Lawyerish

Vampire Weekend

I'm not sure how I feel about Anne Hathaway.  There's something about her that is charming, but there's also something that makes me wonder what all the fuss is about.  We watched "Rachel Getting Married" this weekend, and I'm just not seeing the Oscar-worthiness.  It was a decent performance and an okay movie -- although at some points I wondered if it was shot in real time; did the rehearsal dinner and wedding scenes have to be quite so long? -- but it wasn't, like, electrifying. 

Maybe since I watch "Intervention" so much and have seen so many real-life addicts and recovering addicts in action, it seemed like it wasn't as authentic a performance as it could have been?  And, boy, were a lot of the characters unpleasant and grating. 

It also struck me as overdone, vaguely in the way that a Wes Anderson film is overdone (I liked "The Royal Tenenbaums", but on some level I felt it was just trying too hard; I thought "The Darjeeling Limited" was so impossibly precious and self-satisfied that it was incomprehensible, like it was one giant inside joke among the director and actors) -- the whole wedding was so over-the-top multi-ethnic/multi-cultural and pseudo-intellectual, and there were always these random musicians in the background of every scene, like a Greek chorus, and some of the dialogue and development devices were a hair too quirky.  But there were some nice moments.  It was fine.  Just not life-altering.

We also watched "Twilight", which was as flawed, yet oddly giddy-making, as the book.  (Why so compelling?  I still don't understand, yet I cannot deny it.)  The initial scenes with Edward and Bella made me downright uncomfortable, with all the contrived stuttering and the unbridled hostility and lack of eye contact.  The movie was too slow at times, too rushed at others.  Edward was quasi-cute in some shots, not-so-cute in others, and the makeup on the other vampires was wayyyy overdone.  And some of the special effects made me cackle loudly -- when Edward walks around the car to open the door for Bella at one point, they speed it up to show his supernaturally quick footwork, I guess, and it looks ridiculous, like suddenly you're in a Charlie Chaplin film.  

Overall, if I hadn't read the book, I think I would have found the whole thing completely befuddling.  And yet, when Edward and Bella kissed, I let out what can only be described as a squeal, and when it ended, I realized that I couldn't WAIT for the next one. 

Light a Fire Under Me

Thank you guys for all the advice and recommendations re: paleness reduction aids!  I think, after exfoliating and moisturizing like mad, I'll try a patch test on my legs and see what happens.  If all else fails, I can always buy a muu muu in Hawaii and cover up in a more colorful fashion than usual. 

I still have a bit of lingering respiratory crud, which means I haven't run in a week, which means my mental state has been steadily deteriorating.  That endorphin boost, however mild, is what gets me through the days and weeks without looking around and thinking, well, this surely does suck and dammit, weren't WE supposed to have a BABY? and two and a half years of our life, GONE, just GONE and everyone else IN THE WORLD has a baby except us, WTF, when is it MY TURN? 

I don't necessarily have to grind out ten miles to rise above The Bad Place (although if I do, the bonus is I can stuff cheeseburgers and fries down my gullet without a second thought, which also helps the mental state); I can hop out for a little 30-minute jaunt and that can be enough, most days.  Going to zero, however, is not an option. 

It's amazing, how that works, what a difference it makes.  I look back on certain times in my life, like the three-year emotional rock bottom that was my law school experience, and think how different those times could have been if I'd just put down the box of Cheez-Its and gone for a run.  I DID run back then, to some extent (it was a great procrastination technique when I didn't feel like studying, which was...all the time), and I was still dancing -- it's not like I had given up -- but it wasn't a part of my daily routine; in fact, I didn't have a daily routine back then, apart from the 2am viewings of "Blind Date" and "Change of Heart" and the Thursday/Friday/Saturday trifecta of nights on the town.  

