181 Days

I’ve always been an emotional person. It’s just part of who I am. So what’s the logical activity for an emotional cry baby like me who is waiting to hear news about an adoption which has been languishing interminably long as we approach an important “deadline” (if such a word exists in the adoption world)? Watching home movies, of course.

I recently took our videocassettes to a place where they can convert them to DVDs. I picked them up on Saturday and we spent the whole weekend watching them. I sat next to two 11-year olds and an 8-year old on the sofa while we saw babies and toddlers take first steps and blow out birthday candles. We listened to tiny, high-pitched voices sing the ABC song and “Jesus Loves Me.” I wept. The only thing missing from this tear-fest was some major hormones…oh, wait…I had that going on, too.

The one section we didn’t watch was the birth of our son. My husband did the videoing (I was too busy pushing a human out of my body). He didn’t start filming until after our son was out and in my arms, getting kisses. Unfortunately, he didn’t realize what was in the periphery of the shot. Let’s just say I wasn’t ready for that kind of close up. When I took that cassette to be converted, it came with a backstory, a plea, and some nervous giggling. We decided to put that one on its own separate disc so I could do some cropping later.

Other than that X-rated scene and the random 20 minutes of a dog show when someone from work borrowed our camera, it was priceless. It made it all the more difficult knowing how much we’ve already missed with our son who is in Africa. We’re sick of missing holidays and birthdays and regular days and EVERYdays with him. We’re sick of wondering if this will have a happy ending or any kind of ending at all.

Here’s the truth: we’ve been in this additional wait for 181 days. This doesn’t include the year we waited to be matched and the nine months after that before this wait began. But here’s another truth: it doesn’t matter how sick we get of waiting. It just doesn’t. We’ll wait. We’ll wait for the email or phone call, and we’ll live in expectation of it everyday. That the human heart is capable of processing this overwhelming amount of emotions without imploding is as miraculous as it is commonplace. Nevertheless, I’ll be grateful when I can feel this and so much more with our boy in my arms, getting kisses.  

Yours Truly, Abby

Growing up I was like most kids, flitting from one career path to another. I wanted to cut hair or bake pies or be an acrobat in the circus. My possible future professions were sometimes based on one afternoon’s experience: giving my cousin bangs (whoops!) or baking muffins without a mix or receiving a compliment on my monkey-bars prowess. The passion for this new skill came with a sudden and heady anticipation but it left almost as quickly. I still cut hair from time to time and I’ve been known to do some baking, but they don’t inspire me or give my life meaning. (I’m not much of a monkey-bar girl anymore. My husband does make me watch American Ninja Warrior, though.)

My real and lasting dream job—the one I would barely even admit to myself—was to be an author. In my private moments, I would imagine typing away (on a typewriter, “Murder She Wrote” style) in my writing cabin out in the woods. I would carefully script my interview on Oprah when she would introduce my book as the next “Oprah Book Club” pick. (“Thanks, Oprah! I’m so glad you enjoyed reading it. No, you’re amazing! I’m just a regular gal.”)

So that’s what makes the last few months so special for me. If getting your book published makes you an author, then I’ve accomplished a big chunk of my bucket list. Actually that may be my whole list. (It’s a very small bucket.)

The culmination of this dream-come-true experience has been my book signing events. My first one was at the home of my good friend, Melissa. It was open to anyone who wanted to stop by and pick up a signed book. There was definitely a baby shower atmosphere, with a few alterations. Here’s the formula:

Melissa’s party = (Baby Shower – Baby/Gifts) x (Book + Signature) + tiny pecan pies

It was amazing and a huge ego trip. Everyone who came already liked me and are sweet enough to congratulate me and buy a book even if I’d written one about mold spores.

The next event was at my Alma Mater, Lipscomb University, during their summer lectureship. One evening after the keynote address, I sat at a table and chatted with people next to where the manager from the bookstore sold my books. They were so gracious and encouraging, but this came as no surprise. I was a student at the elementary, middle, and high schools affiliated with the university. Both my parents worked there.  I was just a hometown girl who came home. I spoke to many people I didn’t know but my connection to the university bridged that gap.

The next stop on my book tour was at the Vanderbilt Barnes and Noble store. Here, I took a much larger step out of my comfort zone. Though some very good friends stopped by to visit, most of the people I met were total strangers. I was forced to sell my brand, something I’m not very good at. I knew it would be more difficult, so I came prepared. Since my book is set mostly in Tennessee in the 1920’s and 1930’s, I passed out mini Moon Pies to the people who came over to inquire about my book. (According to their website, “The Moon Pie brand was born in 1917” and created by the Chattanooga Bakery. Perfect!) I stamped little bags, slipped a Moon Pie in them with my business card, and Voila! Chocolate bribery!

