giving of Thanks

Well, land sakes alive if my fantasy version of Thanksgiving didn't end up coming true! Lots of cooing over little Marlon (who is given to a steady stream of contented grunting, like a piglet) and I did NOT eat too much pie. And I had the opportunity, believe you me, because there was a lot of pie. That was on account of the Marines not showing at the last minute. Some sort of black ops mission, apparently. Top secret. Ssssshh. But Lindsey's new beau Thomas was there, and he was a jovial sort, much accustomed to chaos as he hails from a family of 10 (yes, that's right) children. He was game for all Goldstein mishegoss, even the heated discussion on why teenage boys sometimes like to jerk off into tube socks. (Don't ask, it would take too long to explain.) And Judy and Harry were cheerful, though Harry seemed to mistake me for Avery at one point when I was carrying Marlon, and offered some advice about getting him to sleep through the night that involved slamming his head in a door. Eduardo had just had surgery on his posterior bits so he was moving a bit gingerly, and my Dad (we Goldsteins are prone to speechifying) made a Thanksgiving address with notes and everything on the subject of thankfulness for family.

For once, the turkey wasn't dry, and a last minute heating of the stuffing saved us all from salmonella. My mom made her famous pearl onions with cream sauce and buttered bread crumbs (frighteningly good, and the one truly fattening thing on the table) and we all took turns holding Marlon, who rocks the house already at 15 pounds on his three-month birthday! That boy has quite a grip, too. Really he was very agreeable and unquestionably cute, and what can I tell you? It's true what they say about babies healing filial wounds and smoothing over family conflict with plump, adorable distraction. Avery even offered me some motherly wisdom about diapers and wipe warmers and whatnot, and if I won't have any use for the breast pump she recommended, I was not feeling contrary enough to point it out. (Imagine that!) In general, I was impermeable to slights and disappointment, and just enjoyed all the commotion and camaraderie and good food and the yummy smell of the baby's head. My first nephew!

After dinner we went a-callin' to the Coopers, where they were just sitting down to dessert, and oh, I don't mind if I do! I got to catch up a bit with Beth, Bryan and Lawrence (he and I had a serious talk that was equal parts fertility treatments and facial products) and it was very convivial. David and I decided to brave the drive home to San Diego at midnight, and we didn't get to bed until almost 2:00. It was good to be home.

Wednesday, November 23, 2005

Home Fires Burning

It's very quiet. And still. And gray. The quiet is beginning to freak me out. I'm trying not to worry about tomorrow because as I'm fond of telling people, "50 percent of the stuff you worry about never happens." That's right. Never happens at ALL. So if I spend the rest of tonight envisioning hell and brimstone at my parent's house tomorrow, it won't make it any more or less likely to unfold that way. Maybe we'll all sit around cooing over little Marlon? And listening with shining eyes to the Marines tell heart-warming stories of patriotism?

Yeah, right. And maybe I won't eat too much pie.

My NIA class today had about half its usual members. Still, I was surprised it had that many. I told them that the theme for the day was thankfulness. And that one of the things they could be thankful for was the ability to ignore my theme completely. :) I made them laugh a little bit with that. Which I was thankful for (get it?) because normally there's no laughing in NIA. Well, there is, but not before the music starts and that, too, freaks me out.

Last night David and I went to yoga for the second Tuesday in a row. Once upon a time this would not have been unusual but since we've moved far away from our studio in Bay Park, we haven't made it as often. I think also that we're gearing up for not being able to go at all, if that makes any sense. I told David, "On weekday evenings we're going to be busy helping Jarrah with her homework," and he said, "She won't be doing any homework for quite a while, I imagine." That was very funny, and very David. :)

I first started yoga many years ago after a hideous breakup (I was having difficulty breathing) and during a particularly sweltering summer. Three times a week I rolled out a towel in the lobby of an apartment complex in PB, where a delightful, diminutive woman named Sissy led a class in blessed air conditioning that was equal parts standing on our heads and laying in the dark, listening to her soothing voice. She was like my angel. Later when Sissy fell out of favor with the management and we were ousted (following a series of awkward face-offs in which apartment-dwellers watched "Friends" and drank beer mere inches from our prone bodies) my friend Mike told me about Ken and our current studio. Man, we loved Ken. Around this time David came on the scene and he loved Ken, too. Ken used to share fabulous stories about his yoga studies in India; for instance, one of his teachers told him that "Westerners have too much darkness between their pumpkins" by which she meant our bum cheeks. He had a way of explaining difficult poses that encouraged enlightenment along the lines of "You know, I think I CAN turn my thighs 90 degrees without moving my feet!" Years went by and Ken moved to Kauai (lucky Ken!) and we've had a series of other teachers since then, all proficient but somehow not the same.

