We are going to adopt.

Lately I have been thinking about how I would document out adoption story once it started, and then I realized that it started many, many years ago. That realization caused my pulse to quicken with fear. Yes, fear. Reason being that I love to document everything. Realizing that this journey has already begun, without my acknowledgment, means that moments have gone undocumented, and are essentially gone. That is what scares me. Moments past are my treasures. I sporadically kept diaries as a child, and as an adult, I have journaled, pages upon pages, life full, moment full, me full. I know that sounds remarkably self-centered, as if someone would actually care enough someday to know me so well. But if I found journals of my great-grandmother, I would treasure them. Not everyone would, but I would. Am I doing this just in case someone treasures my life happenings someday? No. Am I doing it only to share with you? No. All of my journals are the "old fashioned" way...you know, pen and paper? The kind when you seriously don't worry about your handwriting, or grammar, or spelling, but where you just pour out, unabashed and unashamed. And then you hide them in places like old coat pockets or in the bottom of a cedar chest in between the folds of a blanket (don't worry, my real hiding places are much more creative than these). These journals are the kind that you carefully locate and secure before the PCS movers arrive to turn your house upside down, and move to another room entirely if your in-laws (or anyone for that matter) are staying in your guest room.
So, not because I think someone will care, not because I have some desire to be heard do I write. Why I do it I really don't know. I just do. Maybe the main reason is because I want to remember, want to be able to feel the feelings of my whole life again if I want to. And perhaps sharing parts of my life might be, by the grace of God, a small encouragement to someone out there. I don't really know. So if you're not into my helter-skelter, all over the place kind of writing, that's okay. I'm not doing it for you anyway.
I'm noticing that all of my personal posts have some sort of disclaimer like the one above. I wonder why I do that. But let's get back to the journey.
Like most girls, I always knew I wanted to be a mother. Even when we were trying not to get pregnant, and somehow thought that maybe we were, I was excited. Once we started "not trying not to", which turned into trying, I used to keep track of the number of months that my heart fell every time I realized that I had been tricked once more by foolish hope. I think that number was around 66 or 67 last time I checked. Truth is, somehow I always knew. Before we had any reason to think anything was wrong, I remember asking the doctor if he saw any reason I might not get pregnant. He laughed and said no. I even asked him to do further tests, answer still no. After a year, we kind scratched our heads and thought hmmm...then two years, then three then four. During that time, I was privy to the discovery of so many pregnancies. I won't tell you how many times I fell into my husband's arms and cried after a friend shared her exciting news, so broken and ashamed of myself for not being able to share in their joy. He learned to be prepared for this, and always held me quiet strong; there never were any words. Moving so much, and not wanting to know, prevented us from getting to the heart of the matter until year 5. I remember the day when the truth rolled in, sure and solid. I sat outside our house before we drove to our appointment, in a swing on a playground, and thanked God that He had made us wait. I thanked him for all the time he had given me to learn how to be a mom from others, and to mature in my faith. Then we drove to the doctor. That experience was awful. The doctor basically insulted us for not realizing there was a problem sooner (which we did) and then told us that my husband was a no go without in-vitro. He even told us infertility "jokes". How anyone could find that a joking subject, I know not. I wanted to punch him in the face and call him many, many bad words. Instead, I blinked back the flood. In the elevator on the way out, we were accompanied by a young teenage girl with a bulging middle. Her eyes said she didn't want this, and mine said I was desperate for it. In the car, the flood came.
My husband couldn't understand how I was so surprised. I don't know either. I think the correct term might be denial. On the way home that day, something else awful happened. We were suddenly divided...on different pages. I wanted to start in-vitro right away, and he didn't. Pause here and think about a little girl throwing a fit because she wasn't getting her way. I admit it, that's what I did. It was a bad day. I'm not going to try to remember how that felt or what I said; I don't want to.
Finally, we agreed to pray that God would give us one mind about how to start our family. So I prayed this, heart bent on it being "my mind" that we came to. I didn't believe that God could change my mind, so obviously it would be Matt's that would be changed.
Ok, that's enough for one post...I'm losing interest in writing and I'm hungry.