Nick and I finished the work (paper and otherwise) for our second adoption homestudy. That means we’re officially “waiting” for a placement.

Waiting. How do I hate thee? Let me count the ways.

I hate thee to the depth and breadth and height of your uncertainty, to the absolute end of every plan we’d like to make.

I hate thee at 2:30 in the morning when I wake up worrying about waiting, and at 5:00 in the morning when I fall back asleep worrying about waiting.

I hate thee when no one talks about us waiting, like they would if I were pregnant.

I hate thee when I think of teaching in September and don’t know if I will be in a newborn-induced state of sleeplessness when trying to teach depressing Southern fiction.

I hate thee when we’re almost matched, then it doesn’t work out.

I hate thee when I try to imagine our child, and have no parameters to do so.

I hate the twiddling of thumbs, the manic, un-biologically based nesting, the long stretches of time when it seems like the adoption will NEVER happen.

So much to hate, so much time to do it.