Yesterday I had to take an on-line tutorial about sexual harassment for one of my jobs. No joke, it took almost two and a half hours, because you couldn't press the "next" button until a stentorious gentleman read every single freakin' word on the screen, even instructions for pressing the "next" button. Every few pages, there would be a quiz, with questions like this:

"Mike is Tim's boss at the warehouse. Mike told Tim he would fire him if Tim didn't have sex with him. Tim was offended. What should Tim do?
A) Tim should report Mike to Human Resources, or B) Tim should have sex with Mike and keep his mouth shut. It's not a good idea to make waves with the boss."

Even better, each question was accompanied by a tiny photo of people wearing glasses and bad suits and shaking their finger at someone, or putting their hands over their mouths in mock-shock as a nearby co-worker gleefully downloads some porn.

After about an hour, I started going through bills and doing my filing while this was going on. Without ever looking at the screen during the "lecture" portion, I could answer the quiz questions correctly. Which really concerned me, because who, exactly, was this tutorial designed for? Are there actually people out there who would be sweating over this quiz, scratching their heads in confusion over whether Tim ought to sleep with Mike? And if these people are out there, how do they find their way to work each day?

Sunday, November 20, 2005

Le Weekend

It's been a nice weekend. Two baby showers with a fun movie night sandwiched in between. Mmmm, sandwich. :)

David has registered "adoptionbingo.com" (with this mention, consider it trademarked and copyrighted, November 20, 2005) after the hit our home-made version made at Mary and Paul's shower yesterday. I had a great time calling out the words, or better yet, making people guess them based on clues. The game was specific to China adoption, but we figure it could be adapted to any country or domestic. Most of the words referred to official parts of the process, but I threw in "moonbear" and "veggie puffs" and "glider" and "Robeez" and a few others as a shout-out to Mary and Paul.

Last night we saw "Kiss, Kiss, Bang, Bang" with said shower-ees at the Mira Mesa Stadium. The theater was a victim of a "Harry Potter" blitzkrieg but the movie was great. I love that Roberty Downey, Jr.--how can a man who's been so close to death so many times seem so madly alive in his roles? I also liked the self-referential aspects of the film--the voice-over, the self-conscious narrator, the deliberate "do-overs" that even showed the film itself rewinding several frames. It was a thriller in the "noir" tradition--twists and turns, fast patter--but very "meta." I love that stuff. :) And the three leads (including Val Kilmer and Michelle Moynahan) make a wickedly compatible ensemble. Anyway, if you've ever wished that Hollywood movies with murders and car chases were funnier, this is the movie for you.

This morning I was driving to Del Mar for Alicia's tres chic brunch at Il Fornaio and I had a surge of gratitude to be exactly who I am, right at this moment, infertility and wait and all. The sun was twinkling over the Pacific as I crested the hill on Del Mar Heights Road, and I was anticipating a yummy breakfast, diverting companionship, and a great reason to celebrate. Moreover, my outfit was cute, my car was running smoothly, my skin had been buffed to a high sheen and I had a sweet, sleepy husband at home with a list of honey-do projects in his possession. Yes, my friends, life was good. It is good. I want to take this opportunity to proclaim that today, since no doubt my bitter, cynical self is simply snoozing somewhere and we might return to our regularly scheduled programming as soon as tomorrow. Hopefully not sooner.

Speaking of which, I'm pretty nervous about Thanksgiving. I won't go into too much detail yet, as I'm sure I'll have plenty to say in the aftermath, but for now I have two words for you: random Marines. As in, my mother has invited some to our house for dinner. And as I've been telling everyone, nothing in their rigorous, perhaps humiliating, basic training has prepared them for a single evening in the Goldstein household. If they even make it to the pie, the experience may haunt them for years.

Wednesday, November 16, 2005

Blow, Gabriel, Blow

Recognize the title? It's a Cole Porter song. It was the splashy finale in the recent "De-Lovely" biopic. Anyway, I digress.

Today another hauler came to do the job that Daniel had left undone. His name was Gabriel. I found him, too, in the Yellow Pages. And like Daniel, he called twice to reschedule before actually showing up. The second time he called he offered to come tomorrow, and I said, "Not to be rude, but I've already rearranged my day for you twice and I don't really relish doing it again." He sounded a bit cowed at that and said he'd be right over. And he was!

He and an unidentified friend who reminded me of Randy from "My Name is Earl" (great show!) filled some wheelbarrows with bricks and concrete and then told me they were going to the dump and would be back. I was sort of doubtful about this but then realized I still had their check. When they came back, it was getting dark but they gathered the giant pile of dirt, which amazingly seemed to fill the entire bed of their truck. There was THAT much dirt in our yard??