The most difficult part of the book signing, other than the sweaty palms and awkward small talk, was deciding how to actually sign my books. Down to the final minutes before I left for my first event, I was still trying to decide what I would write. Would I go for something inspirational? "Reach for the stars!" or "Never, never, never give up on your dreams!" How about something a little more practical? "Final sale. No returns." I wanted to have my own catch phrase like Ed McMahon or Fat Albert, but nothing came to me. I finally decided on something simple but true: God bless. It's probably overused, especially in the South, but it's no less true. For anyone who buys my book, even if they just want to use it as a coaster, I could wish for nothing better than God's blessings. It's also been a constant reminder to me that, yes, God blesses. He has blessed me more than I could ever deserve or acknowledge and it's never been more true than with my book. So...God bless, ya'll!

No News

Hello. My name is Abby and I’m a people-pleaser.

 If you’ve spent much time with me or others from my tribe (or you are also a fellow PP), you know that we yearn to tell you something you want to hear. If there’s a lull in the conversation, I’ll get you talking about yourself. I’ve done it for so long now, I give off a scent that alerts strangers to share very personal information with me. I’m the Barbara Walters of Murfreesboro. I recently went to a store to get a new battery for my watch. This particular store only sells batteries and light bulbs, a very specific inventory the salespeople are eager to explain in depth to you. I really needed to go to the bathroom, so when the clerk finished installing my battery and asked me if I knew about their new line of light bulbs, I should have told him I wasn’t interested and hightailed it home. Due to my condition (PP), I begin asking probing questions about the decline of the incandescent bulb and the halogen vs. LED debate. I REALLY had to go to the bathroom (pee-pee), but I allowed him to escort me to the display where I could compare the color and quality of the different bulbs. I am my own worst enemy.

 I also don’t enjoy being the bearer of bad news. So when friends ask about the progress of our adoption, I’m crestfallen. Obviously, the majority of my disappointment is because we haven’t brought our two-year old son home from Africa, in spite of the fact that we’ve been matched to him for over a year. Another part of my sadness, though, is that I can’t say: “We’re leaving Thursday!” That would be the ultimate people-pleasing moment. And no one would be more pleased than my family and me.

 The longer I’ve been in this holding pattern, the harder it’s been to battle the demon so easily accessible to me: Bitterness. Yesterday, I heard a news story about a Tennessee Congresswoman who’s taking on a new fight. She got wind of the Government’s plan to create new standards for the ceiling fan industry and she just won’t stand for it. She recently took on the new laws about the incandescent bulbs, too. (I know of a certain light bulb fanatic she might be interested in…) Several months ago I contacted her office to ask if she could help bring focus to the plight of the many children waiting unnecessarily to be adopted. They told me we don’t live in her district so she is unable to help. Now if only I had a ceiling fan complaint, then she would’ve been all ears!
 Cynicism is the fast food version of dealing with your feelings. I can run pass the drive-thru and get a greasy bag full of anger and resentment with a side of blaming others. Or I can sit down at the dinner table with my disappointment and hash it out. I tell myself that life is full of frustration and for most of the world it’s much, much worst. I say, “Buck up, Grouchy-Pants. Just keep doing the best you can,” but that will only get you so far.

 I want news. I want GOOD news. I want GOOD news NOW.

So that’s my update for today. We’re still waiting. We hoped to travel this summer but it doesn’t look likely. Not very pleasing. Sorry.

No Substitutions, please!

In certain circumstances it may be just as satisfying to be the runner-up as being named the winner. For instance, according to the International Ice Cream Association, vanilla is by far the preferred ice cream flavor over #2 choice, chocolate. Not one to dither over arbitrary titles, I’ll happily take a scoop of each.

In most cases, though, we don’t want to be the alternate, the understudy, the substitute. When the man of her dreams is kneeling before her with an open box in one hand, she’d rather not hear, “You weren’t my first choice but you came in a close second. Will you marry me?” On the highlight reel of her life, that invitation would come just before getting her older sister’s hand-me-downs and finding out her new ride is the family’s old minivan.

