Written on April 17, 2014

Written on April 17, 2014 but embargoed until … ?

I was washing mini cucumbers when we got the call. It was last Sunday, April 13, around 9 p.m. and we had just gotten back from grocery shopping. My main concern was that my fruit and vegetables were washed in apple cider vinegar, and then rinsed and put away in the refrigerator. My cucumbers were washed perfectly, and then one fell on the ground, which annoyed me. And Sean’s cell phone rang. It was the director of our adoption agency.

We told her to call the house phone. I jumped on the line.

And that call became our call. THE call. We had been chosen.

There was a baby.For us.A birth mom in Pennsylvania had chosen us. She was healthy, the baby was healthy. She was 37 and a half weeks pregnant. She was due any day.

I asked the gender of the baby.

It was a girl.

And I started to cry. Like really, really cry.

I had always wanted a little girl.

The thoughts that rushed through my head that day, and the days that follow, continue to develop. That day I was overcome with joy. Overcome with panic. Overcome with anxiety. Overcome with fear. I had and continue to have (now April 17) every single emotion listed in the dictionary, and beyond that.

Literally any minute of any day we could get a call that our birth mother has gone into labor. Any minute now, as I write this, we will have a baby. Any minute now we could be bringing a baby home.

And the thoughts rush. One minute I’ll start to cry with happiness. And then I’ll panic. The diapers? The nursery? All of our travel plans. My job. Sean’s job. The nursery. Diapers? Car seats. Our barely-there baby registry on Amazon. Formulas. Books.

ANY.DAY.NOW.OUR.LIVES.WILL.CHANGE.FOREVER.

So I’ll cry. And then I’ll panic. And the process repeats and repeats and repeats.

And I tell myself I’m not ready. We’re not prepared. And I tell myself this is G-d’s plan for us. This is meant to be. And the worst part? We’ve known since April 13 and we can’t tell a soul.

Our parents and siblings know. Our employers know. And our next door neighbors in case they need to grab Campbell in the middle of the night. They all know, but nobody else can know.

Not our friends. Not our families.

Because until this baby is in our home, she is not yet ours. The adoption could still fall through.

Even though we met the birth mother on April 14. Even though we had a beautiful, meaningful meeting. Even though she gave us her ultrasound pictures. Even though after looking at our profile book and choosing us, anything could happen. She could, and has every right, to change her mind.

We have been chosen but the baby is not yet ours.

But we have to prepare like she is.

The car seats and the onesies (unisex in case the doctors were wrong.) And her name and which parents are going to watch her for all the weddings we have this summer and leave from work and are we taking her to Ireland and I’m going to be a mom and we are not ready and we are so happy and we want to tell everyone but we can’t.

Those silly mini cucumbers. The tears.

The call.

I write this today, on April 17. I write this, holding back so much from our many friends and loved ones who are rallying for us and waiting for the news, any news. WE wait for the news, any news. Any time the phone rings my heart skips a beat. Any time the phone rings it could mean our birth mother is in labor and we must rush to the hospital three hours away. And then we will bring home this baby. Any minute our lives can change. So people tell us to “sleep now while you can.”

Ok, because I’ll be able to sleep knowing literally any second I could become a mom. Any second we’ll have to drop everything we’re doing. She could give birth today or in two weeks. We don’t know but we have to be ready.

Every emotion that has ever existed in the history of humanity. That’s what I’m feeling at any given moment. We can’t really make new plans but we have to really make new plans. Keep on living. Friends want to do dinner next week. I want to say yes, I want to tell them what we’re going through, I want to tell them “we might have a baby by then.”

This is so hard. This is so amazing. This is so incredible. This is so unbelievable.

When I hold her, how will I feel?

Ever since we started using the agency I tried to picture what it would be like to have THAT meeting with the birth mother, the one we had on April 14. I tried to picture what we would talk about. I could never imagine it, though. It seemed SO far away. Now I’m trying to picture us driving to the hospital. Putting the baby in the car seat. Taking her home. I can’t possibly imagine. But it’s not that far away.

We’ve already gotten the call. We’ve already been chosen. We’ve already met the birth mother. Now we wait for the baby.

There’s this baby, and when she comes she supposed to be ours. Yet we can’t tell anyone.

I can only dream of holding her, rocking back and forth in the rocking chair in the nursery, looking out the corner windows at our backyard and down to the winery and farmland behind. I can only imagine the pink bows. I can only imagine being woken in the middle of the night and looking into her eyes. I can only imagine what she’ll look like: part Vietnamese and part African American. I can only imagine how she’ll become more beautiful each day. I can only imagine my love for her will be overwhelming. I can only imagine Campbell sniffing her. I can only imagine her tiny feet. Our world has been rocked again. But this time, it’s with a blessing we can’t even begin to understand.