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.

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