I always put my best schizophrenic foot forward on the blog here, dividing myself among myself and saying I feel this way, but I feel this way, too, and I end up having to say “on the other hand” three or four times, which is really unlikely, unless you are a mutant octopus-man or something. I’m not. I’m just a relatively confused person with an internet log that I use as a diary. Kind of.
We met them, our son’s parents. We loved them. If we weren’t getting their baby, we would invite them over and try to help with some of the broken places. As it is, I know I will think about them and pray for them always, no matter what happens. I still think about the 18 year old that interviewed us months ago, and she kept her baby and we never heard from her again. It’s not easy to sit with a young person while their heart breaks and then just walk away.
On one of my other tentacles, I think it’s probably the right choice for them to not parent their baby now. That’s their choice and I can see why they made it, I mean.
So I am trying to allow myself to distance myself from their side of it, the pain and the loss and the choices part of it, and move over to the expectant-parent side of things and just get excited about having a baby.
And that’s in there, in the chaos that makes up my mind. Somewhere, mixed in with fat-laden recipes and snippets of Amish fiction novels, with Jon Foreman lyrics and the terrifying realization that my kids are growing. In the mixture is a tiny sputtering light, a maybe-flame that reminds me that someday, maybe soon, my heart will be wrecked with love while my body begs for sleep and my arms ache from fulfillment. It says that waiting is for a purpose, and the tunnel doesn’t last forever.
It also says sometimes I lay it on a bit thick with the metaphors, and maybe I should listen to less melancholy music.