Saturday, September 21, 2013

A Sign

I had lunch with a friend last Friday. As we often do, we gave each other the quick and dirty on our lives. She shared a hilarious, if somewhat traumatizing, story of being locked out of her house while her husband was gone hunting and then having to push her three year old through the dining room window to unlock the door and let her in. We talked about babies (she also has a newborn), raising kids, and about how you sometimes do things as a parent just to survive. I shared my own traumatizing story about the fact that my daughter didn't sleep through the night until she was three and how I am still tired two years later.

Really, it was just delightful. That is, until she asked me about how things are going with the adoption. As I do with everyone, I summed it up in a series of one word answers, "Nada. Nothing. Nowhere. Ugh." We commiserated about how frustrating this has been and whether David and I should close out our adoption file and move on. It was a very sad and painful conversation for me.

But then I got home that night and checked the mail. As I mindlessly thumbed through the array of bills, coupons, and catalogs, a small white envelope caught my eye. I yelled to David, "We got something, we finally got something!" I frantically tore the envelope open, discovering that we are now officially licensed. Major development. But something wasn't right with the letter. I glanced back to the envelope, only to see that it wasn't addressed to me and David, it was addressed to me and someone named Mark. We don't have a single person in either of our families named Mark. No relatives, no neighbors. No one.

Before I completely began to panic, I read the letter itself. Nope, it was also wrong:

Objectively, I know this was just a typo. Emotionally, this just symbolized everything that has been wrong with this process. Every set back, every speed bump, every disappointment. I think we need a new plan.

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