I'm glad I had that time in my life, but I could have injected a little more level-headedness into the proceedings by having a tad more discipline and a lot less napping.  I don't know.  It doesn't matter, really.  I'm glad I have running as an outlet now, is what I'm saying, because this whole ordeal would have been that much less survivable without it.  I have a lot of sanity savers (husband, friends, wallowing techniques, etc), but this is an essential part of that system, because it has the power to completely transform the way I feel, physically and mentally.  Also: sometimes there are free t-shirts! 

Running's the sort of thing I can fit in even when things are crazy at the office (most of the time, anyway) or I'm traveling (not on vacation, mind you; let's not get nuts here), and since I don't have much time or energy for, like, hobbies or whatever, this makes me feel like I do a little something outside of shuffle to and from work like a man in a gray flannel suit.  Sure, I COULD campaign for world peace and feed the homeless instead of staring at crappy TV in the hour or two between dinner and bedtime, but...yeah.  That's my Brain Off time, which I sort of need, and that leaves the mornings and a sliver of time on the weekends -- both of which lend themselves nicely to putting in some mileage on my Asics gels.  

So that was a rambling way of saying: running = good.  Not running = Bad Place.  Must get out there tomorrow, persistent hacking cough be damned.

(Seriously, though: two and a half years!  No baby!  So much heartache and crappiness!  For nothing!  WHAT THE HELL?) 

(Sigh.)

Almost Clear

I'm at that point in my now weeklong illness where some of my symptoms have subsided, but the ones that remain make me sound like a toothless, 70-year old, 20-pack-a-day smoker of Marlboro Reds, someone who occasionally falls asleep with a cigarette dangling from her shriveled lips and swills Popov vodka straight from the gallon jug.  My voice is more of a bark, and every ten to fifteen minutes, I emit a strangled, crescendoing "aaaaauuuuuuUUUUGHHH" followed, after a dramatic pause, by a series of hacking, shouting coughs.  And then there is the sneezing, which could easily blow the doors off a Toyota, and the constant burble of my nose blowing.  I am super attractive and pleasant to be around.

And yet, Hawaii is just over three weeks away, so hope glimmers in the distance with its promise of warm, caressing breezes that will turn this stubborn bacterial plague into a distant memory, and will soothe my winter-weary bones.  (Seriously, I hate March.  March is stupid and cold and unreasonably wintry.  And stupid.)

As with any beach trip, this vacation brings with it a certain anxiety about my impending exposure to sunlight.  You've surely gathered by now that I am a pale creature, unaccustomed to sunshine, and that when I show up at the beach I resemble no one more than Barbara Hershey in Beaches, as I settle into a lounge chair and proceed to cover every inch of my body in sunblock, shade, long sleeves, pareos and a layer of towels (and/or blankets, if available).  (The resemblance will be especially uncanny on the upcoming trip if my chest-rattling cough persists; I will look all the more consumptive to passers-by, who undoubtedly will start placing bets with one another as to how much longer I have to live.)

My issue is not one of sun protection; after 33 years of living with my translucent skin, I know how to take care of it.  Rather, it's about the rare occasions upon which I may be compelled to bare my ashen flesh, such as to take a dip in the ocean or stroll a nude beach (kidding on the latter! mostly because I don't want to see the other patrons of such a beach, as I imagine it would be awash in sweaty, sunburnt men with guts hanging to their knees).   That's when I feel like some kind of Coney Island attraction:  The Lady Who Reflects All Light!  The Woman Who Can Burn Your Retinas at a Glance!  I feel fine walking around in a bikini in terms of overall body image (yeah, I could be a bit more toned, but fleh, whatever); it's the cadaver-like whiteness that makes me feel self-conscious.  Not that I want to be tanned and leathery, but a skin tone that does not cause people to dive for cover might be good.

SO!  My question is:  has anyone used one of those Dove Energy Glow lotions, or something similar to them?  I fear self-tanner greatly and will not risk a fluorescent orange glow from spray/airbrush tanning (have you SEEN "Dancing with the Stars"?  WHY SO ORANGE?), so those options are off the table, but I feel like the Energy Glow thing might be a decent way to give my skin a WEE hint of opacity, without the garishness. 