That’s the educational equivalent of walking into a classroom and telling the students you are their substitute teacher. Every child responds differently. Some greet this news with anxiety. Others welcome the occasional change to liven things up. Then there are those streetwise and entrepreneurial students who quickly size you up to determine how much of a fool you are and what they can get away with. When I recently filled in for a second grade teacher while she was away on her honeymoon, I met one such Machiavellian eight year-old. I had read them a story about a group of friends who build a clubhouse. After we finished, I dismissed them to their desks to draw a floor plan of their own clubhouse.

One little girl grabbed me and said, “Whenever we design a clubhouse, we always get to use pipe cleaners and beads and glue and googly eyes. I know where they are. I can get them out.”

I gave her the look I’ve been perfecting for the last year and a half I’ve been substitute teaching. It’s a mixture of my “I’m-shocked-by-your-behavior!” look and my “You’ve-gotta-be-kidding-me” look. It involves some major eyebrow acrobatics but it’s pretty effective. I gave her a blank sheet of printer paper and sent her to her desk.

My no-nonsense approach is meant to convey that though I’m not the real thing, I’m the next best thing…and I’m all you’ve got today. A substitute teacher who wants to survive must have this approach or she’ll hear “That’s not the way Mrs. _____ does it!” all day long.

I wasn’t the only one who had to deal with the reality of being a substitute that week. I was surprised to learn that in the second grade, there is note-passing. Here’s the first one I found:

Transcript-

Boy: I like you, _______. (I erased the name to protect her identity.)

Girl #1: Cool. Will you give me candy?

Boy: Yes ________.

Girl #1: Fun dip please! OK?

Boy: OK. Don’t tell nobody

Girl #1: OK. And I want lolypops

She’s playing him like a violin made of Fun Dip and lollipops, right? Well, the saga continues. I found another note crumpled under a desk, same boy but different girl. It read:

Girl #2: Who do you like the most?

Boy: You, ______ (Girl #2. He’s a player.)

Girl #2: Can you tell me who you like the 2^nd best?

Boy: You, ______ (Girl #2). Okay

Girl #2: What about 3^rd?

Boy: You, ______ (Girl #2).

Girl #2: 4^th?

Boy: You, ______ (Girl #2).

Girl #2: 5^th, 6^th, 7^th, 8^th, 9^th, 10^th, 11^th?

Boy: You, ______ (Girl #2). All the time.

Girl #2: Really?

Boy: Yes. OK but for the record I don’t like you. I like _________ (Girl #1)

Gasp!

Girl #2: Who do you like more, me or _______ (Girl #1)?

Boy: I will think about it.

Love is not for those with fragile hearts! The second girl was smart to check where she stood with Casanova, Jr. After she realized her iffy spot in his affections, she was gone. No matter how much Fun Dip you’re promised, it’s not worth it to play second fiddle when the fiddler’s a player.

Cool

When I was in middle and high school, my older sister had the coolest best friend. She over-flowed with a bubbly confidence. Her constant gum-chewing gave her a nonchalance I envied. She perfected a wink that punctuated her statements with self-assurance.

Not one to wear the latest fashion, (During the Keds craze, my sisters and I drew blue rectangles on the back of our Walmart sneakers to give the near-sighted passerby the impression we were wearing the real thing. It was a temporary fix, unfortunately, because we used dry erase markers.) I was always thrilled when I got her hand-me-downs. She knew how to dress and fix her hair. She was a cheerleader and she had a boyfriend whose letter jacket she often wore. There was something so effortless about her sophistication.

As a chronic over-thinker, I felt like an awkward goofball in her presence. I studied her winking and tried to incorporate it into my conversations but it didn’t work. Instead, people asked me if I had something in my eye. I couldn’t keep up with the fashion trends, even if I knew what they were. I didn’t have a boyfriend and I wasn’t a cheerleader. I came to realize I would never achieve the level of coolness I saw in my sister’s friend.

Now that I am old(er), I see cool in a different way. When friends arrange a birthday lunch for me or a prayer session for our pending adoption, I see cool. When my husband works hard all day then comes home to play soccer outside with our son even though he’s exhausted, I see cool. When teachers use their free time to work with struggling kids and their own money to buy these kids books at the Book Fair, I see cool.

The lack of effort used to impress me. That’s the false claim of youth: Don’t act like you care. Now I’m impressed when I see someone exert an effort they didn’t know they had to do the things that need to be done without expecting anything in return. Giving that last bit of energy or brainpower or spending money is what amazes me now. It would be so easy just to let someone else make the effort.  What if we all stopped coloring the back of our sneakers and got busy being the real thing—the hands and feet of Jesus?