I kept procrastinating writing this post because I keep thinking that if I don’t write it, it won’t be true. Well, it is. Last week, marked the third anniversary of the day that we were matched with our precious little boy who is still stuck in a hellhole of an orphanage in Southern Vietnam. He was 7 months old when we first learned about him and saw the picture of him with his shock of black hair and full cheeks, and it was the second time in life I experienced love at first sight. He's now 42 months old, and he's still not home with us.
So, instead of just morning sickness, I have a never-ending nausea in the pit of my stomach with worry about how he's doing - if he's hungry, thirsty or in need of the comfort of a parent's arms. I would trade this never-ending paper pregnancy for swollen ankles that would rival a rhinosaurus, stretch marks that never disappeared and hemorroids hanging down to my knees if it meant my son would be home tomorrow.
This time last year when I wrote a similar post, I likened the wait to the time frame it takes for the elephant to gestate (the longest pregnancy for a mammal: two years); however, it seems that not only could I have given birth to a pachyderm, but also a manatee. Thirty-six months -- in which time I could've also given birth to 2.8 children.
I have felt the nesting urges big time lately - had the carpets cleaned and painted two doors and floor boards, and I'm so itching to go buy 3T clothes, toddler toys and sippy cups. But, I won't because I don't dare jinx getting him home before he grows out of more PJs and T-shirts that I've bought him.
Although I have never conceived, I can only imagine that my wait is something like the last four weeks of pregnancy, when you're so eager to meet your child you can barely stand it and every day that passes feels like a month.
I just hope my water is about to break.