On the other hand, I worry that (1) I am so fair that even something subtle will look fake and awful on me; (2) I'll be all splotchy, because how am I supposed to apply lotion to every inch of my skin, including my back, all the time? (or would I just apply it to my legs?  would that be weird?); and/or (3) it would do something terrible to my face or, if I didn't put it on my face, I would be all PALE FACE on top of noticeably darker body (same issue if I only do my legs -- would it look like I borrowed someone else's legs for the day?).

Help?

Anatomy of a Bad Mood

I spent Monday and Tuesday this week huddled under a blanket, in a near-comatose state from some dread illness of unknown origin.  I was laid out, y'all; I could only stay awake for about thirty minutes at a stretch, during which time I would check email and make sure nothing at the office had exploded in my absence, then collapse back into sleep for at least three hours to recover from all that exertion. 

Getting me off the couch would have required an air horn and a crane, especially on Tuesday morning, when Nighttime Theraflu continued to surge through my system from the night before -- that stuff WORKS, but I would not recommend taking it unless you have absolutely no reason to rise from a prone position for at least the next 48 hours. 

Today, it was time to soldier forth and get back to the ol' grindstone -- lingering sore throat and splitting headache be damned. 

It did not start well.

I believe the total amount of sleep I got last night was precisely one minute, probably due to the instantaneous dependency wrought by the Nighttime Theraflu -- either take it and sleep forever, or don't and NEVER SLEEP AGAIN.  I just sort of laid there, waiting for sleep to ensue, but it did not.  Naturally, to help matters, the dog was fidgety and annoying all night, and after my husband left at an unholy hour for a business trip, the cat started wailing at the door and I began to wish for death.  When I did finally drift off around 5am, I had a vivid and terrible dream and woke up sweaty and panicked. 

After staggering through my morning routine, I headed to the elevator with grim determination to get through the day.  The elevator stopped at the third floor and a college-age woman got on; she looked youthful and spry, and her legs and feet appeared to be functional, which was puzzling since she was taking the elevator TWO STORIES.  Maybe I'm being unfair here, but whenever I have lived on the fourth floor or lower, I have taken the stairs.  In fact, one building in which I resided had a POLICY that the elevator was off-limits to people on floors 1-4.  I'm just saying.  No one ELSE from that floor appears to use the elevator in our building, which means for the most part my lift experience is brief, uninterrupted, and solitary.  Which is how I like it.

The extra elevator stop delayed me a good 20-30 seconds, if not more (I KNOW), which meant that I ended up descending the subway stairs just as the train I wanted was departing, which meant that I had to change trains partway, adding still more time.

All of that, coupled with my only partial recovery from the dread disease, resulted in my being extra-hungry on my commute, AND in my being unable to get a seat.  Those are not good factors to combine if you are me and prone to hurling yourself to the ground in a dead faint on occasion.  So at 42nd Street as the tunnel vision started to encroach, I had to hustle off the train, crouch on the platform, and stuff a cereal bar down my throat in order to remain conscious.

THEN, when I got BACK on the train, after about ten of the wrong train went by, I grabbed the only remaining seat in the car, only to realize that one of the two people between whom I was squished very tightly was a...how to put this delicately...man who appeared to have been down on his luck for some time.  Also who appeared not to have showered in quite some time.  Lovely. 

And, finally, when I got to the office, I went through the revolving door only to have to stop short behind this woman who was cluelessly standing RIGHT in front of the escalator, taking a call on her cell phone and digging around in her massive handbag for her I.D.  For what seemed like ages, people continued to pile up behind her while she went about her business, taking her sweet time and ignoring the fact that no one could get anywhere until she moved. 

So that was the start of my day.  Call me Miss Crankypants, but I did not find it pleasing in the slightest.

Mirror, Mirror

Question:  Have you ever seen a random person (not a relative) who looks a lot like you? 

