Third-Person Posting

Someone is home alone tonight, on a Saturday, the universal date night, in her pajamas by 8:00 pm, reading and drinking wine by herself.  Erin always was a bit of a loner.  Her younger brother might disagree, having spent three out of four of his high school years cold and shivering in his older sister's shadow, until she graduated and his classmates no longer referred to him as "Erin's brother."  Then he was simply "Chris," but by no means was he simple.  He was very, very complex.  And so was the smell of his room.  It could have been due to a Daschund named George and an unhealthy obsession with Drakkar cologne. 

But enough picking on Chris. 

Erin spends the evening alone.  Her husband Daniel is at their church's annual Hafli (dinner-dance), serving alcohol to their fellow parishioners.  The Bishop is in town.  Why is Erin home alone when her husband is at a dinner-dance, you might ask?  The answer is obvious.  Erin is drowning in schoolwork, much like Edna was drowning in the ocean at the end of The Awakening, which is one of the reasons that Erin is stressing out.  Yes, she ended that sentence with a preposition.  Desperate times call for desperate measures.  She must write a fresh, original paper on Kate Chopin's story, an assignment that is turning out to be quite impossible.  She had no idea that every female feminist, naturalist, existentialist-type graduate student in the United States has, at one time or another, split hairs into a paper about why Edna kills herself at the end.   

And another thing, Renaissance literature is not Erin's bag. 

This leads to an interesting question:  What IS Erin's bag?  What's not in Erin's trick-or-treat bag as of yet is the coveted set of numbers she receives every month from her adoption agency telling her where she is on the wait list.  These silly numbers happen to be the only thing keeping her sane through this adoption process.  She finds herself holding her breath each month until she receives the e-mail telling her how much closer she is to becoming a mom.  When these numbers are two weeks late, Erin begins to question.  She begins to wonder what is so complicated about adding and subtracting.  Wait.  Never mind.  Erin is horrible at math.  She could never add or subtract any number without all ten of her fingers.  If she ever lost a finger, she would be in serious trouble, not to mention her steno career would be finished.  Hmm... Don't give her any ideas.  But really, why can these adoption people not just give her the numbers so she can get through the next month like a semi-sane person?       

Another thing that is NOT Erin's bag:  Patience.  Erin has always been in a rush to do everything.  Ask her mother.  She could not wait to be taught how to read.  She picked up that Cat in the Hat and had it mastered by age four.  She rushed to get married at 21...and then rushed to get divorced.  She rushed her way through court reporting school so that she could start making money.  She hates waiting in lines, hates waiting for her Netflix in the mail, and would rather die than return an item the day after Christmas.  But if she did have to die, she would make sure it was fast.  If Erin ever went to hell, her "contrapasso" would be spent waiting for her deli number to be called for all eternity.

So here she sits, waiting for the numbers, waiting, waiting, waiting for the blessed numbers, wondering if she will EVER become a mother.     

The Dream of a Ridiculous Woman

These numbers signify many things. They are the number of months we have been on the wait list. They are also the first number of my address. They are also pictures I took of our actual No. 4 on our house and curb. They also are a clue for my stalkers to find where I live. Next month I will give you the next number to my address. You will be so much closer to finding me!!! They are also the number of weeks our house has been on the market. Looks like we may end up staying in our house at this rate, but I digress. Here are some more numbers: 69, 51, 27. Boys, girls and siblings waiting list positions, respectively.

Yes, there has been movement, but is it enough to get me excited and hopeful that this adoption will actually end with a beautiful baby (or an ugly one...either way, we will still love it) in our arms? Not so much. Why can I not bring myself to feel excited? Because two years is too long to hold your breath. That's why.

At my husband's insistence, I read a short story today by Dostoevsky called "The Dream of a Ridiculous Man," and I can tell you that it was, indeed, ridiculous. Don't ever read that. But once again, I digress. The point of this story was that you can either accept that life holds mostly suffering, and in order to survive, you must learn how to turn that suffering into love, or you can shoot yourself in the head with a pistol. And it's the suffering of a little girl whose mother is dying that saves the ridiculous man's life because it makes him realize he has a choice to express love in the midst of suffering. He puts the pistol down and chooses not to shoot himself.

What a horrible story. But anyhow, I feel like I am at a similar crossroads. I can either shoot myself in the head, or I can accept this suffering and try to turn it into something good. I just wish I knew how to do that.