150 Steps...In the Present Moment

The extra-large purple LL Bean duffel bag on wheels is sitting in the nursery where it has remained  (fully packed with all things newborn baby....diapers, onesies, swaddling blankets, pacifiers, car seat base, etc.) since early March. Since our other adoption fell through. Chris and I never had the heart to unpack the carefully packed duffel bag once we found out that we would not be going to Arizona on March 11 to meet the little baby we thought and hoped would be joining our family. So there it sat. Waiting for another chance to be used. And now we arrive home after the madness of this evening: desperate calls from T at our adoption agency...learning that we might be parents to a baby born today in FL...being told that we'd have to get to Orlando tomorrow...telling T at the adoption agency that I'll be heading down to FL...the scramble at my mother-in-law's to get me plane tickets, a rental car and hotel reservations (and having to explain to the hotel that we have...

It's 2:37 a.m. and before our 5 week-old daughter can wake up her daddy with more "I'm hungry!" cries, I scoop her up out of her bed-top co-sleeper and whisk her off to the nursery for a bottle. Later, after I've laid my sleeping daughter back in her co-sleeper and I'm settling myself back to sleep next to her, it hits me that I am  really  a mom. This is the first time in these crazy first weeks of parenting that I scoop her teeny-tiny-not-quite-6-pounds-body out her co-sleeper without worrying about dropping her. Or worrying if I'm doing it "right." Or jostling her too much. Or  thinking  about how to cradle her head just right against my arm. I do it with absolutely no worries. Automatically. Effortlessly. It's like I've been doing this all of my life...scooping, holding, feeding, rocking, putting her back to bed - all just one continuous series of fluid, practiced, confident motions.  I am a mom. And now here we are and she'...

Massive hurricane? Check. No light, power, phone, Internet or electricity for four days? Check. Switching to a new job? Check. Adopting a baby in the space of 48 hours? Sure! Why the hell not! Clearly, the Universe has a twisted sense of humor. More details coming soon but the adoption journey is over and the journey as parents and a family begins today. Welcome to the world and to our family, Esme Louisa!

My first day in eight years without a paying job. It feels...odd. Yesterday people at work tell me that I must be so relieved. That it must be nice to be getting rid of my stress. And, yes, it is. But I haven't totally gotten rid of stress in my life...just the stress of working in a job at which I was pretty good for a long time, but on which I had burned out some time ago. Now there's new and different stress... We're officially a one-income family until I can figure out a way to generate some income while I'm a stay-at-home-mom. Hopefully with my writing. I've committed to getting the house in shape for the baby's eventual (and hopefully soon!) arrival in our lives. That means cleaning out all of the closets, getting rid of more accumulated stuff to make way for new baby stuff, baby proofing, painting the baby's bookshelves and dresser, and the big project - sanding/priming/painting the remaining trim on our main floor. That's seven door f...

Another op'nin', another show In Philly, Boston or Baltimo', A chance for stage folks to say hello, Another op'nin' of another show. Another job that you hope, at last, Will make your future forget your past, Another pain where the ulcers grow, Another op'nin' of another show. Four weeks, you rehearse and rehearse, Three weeks and it couldn't be worse, One week, will it ever be right? Then out o' the hat, it's that big first night! The overture is about to start,  You cross your fingers and hold your heart, It's curtain time and away we go!  -- " Another Op'nin, Another Show " When it comes to the adoption process, I'm feeling like the stagehands and extras in  Kiss Me, Kate  faced with performance after performance of one show after another in city after city, hoping to finally reach the promised land of a big hit and the bright lights of Broadway. I haven't written much in the ...

Most days I'm OK. I do not spend much time these days obsessing about the adoption that fell through earlier this year or the one that has yet to happen. Most days I'm OK. I go about my business. The business of living. The business of trying to be in the present moment. But then it creeps up on me. Stealthily.  The sadness. The longing.  Like yesterday. In many ways yesterday is a good day. Gray and rainy. I spend the day in my jammies, reading the last book in my very favorite fantasy series, hunkered down on the couch, enjoying the cat snuggled up beside me. The house needs to be cleaned, but I ignore it in favor of the life of the mind and imagination. It is only in the evening when it's finally dark enough for the fireworks to start and I head out with my husband onto our back deck to watch them that I realize how sad I am.  How yet another holiday has almost come and gone. And we are still not parents. I try to enjoy the fireworks, but fail and...

She is in line in front of me at the Dunkin Donuts. It isn't that she has a bad odor drawing my attention to her because she doesn't have one, which is surprising. It is her oddness. The way she holds her arms away from her sides, hands dangling, and sways ever so slightly. It's the short brown obviously unwashed hair standing straight up in the back with large flakes of dandruff embedded in it. It's the droopy, dirty, strapless sundress and the dirty white flip flops that make me look at her more closely. Her tan feet are filthy with long, sharp looking toenails that have not seen a clipper in many, many months. I notice that her long, sharp looking finger nails are dirty as well. When her arms are not held away from her sides she plucks and plucks at the skirt of her dress. I'm guessing that she is somewhere in her early fifties, although it's hard to tell. Her face, except for her rapidly blinking eyes, is slack and immobile. The young girl behind the c...