I got on the subway the other day and sat down across from this woman who, I swear, looked so much like me that I almost blurted out, "DUDE, WE LOOK ALIKE.  THIS IS FREAKY."  She had my same reddish blonde hair, similar hairline, same pale skin and freckles, slim build, green eyes, slightly upturned nose -- it was downright EERIE.  She had somewhat sharper features than I do -- there was something Jodie Foster-ish about her face -- but if you stood us side by side, I am certain that people would have thought we were sisters.

Oddly enough, people have been telling me my whole life that they know someone who looks just like me.  I would have thought that I had a somewhat unique appearance, but evidently not; I must have heard at least 200 times that my friend or relative had a friend or a cousin or some person they passed on the street who was practically my twin.  One friend told me he met an Indian woman who looked like me; another said they saw someone who could have been me but was short and stocky.  As far as I can tell, there are potentially millions of women walking around, looking like me on any given day.  (And how DARE they?)

Anyway, now I've come face to face with one of these doppelgangers, and I've got to tell you, it's quite an odd experience.  Of course, because I'm me, I thought, "Dammit, she looks like me, but she's a prettier, more stylish version.  How is THAT fair?"  I wonder if she thought, "Hmm.  That girl would look sort of like me if only she were prettier and more stylish..."

Separately, I have a confession to make:  I am not a news junkie.  In fact, I don't much like news.  I kind of ignore the important, serious parts of the paper -- the A section of the Times, the political commentary, the Business section -- that I'm really supposed to read to, like, be all informed about current events and all.  I occasionally read the Metro section to keep up on the more noteworthy things going on in the city, but I don't engage in heated debates about the budget or...you know, whatever else is going on lately.  Sometimes I'll skim the national and international headlines, and I do check CNN online and occasionally read big articles about things that are especially important, but...well, frankly, it all kind of bores me. 

(And forget about watching the news on TV, especially local news; it's either so filled with car crashes and child neglect stories that you want to shoot yourself in the face or it's so perked up with Amazing Stories of Human Triumph that you want to shoot someone ELSE in the face OR it's some gleeful tabloid story about some crumb-bum celebrity -- or God forbid, the OCTOMOM -- that you begin to think the apocalypse is nigh.  Ugh.)

I know, this makes me intellectually lazy and perhaps somehow a failure at life, but I don't find it very engaging.  During the election, I was probably the most engaged in current events as I'd ever been, and after Obama was elected I found it enjoyable, almost exciting, even, to pick up the paper.  But, while I continue to believe he's doing a good job (as well as one can do, cleaning up this kind of horrific mess), I don't feel the need to read every word written on the economic crisis or consider the various perspectives on who's to blame and what the best way is to fix it.  EH. 

Another Brush with Quasi-Fame

Yesterday, on my way home from work, I half-noticed a group of guys who got on the subway in midtown.  One of them was wearing sneakers that were covered with yellow glitter, so that was hard to miss; another guy was wearing a collegiate-looking scarf and a white t-shirt, and for some reason I glanced at his face and realized he looked awfully familiar. After a moment or two of reflection, it came to me:  Cedric from "So You Think You Can Dance."

Holla!  He appeared to be with a dance "crew" (or is it a "krew"? does the spelling depend on whether their primary genre is krumping?), and I overheard (you know, by leaning across the car until I was almost in their laps) one of the other members of the crew talking about the audition for SYTYCD in Washington.  Something about the choreography being "mad hard" or similar.  So now I have to watch the audition shows even more obsessively than usual, to see if I can spot this guy (I gathered he had been cut after the mad hard choreography).    

I'll admit, I was sorely tempted to go over and say something to Cedric.  I thought he was charming and earnest on the show (although I think he occasionally talked back to the judges, which I do not care for; with the "American Idol" kids, it's always, "well, *I* had fun" -- to which I want to respond, "well, dude, WE did not have fun listening to you, so get the hell off the stage"), and for someone with little to no classical training, he did well as a finalist.  I mean, he was no Danny -- let's not get nuts, here -- but still!  Reality TV star!  Talented dancer!  On my subway!  Eeek!

