I Still Don’t Want to Mow it

I am the quintessential “grass-is-always-greener” person, always checking out what’s on the other side of that white-picket fence. I typically want that which I can’t or shouldn’t have, isn’t possible, or isn’t readily available to me. I am unsure if this is a personal flaw or simply a characteristic of the collective human consciousness. (I’m hoping it’s the latter, because then I don’t have to accept responsibility for this unattractive attitude.)

For example, I currently am sitting in a Nashville hotel lobby, bored beyond belief and irritated at myself for choosing to return home from a business trip a day early. So, instead of enjoying a nice meal and evening out with my friends and coworkers in what I’ve realized is a pretty sweet-ass town, I am stuck endlessly waitingwaitingwaiting for my trip home to begin. At least my lovely lobby has free Internet, cushy seats, and quite a lot of people-watching fodder.

I originally decided not to stay in Nashville an extra night because I tend not to socialize with my coworkers, and I thought I’d much rather spend the night at home in my own bed, even if that meant wasting an entire afternoon waiting for a plane. If you’ve been reading my blog since its inception, you already know I’m not a chit-chat-how-was-your-weekend-water-cooler-gossip kind of sista. But last night, I was obligated to attend a business function that was one part networking opportunity and two parts shakin’ shindig. The music was blarin’, the alcohol was flowin’, and I was feelin‘ it, man. So when my neighborly cube-dwellers suggested keeping the party going elsewhere, I said, “Sure, why not?” If I had chosen to say nay, as was my usual M.O., I would have missed:

• chair-dancing next to a CEO;
• talking to a guy who actually watches more TV than I do and has turned me on to a couple of reality shows I had never even heard of;
• watching the extremely intoxicated man behind me fall face-first down a flight of stairs without dousing me with his beer;
• seeing a chick who went way too far with the Western wear put ice down her sleeping boss’s shirt;
• cheering on my broad-shouldered 6-ft male and petite 5-ft female colleagues who were bravely trolling through a hoarse rendition of “Born to Run” at a karaoke bar;
• rolling my eyes at my fabulous cube-mate’s creepy stalker;
• accidentally but hilariously dropping my purse on and then touching a lady coworker’s butt (which I’m still apologizing for);
• being envied of my ability to wear 3-in. heels for almost 20 hours straight (“I’m a professional,” I told my stalker-inflicted cube-mate before realizing that could be taken horribly wrong in a completely different context);
and so on and so forth.

It’s not that these kinds of nights are outside the realm of my experience—this would have been a relatively tame Wednesday evening prior to 2004—it’s just that I’ve never chosen to stop and actually enjoy my current colleagues. By keeping myself to myself, I’ve played it safe (which, I recently found out, apparently hasn’t succeeded in keeping me out of the office rumor mill), but I’ve also sucked the fun out of going to work. Showing my associates another side of myself may have made me look like a moron—I laughed too loud, sang too many wrong words to too many over-played “rock” songs, and shook my ass too much when I danced—but I sure as hell am looking forward to work on Monday, something I haven’t felt for months.

(Bear with me here, I’m rounding third and sliding straight into my point.)

The thing is, for the past couple of weeks, my social worker has been talking to me about adopting an 11-month-old little girl whose mother just isn’t sure she can care for her anymore. Of course, my first reaction (as Nancy Reagan once instructed a generation already addicted to addiction) was to “Just Say No:” Attempting to bond with a child who already is attached to her birth mother just isn’t part of my plan. And once again, that lawn appears to be so much greener on the other side of the fence. Although I might have an opportunity to adopt sooner rather than later by bending my brain waves and making a seemingly less-attractive choice, wouldn’t my life be easier if I waited for a “better baby” to come along, one that will be, perhaps, “less damaged”? Almost everyone I’ve told about her has looked at me askance, and I’ve started to look over my shoulder for One-Eyed Willie because it can’t possibly be my words creating that horrified look in my listeners’ eyes.

