It seems like too long since I've had any good news. I'm anxious and I cry too easily. I have no tolerance for the lady bringing her Australian shepherd on the streetcar, even after she explains that it's training to be a service dog. Or for the guy who sprints up and leaps through the door ahead of me. Even the guy I live with is sometimes too noisy, or messy, or just hard to tolerate in general.
None of them did anything to deserve my ire, not really; I'm just tired of waiting. This week it will be two months that our boy has been in the foster home- waiting for us, though he doesn't know it. I'm very glad to see his picture each week, getting taller and healthier, growing more hair. I'm just waiting for a court date, so at least I can go meet him. Seem less like a crazy lady carrying around pictures of a beautiful boy she's never seen, pretending he's her son.
I feel like I did, years ago, hoping to become pregnant. Hoping in vain each month that my period would stay away. Sometimes it was late, but it never stayed away, and a perverse voice in my mind tries to convince me that this wait is the same.
I have to beat that voice.
This is not the same. Courts move slowly. Paperwork takes time. People miss appointments, and they have to be postponed. It takes time. But it doesn't take forever, and it will happen. This time next year I will have presents under a Christmas tree, strung with lights. Perhaps I'll take a photo of my son there, and send it to everyone I know. It will happen.
And I probably won't be any saner then than I am now. I'll probably find something to worry about, something to make me cry, something that isn't perfect. I won't remember this though; or only with a vague chuckle.
Because I have only good news to look forward to now. It's just a matter of time.
Dispatch from Portland's March for Our Lives
1 hour ago