That was...pretty much the highlight of my week.   

Bookish and Booked

I'm re-reading A Prayer for Owen Meany for the first time since I first devoured it back in the summer of 1997.  I had just moved to New York, and I remember buying it at the Barnes & Noble on Astor Place (which is, sadly, gone now) after church at Grace one Sunday, then strolling over to the nearby Starbucks and sitting down with a Frappuccino, the Sunday Times and my new book to laze away the afternoon.  It was pretty much a perfect day.

I can't imagine why, but I remember that I was wearing a navy blue v-neck t-shirt dress from Abercrombie & Fitch (this was back in the day when you could enter one of their stores without being smothered by cologne and deafened by music) and I sat by the greenhouse-like windows facing the subway entrance, trying to absorb some of the heat from outside to offset the frigid air-conditioning that made my fingers go white. 

A few weeks later, I kissed someone right in front of that Starbucks and that subway entrance after a failed outing to see "To Kill a Mockingbird" at the Bryant Park film festival -- he was late, so we missed the beginning, and we couldn't find a square inch of grass or concrete to sit on, so we meandered back downtown (maybe we got dinner somewhere) and ended up having our first good-night kiss right there in front of every skater and poser on Astor Place.  (We didn't date for long, and it was one of several short-lived, quasi-romances I had that summer; all very innocent but diverting enough in their way.)

My copy of Owen Meany is yellowed enough to look much older than it is, and it has a slightly brittle feel.  It's a cheap mass-market paperback, and the print is tiny but the book still has a nice weight and smell to it.  The story is so much more nuanced than I remember, and since I know how it ends, I'm hanging on every word as though the book might dissipate like sand through my hands once I reach the last page. 

It's such an odd thing to re-read something that conjures so perfectly a specific time in your life; the story is so much more than what's contained in the novel itself, and while everything we read both reflects us and leaves an imprint on us, going back to a significant book from a significant time like this borders on going back through one's own journals and letters.  In a way, it's even more revealing.  And it's wistful, looking back on what you brought to the story then versus now, and how you wish you could impart so much of the present to that person you were in the past, but you're also grateful you can't, because that person was so perfectly untouched by this certain aching wisdom that you have now, the knowingness that strengthens you while adding another layer to your ever-thickening skin. 

                                              *  *  *  *  *
There's no graceful way to make this segue, but in other news:  we're going to Hawaii!  The Big Island and Kauai won out over a bunch of other options due to a host of logistical reasons, and while I was a little bummed to give up the South African safari, I know we'll get there one day.  In the meantime:  Hawaii!  Woo! 

We're leaving in the second week of April for ten days, spending the first three nights at the Four Seasons at Hualalai, then heading to Volcanoes National Park to check out some lava action and stay at the Volcano House for a night, then flying to Kauai for five nights at the Grand Hyatt. 

We plan to do a lot of hiking, zip-lining, kayaking, snorkeling, beach-combing, eating, and lazing about in the sun.  Ooooh, and I want to take a helicopter ride on Kauai to see that big...thing that they used for the opening shot of Jurassic Park.  You know, the big mountain/cliff/waterfall area.  If an opportunity for surfing lessons presents itself, we may have to partake, provided that we have not found any taboo tiki idols that might curse us into falling and getting clocked on the head by our boards (it always comes back to the Bradys in some way, doesn't it?).  We will almost certainly attend a luau, because how can you go all that way and not?  I also plan to spend a significant portion of the time drunk on mei tais or whatever the fruity drink special of the day is.

Boy howdy, am I excited to get away.  We're also flying first class, because the prices weren't that much more than coach, and dude, it's like 13-15 hours to get out there and we have long legs, and I refuse to repeat the agony and horror of our flight back from Asia in the steerage of a 747, with someone's seat jammed against my knees.  Also:  we deserve it. 