However, a lot of the truly awesome, if thoroughly complicated, periods of my life have occurred when I shrugged my shoulders and uttered those same words: “Sure, why not?” So when the social worker called to find out if we wanted to meet the new birth mom (#3 if you’re counting), I said yes. Taking advantage of a situation that at first glance might seem like a huge gamble doesn’t make me a fool—it simply makes me open to what could turn out to be a very cool opportunity.

(Side note: For those of you keeping track of these things, the initial meeting with Birth Mom #3 is on Thursday afternoon/meeting with Birth Mom #1 is on Friday.)

It’s Not Easy Being Green

I was so green with envy last week, my husband started calling me “Kermit.” A few days ago, I had lunch with a friend who always has a gazillion projects in the works. But instead of normal-sized tasks, like creating the ultimate ’80s-hairbands playlist on iTunes, his big-boy projects tend to be more goal-oriented—for example, he currently is writing a play for his hometown’s bicentennial and procuring the funds to turn one of his screenplays into a movie. What transformed me into a jealous green Hulk, however, was his latest leap back into collegiate life: He also is earning his doctorate.

While most people cringe at the mere mention of the words “term paper,” I would love to continue my education. Crazy, I know. But I actually enjoyed school. Not the pep rallies and prom queens part of it, but the whole class-and-homework routine. I tried to play it cool: “Yeah, Mrs. Hossenpfeffer is such a bitch—I’m totally going to fail her test!” But secretly, I got a little shiver of excitement when my mom took me school-supply shopping. And when I was turning a dozen brown-paper grocery bags into book covers. And when I was deciding on my color-coding system for the year. (The folders had to match the binders, which had to match the notebooks, which had to match the highlighters…it was very complicated.)

I think what I appreciated about school and, later, college, was that the effort I put into my classes was directly proportional to the results I received—my grades exactly matched the amount of work I put into whatever test I was studying for or paper I was writing. For example, a friend and I spent our spring quarter as college freshmen watching shirtless 19-year-old boys throw Frisbees around the quad. Although we brought our books along, we didn’t learn by osmosis, and I wasn’t truly surprised when a few Cs made their way into my grades.

The problem is my life outside of school has never worked quite so logically. Unfortunately, half-naked guys do not run around on my front lawn. Even worse, no amount of reading, research, or writing will help me adopt a child any faster. Even Angelina’s looks, Oprah’s money, and Ellen’s sense of humor wouldn’t bring my child home. (OK, Oprah’s money might help…when you have more money than God, greasing a few wheels here and there is probably relatively easy.) Instead, I simply have to wait—wait for my social worker to return my phone calls, wait for a birth mother to check out my profile, and basically wait for my child to find me. Nothing is more frustrating than being unable to affect my future’s outcome.

I Miss Bill Cosby Commercials

I mentally had composed an entire post about pudding, but now I can’t write it. On Wednesday I received a letter I was only semi-pleased with, and I was going to compare it to a semi-sweet treat I find merely semi-satisfactory, but on Friday I received a phone call that negated most of my complaints. Thus, in the span of three days, the words languishing in my brain had reached their expiration date.

Perhaps I had better explain.

Like many Americans, I enjoy a delicious cup of pudding now and again. (Yes, I will admit to occasionally packing it in my lunch. Who doesn’t like chocolaty goodness?) On a recent trip to the grocery store, I reached into the refrigerated section for my usual six-pack of 100-Calorie J-ello Pudding Cups, when I spied the sugar-free variety. Although I’m typically not one to buy sugar-free anything, curiosity got the better of me. I checked the nutritional information, and AHA! The sugarless kind contained only 60 calories! Feeling like I had just outsmarted the J-ello pudding marketing “geniuses” who had jumped on the 100-calorie bandwagon, I opened my prize as soon as I got home. I ripped the tin-foil top off one of the cups, plunged in my spoon, and tasted… well, let’s just say it wasn’t quite the velvety numminess I had hoped for.

