25 Weeks

25 weeks. That's how long it's taken me to figure out how to write about this. It's been a confusing and overwhelming several months, in part because I just didn't see it coming.

We met with our new adoption case worker on August 6, 2014 (our previous case worker had left Health and Welfare just prior, much to our surprise). We discussed the status of our family, our ongoing interest to adopt, and whether there had been any changes to our file. She was optimistic, hopeful that it was "just a matter of time" before we found the right child. Her words, while cheerful and confident, sounded hollow not only in our ears, but in our hearts. Empty promises.

She left, and we went back to waiting. That night in bed (serious conversations are always safer there), I shared with David my thoughts, my fears. It had been three years. Three years of trying to make this plan work. But it wasn't working, not the way we thought it would, not the way we thought it should. But now, now we were committed to growing our family, committed to giving Morgan a sibling, committed to setting one more place at the dinner table. "Let's just try," I said. "We can try to get pregnant for 6 months. If it doesn't work, we'll know it wasn't meant to be."

On August 26, 2014, I found out I was pregnant. First try.

I found out I was pregnant on a Tuesday, in the ladies' room at work (glamorous, I know). I didn't tell David until that Sunday, and we didn't tell any of our family until we were 18 weeks along. Part of me was in shock, part of me in denial. As for the rest of me, I suppose I was in mourning. Making the choice to have another baby meant we were no longer helping a child in need. Making the choice to have another baby meant we were giving up on the very system that had clearly already given up on us. It was time to move on, but our hearts were still broken. Making the choice to have another baby meant closing the door on something we'd been committed to for a really long time.

But as one door closed, indeed another opened. When we finally shared the news with our family and friends, they were not just surprised, but ecstatic. When we finally shared the news with Morgan, she was over the moon. And when I finally felt the tiny flutters within me just weeks ago, I rejoiced. For our baby is healthy and strong, and she (yes, she) will make our family complete. And we will celebrate her. And Morgan will be the world's best big sister. That much I am sure of.

Look out world, there's another Lorenzo on the way.

Tethered

Do you remember last month, when I talked about Morgan's struggle to clean up after herself (it shouldn't be hard, I tragically only posted once in December)? Well, she took that little life lesson very seriously, maybe a little too seriously.

After returning to school following Christmas break, Morgan's class spent some time working on their New Year's resolutions. Morgan crafted three resolutions, one of which included a commitment to "quit blurting out in class so much" - good luck with that one, kiddo. I have been working on that for more than 30 years. When I was in the 4th grade, Mrs. Robinson made me go sit in the hall under the drinking fountain because I wouldn't stop volunteering for acts in the talent show. And when I was in the 5th grade, Mrs. Brady wrote in my report card, "Amy needs to learn to sit quietly."  Still haven't mastered that one.

As I thumbed through the rest of Morgan's list of resolutions, this little guy caught my eye:

It would appear that my child actually took to heart that cleaning her room is her responsibility. But as we all know, New Year's resolutions are easily broken. There is a reason I can't find parking at the gym in January but have my pick of the lot by mid-March.

Despite my skepticism, I sent Morgan to her room last weekend to get her toys picked up and organized. I was immersed in my own housekeeping endeavors and quickly lost track in time. When I finally realized I hadn't heard a peep from her, I called out her name. No response. I called a little louder. Still nothing. I decided to investigate.

I cracked open her bedroom door, where I immediately encountered this:

Not sure what you're staring at? Look closely, My daughter has turned her jump rope into a leash, literally tethering herself to her stool by the ankle.

"So, uh, whatcha got going on in here?"

"I'm just cleaning my room, Mom." Total blank stare, as if she actually didn't know what I was asking.

"No, what's the situation with your jump rope?" I pointed casually to the slightly disturbing and bizarre scene before me.

"Oh, that? I was having a really hard time staying focused so I decided to just tie myself to my stool. That way, every time I want to go play, I can't. I have to stay right here until I finish."

They say kids learn by example, but Morgan conjured this up all on her own. However, it did indeed work like a charm. So much so that I am considering tying David to his work bench.