If any portion of this vacation even mildly threatens the state of complete and utter bliss and relaxation that we hope -- nay, NEED -- to achieve (i.e., our hotel room abuts a major road or the bed isn't quite fluffy enough), I will be forced to regale the staff with the story of the last 2 1/2 years of our lives.  And, much like when George Costanza told the co-op board his life story and they gave him the apartment he wanted over the survivor of the Andrea Doria shipwreck, I expect they will immediately upgrade us to the Presidential Suite and give us a personal attendant to administer foot rubs and hot fudge sundaes on demand. 

Hawaii, you are on notice:  WE NEED BLISS, so you'd better make it good. 

AND!  Jonna had her baby, oh my GOD!  She is a wee sweet peanut and I can't wait to meet her in person. 

The End/The Beginning

There's a modern-day parable that goes something like this:

A town is being deluged by heavy rains, and the streets are beginning to fill with water.  A man is in his house, watching the flood begin to encroach on his property.  His neighbor comes by and says, "We have to get out of here; soon our homes will be flooded and the streets will be impassable.  Come on, I'll drive us."  The man responds, "I'm not going anywhere.  God will take care of me." 

A little later, his house is filled with several feet of water and his mailbox and fence are completely submerged.  A few townspeople come floating by in a rowboat and urge him to climb in and evacuate with them.  He tells them, "No thank you.  God will send help for me." 

A couple of hours pass, and the man has to climb to his roof to escape the surging waters.  A helicopter hovers overhead, and a rescuer sends down a rope to lift him off the roof to safety.  He calls up to the rescuer, "That's ok!  God will save me!"  Darkness falls and the water rises further.  The man is carried away by the current and drowns. 

When he gets to heaven, the man marches up to God and says, "What happened?  I trusted that You would send help and save me, and now I'm dead!"  God looks at the man and says, "I sent a neighbor, a rowboat and a helicopter.  What more did you want?"

I don't know that this is a perfect analogy, but when I look back on the past two and a half years, a number of moments stand out that could have completely changed the course of our attempt at adoption, and would have resulted in us bringing a child home, instead of having a beautiful nursery that will now remain empty indefinitely. 

I think of the time when we almost changed agencies to one with a shorter waiting list and far less time to wait for referrals.  I think of the many chances we had to change our preference to a boy, and how each time we decided we would continue to wait for the girl we'd dreamt of.  I think of the conference I attended in 2007, where an adoption advocate told me to complete our adoption as quickly as I could, because Vietnam could shut down any time.  I think of the numerous children with special needs -- many minor and/or correctable -- that we could have considered, but chose instead to wait. 

I am not saying that these were the wrong choices; at all times, we did the best we could with the information we had and with what we felt prepared to handle.  The outcome that has now been revealed -- that we will not be able to bring a child home from Vietnam -- resulted from as many external forces and decisions as it did from anything we did or didn't do. 

I'm certainly not blaming myself; I'm just saying that there isn't one single thing to blame.  Although if there were one thing that influenced this outcome more than any other, it would probably be the fact that a number of unethical agencies engaged in corrupt practices, which in turn led to the non-renewal of the bilateral agreement and the shutdown of adoptions between the US and VN.  To the extent I have anger about our unhappy ending, I direct it at those people who chose to exploit children and families for their own material gains.  It's a shame that agencies with strong humanitarian programs and unassailable ethical practices had to be punished along with those sick, greedy people.

Through the later stages of this process, I learned a lot more about the hideous things that have gone on in VN adoptions, and I can tell you that it confirmed for me that the US did what it had to do.  I still wish that the good work of the above-board agencies could have continued, but I understand more clearly why the US must demand greater accountability and transparency before adoptions can continue.  