I was reminded of that experience this week when I received a letter from our adoption agency. I was fired up as soon as I saw the crimson print on the envelope because I knew exactly what was inside. Or so I thought. I tore open the envelope, grabbed the paper inside, and scanned the words “home,” “study,” and “approved”—SUCCESS! We had officially received the rubber stamp from our adoption agency! But when I went back to read the letter in its entirety, what I saw left a slightly sour taste in my mouth. At the end of the letter, our social worker mentioned that, if a child is not placed in our home within two years, we will need to go through the home-study process again, including personal interviews, medical evaluations, and financial reviews—all of which we just completed. Ugh. First of all, although I generally am a realist, I didn’t want to be reminded of the fact that we could be waiting for our child for two years. Second, I just spent an entire summer trying to refrain from pulling out my eyelashes—I don’t want to have to go through all of that scrutiny again.

However, a couple of days later, our social worker called. She wanted to know what our schedules looked like for the next few weeks because she has two birth mothers who want to meet us. Umm… what?! Holy crap—I’m still riding pretty high from the approval letter, and two birth mothers are interested in us? I had to shake my head to clear out the inrush of trivial blather (But we don’t have any baby furniture! We haven’t even replaced the carpet in the nursery yet!) just so I could pay attention to what she was saying.

After hearing the birth mothers’ situations, I once again have put on my I-refuse-to-get-excited exoskeleton. We are third on Birth Mother #1′s list: Her baby will be biracial, and her top two couples are non-white. She chose us because John was adopted. As our social worker said, “John has the whole adopted thing going for him, but he’s just too white.” (I’m going to assume she was kidding.) Birth Mother #2 is requesting ongoing visits with the child. I’m not sure John and I will fit that bill—if she’s looking to come over on Christmas and birthdays, we’re not the right couple for her. My current mantra is “wait and see.”

Even if neither of these birth mothers are right for us, I’m honestly just excited that someone looked at our profile without tossing it aside. (This must be how Oscar losers feel when they say, “It’s an honor just to be nominated.”) It pretty much justifies my decision not to change the profile after our social worker’s negative comments. Also, meeting Birth Mother #1 while knowing we probably won’t get the child gives me a chance to get rid of those first-time jitters. I can experience the initial birth-mother meeting without that shiny-eyed “this is IT” glimmer of hope and the inevitable crushing disappointment.

All things considered, I have to be pleased with the developments thus far. Only three days of “wait time” before getting a result? I think that calls for a celebratory pudding cup.

No More “Faking It”

As an Infertile Myrtle, you know you’re experiencing some personal growth when you no longer wish pregnant women ill will. Not that I ever hoped for physical harm or anything serious, but I may have secretly longed for a mommy-to-be’s eyebrows to fall out. When you have been trying unsuccessfully to get pregnant for what seems like eternity, it becomes harder and harder to feel true-blue happiness when you see friends/colleagues/random women at Wal-Mart who have a bun or two in the ol’ oven.

I have to admit that I have not always been charitable to pregnant women in the past. A little over a year ago, I was outside enjoying the sunshine with my dog, when I noticed my next-door neighbor in her front yard. She was waving me a pleasant “hello,” when I suddenly realized that she was beginning to “show.” (I must take a moment to note that what happened next was completely illogical and in no way is an example of a rational state of mind.) I simply turned around, stomped into the house, and yelled at my husband: “John, that bitch is having my baby!”

Now, obviously I do not actually think that my neighbor’s ability to reproduce automatically makes her a bitch, but in that moment, all I could think about were the years of struggle I had endured just to taste bitter, rancid failure time after time. And again, in that moment, it felt as if all that woman had to do was bat her pretty little eyelashes for her husband to heroically impregnate her with his indestructible SuperSperm. Of course, I had no way of knowing whether their path to procreation had been footloose and fancy free, but other people’s problems just weren’t part of my agenda!

Fast-forward to the present: I was pleasantly surprised this week when I was able to honestly tell an expecting friend that I am delighted for her future familial additions. In the past, my motto might have been “grin and bear it”—especially because she is one of those women who is still gorgeous halfway through her third trimester. (I mean, the least a pregnant lady can do is gain 80 lb so I can take some satisfaction in my slender waist if not my barren womb, right?!) Instead, I was able to say “I am really happy for you” without faking the accompanying smile. Although some might chalk my sudden good nature up to that evening’s chocolate-fondue-induced endorphins, I choose to believe that it stemmed from confidence in my decision to adopt. Now that’s what I call progress.