In the last shadows of the afternoon, I wandered out back to check their handiwork and was pretty pleased. Gabriel followed me so I announced "Well, it looks great out here! Thank you!" I was about to wander back inside when Gabriel asked "Do you have kids?"

"Not yet." Pause. "Why do you want to know if I have kids?"

"It's just a question. Sorry."

"No, it's okay. But why?"

"It's just...you look like a mom."

I laughed. It was my first response. I guess it was a little bit like the response of Sarah in Genesis when the Lord appeared to her and said she would bear a son at the age of 90. "And Sarah laughed." But I think, really, that I laughed because it was weird. And maybe a tiny bit because I was pleased. You mean I don't have a big "I" for "Infertile" on my forehead? Also...what does a mom look like? Did I look like one before I got my LID date? Before I filed my application? Then I said:

"We're actually adopting a baby in a couple of months."

"Really!" He asked me a bunch of questions about where and when and how old. Actually he was quite nice about it. Then:

"Do you think you'd ever want to have your own kids?"

"I will have my own kids...I'm going to adopt them." I said, with my grim, patient, pedagogical smile, the special one I whip out on these occasions, as if pulling out the good silver for a holiday.

"Right, right," said Gabriel, and then unexpectedly, "I have a daughter. She's 2 and a half. But I don't live with her. I never got married. I get to see her every weekend, though."

"How wonderful!" I trilled. "You must love her very much." I found out her name is Ashley and a few other things and then I started to feel like the conversation might profitably be drawn to a close.

"I have a check for you! I'll go and get it." When I emerged with the check he and Not-Randy were waiting. "Thanks for everything--you two have a nice evening!"

"You, too. And good luck with your baby."

I laughed again. "Thanks! I'm sure I'll need it."

"Yes, but...a house is empty without a baby," Gabriel said.

"That's what I've heard."

Monday, November 14, 2005

Where Babies Come From, Version 2.0

It's been a few days so I figured I should post. Not much is new.

This past Friday, we received an official e-mail (the only kind I'm paying attention to anymore) from CCAI, saying they had received only expedited May and June referrals in their latest batch. Expedited referrals are for families who are expecting Waiting Children or who are of Chinese descent. In any case, there were no April referrals, and no indication of when they might arrive. Some people have been posting on the April DTC board (which has defected from the March/April board now that the March people are all "got my plane tickets!" and "more photos of my precious angel!" and other stuff April folks don't want to hear about right now) all kinds of rumors from far-flung agencies around the world about terrorist threats, disease quarantines and general CCAA slow-downs from this point forward, but the fact is nobody knows bubkes. That's "nothing" for you non-Yiddish speakers. (Which I admit is questionable grammar.)

I just returned from BRU, where I was buying some more shower gifts and a few little things we needed while I was at it. It's interesting how my purchases have grown increasingly practical over the past few months. I used to be dazzled by velour separates and anything with darling appliques. Now I stride briskly past the frou-frou areas ("Amateurs!") and head straight to the safety and infant care, with an occasional dabble in bath and bedding. Today I picked up some more disposable items for our trip--bibs and changing pads. I hate to do all that littering but just this once!

Strangely, today was one of those days when I was downright sanguine about all the pregnant women. I sailed past them with only the barest of acknowledgement, vaguely thinking, "My, how they stick out in front! What a poor user interface! How do they get around?" Their condition seemed totally unrelated to me, as if we were different species. I am part of the species who produce offspring only in China, with a 13-14 month total gestation period. When the baby is ready, parents board an airplane to facilitate delivery. For two weeks postpartum, we live in hotel rooms. Our babies are large and interactive and arrive in eight or nine layers of clothing. Their first nourishment is rice cereal and pureed pears. See a special on our fascinating breeding habits on "National Geographic," narrated by Lisa Ling.

But it's okay to be different. Don't they tell kids that all the time? We're okay this way. And today I feel especially okay for some reason.

Wednesday, November 09, 2005

Bebe Le Strange

There is no real reason for this entry's title except that it popped into my head today. I believe it's the name of an album from the '80s from a band I can't currently remember. If people ever commented on my blog, I'm sure someone could think of it. ;)

Now that we have some information--such as it is--and CCAI "believes" that the group of matches mailed yesterday will include only remaining March families, I am of two minds. In one, I feel myself relaxing, in the manner of "Oh, we won't be going to China until March! Might as well learn to play the guitar." Two, "Well, Jumpin' Jehosephat (how the hell do you spell Jehosephat?)! We have a baby coming! Not a moment to waste!"