Personally, I am more committed than ever before to advocate for this transparency, and for more concrete ethical standards in this system.  I also will continue to support organizations whose goal is to help impoverished children and families in VN regardless of the status of adoption; having lots of children available for foreigners to adopt should never be a goal of any society, and I intend to lend assistance to aid groups that try to keep families out of desperate poverty and to give children much-needed opportunities as much as possible.  If I could find a way, I would also support the prosecution and the imposition of civil and criminal liability against the American agency directors who engaged in corrupt practices. 

As for our story, I think when we withdrew from Noelle's referral, some part of me knew that it was the beginning of the end.  That was, without question, the saddest thing I've ever been through.  I feel sick just thinking about the phone call I got when we were told about her diagnosis and prognosis, how my entire body started trembling and I felt as though all of the blood had rushed out of my veins and I might simply disintegrate.  It was the death of so many things at once, so many hopes and dreams and imagined moments, and it's something that will always haunt me.

Even amid the grief and despair, we did pick ourselves up and, a month later, we did fall in love again, with the angelic baby we saw in a handful of photographs, swathed in white with large, curious eyes and a shock of spiky hair.  We bought tiny clothes and pacifiers and an Ergo carrier since she was so much littler than Noelle.  And then a month after that, the rug was pulled out from us once again by a bureaucratic decision that contravened everything we had been told when we lost Noelle. 

We fought for Amelia with letters and meetings and phone calls and elected officials, and we found people within our government who took up our cause -- and that of similarly situated families -- with compassion and tenacity.  Even so, the final answer, which we received last week, was a no. 

I don't see a bright side to this, but there is something that cushions the blow ever so slightly:  We had learned a couple of weeks ago that the officials in Amelia's province had decided to make her available for domestic adoption.  The officials said our process was taking too long, and insisted that this was their way of looking out for her best interests.  Although I don't believe she's been placed with a local family yet, she may be soon; she likely will not linger in an orphanage for long.  I am sure she will flourish and bring her parents immense joy.  I do hope they have a lot of hairbows, because it would be a shame not to play with all that gorgeous hair of hers. 

We, meanwhile, are pulling ourselves together and looking to the future.  Something great awaits us; we still believe that, after years of waiting, anxiety and heartache.  In a way, all of that has been lifted off us now, and it is an immense relief.  Living in the purgatory of indecision and uncertainty was not something I would wish on anyone.  We couldn't plan anything, we couldn't answer people's well-meaning questions, we couldn't know as any day started whether it would bring triumph or defeat.  Now we know, and our state of suspended animation is over.

The night before we heard about the final decision, I laid awake, praying harder than ever before that God would give me an unmistakable sign and that we would either move forward down the path to Amelia, or that He had other plans and would open another door for us.  When the email arrived in my inbox the following morning, I was sad, of course -- devastated -- but I knew my prayers had been answered.  (God had probably been wondering why I hadn't taken a hint from all of those other signs along the way, so this time He REALLY made it clear, clear enough even for a bone-head like me.)

Obviously, our dream of adoption, one I've held as long as I can remember, wasn't meant to be (at least for now; we certainly have plans to dive back in the moment that Vietnam reopens, although that will be several years from now).  We'll find another path that will lead to whatever it is we are supposed to do and whoever our child is supposed to be.  I can't wait to find out what's out there, what we haven't even imagined yet but that will turn out to be the perfect ending for us -- even though it's different from what we've been chasing for all this time. 

(P.S.  I've un-passworded the site.  To those who hadn't been logging in (AND WHY NOT, I ask you??  Kidding), welcome back!  I've missed you.  To those who have, thanks so much for sticking with me even when you had to type in some extra stuff to get here -- I realize that 99% of the time, it wasn't worth the hassle, so hopefully this will be a relief for you, too.)

(Also!  Step One of The Start of the Rest of Our Lives is to go on a BIG ASSED VACATION.  We are considering a bunch of options but where we go depends largely on some worky timing stuff and it may be a few months before we can take off.  We figure we deserve something of substantial awesomeness.  I'll keep you posted.)