It's the second mind that guided me at Ralph's today, where I made the conscious decision to troll the aisles for baby-related "stuff." Most of it comes from the China adoption "travel tips" lists I've been gathering from the internet. Because I'm a researcher, I feel the need to collect about 200 of these and look for trends. Then I can present my analytical findings at a conference. ;) But there are also the disturbing anomalies, the people who feel certain I will need Wellington boots or five sizes of Tupperware containers and I can't imagine why. But then, what do I know? I've never been to China, and I've never been anywhere with a baby. My favorite comment so far was the fellow who noted that we shouldn't worry if we forget detergent--"I found it in the supermarket in Kathmandu." It's not every day you can make this statement accurately. :)

So, I'm slowly rolling up the aisles in Ralph's, and discovering all sorts of things. For instance, Earth's Best organic baby food (recommended by Baby Bargains over the Gerber crapcake) is actually *cheaper* than non-organic brands. And, Baby Bargains wasn't fooling around when they said to check the expiration dates: all of the applesauce and a good measure of the carrots expired this past summer. As I searched, I grew bold: why, if she yums up pears and bananas, dare I venture some butternut squash? I dare, and I do. I found disposable washcloths (something I've been told I'll need) and a set of plastic keys (keys and plastic cellphones are mentioned repeatedly as the portable toys of choice.) My hand fluttered over some organic vanilla baby biscuits, but honestly? I was afraid I'd eat them all. ;)

At the checkout, I displayed my haul on the conveyor belt with trepidation: would the checker want to know why I, who have no baby to speak of, was buying a dozen jars of baby food and some plastic keys? My heart pounded as she scooped them up and tossed them unceremoniously into bags. She never said a word. Because here's a newsflash: people buy baby food every day. They buy it because babies eat it. And babies are tiny people. And tiny people are necessary for big people. Who then shop in supermarkets, often accompanied by other tiny people. It's a pretty routine cause and effect, if you stop to ponder it. Which probably only infertile people do.

"Thank you, and have a nice day," she said grimly, ripping off a length of store coupons and handing them to me with my receipt. I looked and they were for $1.00 off the organic babyfood. And you know how they know which coupons to give to people? They track your purchases. And you know who purchases baby food?

I think you see where I'm going here.

Friday, November 04, 2005

Daniel Disappoints Me

So I called this guy Daniel from an ad in the Yellow Pages because he's a hauler. He hauls stuff away. Apparently in a truck but I don't know for sure. That's because he came out as soon as I called for a free estimate, and said he'd be back the next day at 2:30. The next day at 2:30 he called and said he was busy and that he'd come the NEXT day at 2:30. At 4:00 the next day (!) he called while I was watering the roses and said something that sounded like "I'll be there in 45 minutes." I wondered, in the dark? But it was a moot point because he never showed. Never called again, either. And his business card says "RELIABLE." I want to call him and say "Your card says 'RELIABLE!'" But I don't really want to call him.

I was trying to hire Daniel to take away the bricks, concrete slabs and giant pile of dirt that adorn our side yard. I didn't want Jarrah to have to look at them. I was pretty excited about planting some flowers back there, maybe setting up a ficus tree. But also I want Daniel to bring his truck and haul away a few other things. Like my "the time just changed and it seems to be dark all the time" malaise. Like my distraction. My China blues. My constant need to check the DTC boards, which keep saying, "I logged on to Family News and there is no news." They just keep saying that, over and over, in slightly different words.

And now it's the weekend again with no hope of news until Monday and probably not even then. I also wish Daniel would haul away this disturbing need to wish away my time, like my life isn't already full and enjoyable without knowing who our baby is. It's just that today was supposed to be the day. And it wasn't.

Tuesday, November 01, 2005

An Update Blows In

Snatched the following from the March/April DTC board this morning:

Thanks for the message. We know that the CCAA has not mailed matches to us, and it sounds like they won't mail later this week. So, early next week is when matches are likely to arrive in our hands and we will then know FOR SURE who was included in this match group. We are not anticipating the CCAA to match beyond the March 31st LID, but hopefully we are wrong with this assumption. We will continue to e-mail our April families as soon as we have additional news. We understand that this is a very difficult situation, so please continue to check in with us each time you have questions and/or concerns.

Best Regards,

I can't say that this clarifies anything but at least it's not "CCAA has decided to suspend all international adoptions at this time." That's something, right?!? It's so weird that they're still not saying for sure that April has been excluded this month. It's also weird that CCAI can't pick up the phone and ask them, "Dudes, what's the 411? Hook me up with some facts and figures, baby." After all, I don't speak Chinese, but the people at CCAI do. Clearly life is full of little mysteries that are not for me to question.

Right now two very polite men are making a great deal of noise outside the office door with a giant, springy, red hose thingo that is pumping insulation into our attic. It's no mystery why they're doing this, however; we hired them to bring us from an R8 to an R30, for which SDG&E will give us a rebate! That's not the real reason, though: we're hoping that the temperature in here will not fluctuate 20 degrees during the course of a single day once there's something forming a barrier between the roof and us. That is our hope. And that's all we've got. ;)