I get knocked down, but I get up again

If you couldn't tell from reading my most recent post, last week was a tough week. I had stress on my job, stress from the adoption and stress from school piled on top of the steady hum of inner pressure that comes from being a perfectionist. Over the weekend, I spent as much time as I could on intentional de-stressification. I washed the house. (Cleaning is a stress antidote for us perfectionists). I went to the movies. I knitted until I had finger cramps. I watched about 12 episodes of Law and Order. Most of all, I prayed and prayed that I would have more serenity and confidence in the week to come.

This morning, I walked out of the front door feeling hopeful in the promise of a better week. I imagined that last night's rain had washed away all of the frustrations of the week before. I wore my favorite outfit with my shiny new brown patent heels. With my morning coffee in hand, I stepped onto our driveway and fell right on my ass. And I mean hard. If my life was a sitcom (and I'm beginning to think maybe it is), this fall would have had sound effects. My coffee exploded on my pants. I lay there on the driveway for a few seconds, wishing for a broken bone or at least a concussion so I could just go back to bed and try again next week.

I had no such luck. With a badly bruised left hip and even more damaged ego, I got up, limped inside, changed my pants and headed off to face the world. The rest of the day did not go much better. I made not one, but two stupid mistakes at work. I wouldn't call them "career-limiting moves," but they probably will not enhance my reputation as a girl who has it "all together." To top it off, I got a parking ticket after work when I went to meet some friends for coffee.

I am starting to feel that these seemingly unconnected, unfortunate incidents are not coincidental. One would think that it takes some kind of organized force to mount the cosmic attack I have experienced lately. This blog post is dedicated to that force, whoever, or whatever, you are. I just want you to know that I'm still standing. I might be a little banged up, but I am not even close to giving up. As the kids today say: Nan-nanny-boo-boo.

Expiration date

For the past week, I have avoided an e-mail I did not want to read. It sat in my inbox like an unwanted bill that collects dust on your computer desk until the last day of the month when you absolutely have to pay it. This e-mail was from our adoption social worker, who told us that some of our adoption documents would expire in the next month or so.

We have plenty of time to renew those documents and stay current on our adoption requirements. But there is something discouraging about the whole thing. It feels a little like getting all dressed up to go to homecoming but no one asked you to dance. Our social worker said this in her e-mail: "I was hoping that your adoption would occur soon and an update would not be necessary." Yeah, me too.

I can't believe it's been a year since we started the adoption process. At the end of last July, we met with the directors of House of Hope in our living room and told them we wanted to adopt a little girl. Everything since then feels like a haze, with all of the days blurring together the way they do when you have a bad cold.

I shouldn't pout so much. It's true that nothing much has changed in my life in the past year. For Vivine, though, it has been a year of turmoil. A year ago, she was just a little Haitiain girl living with her family. She might have felt hungry or tired, but she probably had no idea that her mother was considering placing her for adoption. Since then, she has left her family and gone to live at House of Hope. She has a new school, a new bed, a new group of sisters, new adults who watch over her, new clothes and new toys. Next year, she'll have to make those changes all over again to come live with us and be our daughter. I'm sure every parent goes through times when they wonder whether they are doing the right thing for their child. My best reassurance that adoption is the right thing for Vivine is the fact that her birth parents chose it for her.

So, with that in mind, I've gotta get the house all cleaned up for a home visit, make appointments to get re-fingerprinted and start collecting the necessary forms from the Bureau of Citizenship and Immigration Services (formerly INS). Here we go again!

Full-grown

Peapod and me in Midland.

Today is Peapod's 14th birthday. Every year on July 21, I call home and ask, "Is this a 9-year old girl?" I change the ages depending on the year, of course. But today, I asked, "Is this a 14-year-old woman?" At 13, you're just dangling your toes in the river of adulthood. Mom is calling from the picnic bench, "Git away from that water! You're fixin' to drown!" But by 14, you can jump in with no floaties and let the current take you on down.

Welcome to womanhood, Peapod. Starting about now, people will try to tell you that you have to be it all. Varsity athlete, beauty goddess, bread-winner, bread-baker, housekeeper, good kisser, and smart cookie are just a few of the merit badges they'll want to you earn. When it comes to womanhood, it's often quantity over quality. If you can't do better than a man, then at least do more than a man. If you can't be president of one company, club or council, then join six more and offer to organize bake sales for all of them.

As if outdoing men wasn't challenging enough, you'll also be expected to out-succeed many of the women you know, especially your mother. But don't worry because you can also blame your mother any time you fail to live up to those impossible standards.

Every once in a while, a woman will realize that the people around her are full of baloney with all their badges, standards and blame-games. She stops listening to them, only to find that there are voices inside of her head saying even more toxic things. (For more info on toxins, read here.) Self-doubt is like breast cancer of the mind, and it afflicts just as many women. Fortunately, there is a cure for self-doubt, but it takes a whole team of strong, loving women to brew it up. If you find yourself afflicted by this disease, gather your four closest girlfriends for an intervention of encouragement, prayer and laughter.

Womanhood isn't always easy, but it's never dull. You'll cry for no reason and laugh for no reason in the same five minutes. You'll search for your keys, lipstick and cell phone, find none of them, then find an earring you lost five weeks ago and forget what you were looking for originally. You'll fall in love. You'll get to the big dance and realize you only shaved one leg. You'll watch your best friend go through Hell and wish you could go there, too, just to keep her company. You'll trust someone you shouldn't, and you'll say, "no," when you should say, "yes." Most importantly, and I really want you to believe this, you'll always have me.

Happy Birthday!

Putting on the pout

I could write about all the exciting things I have done this week. I rode the bus to work. I worked. I rode the bus home. I watched TV and knit. Then I did again five times.

I could write about those things, but they would not be nearly as entertaining as this little clip of Vivine. It shows what happens if you leave to go somewhere without her. It's heartbreaking!

Precious moments

Here is the first clip of a series of videos I plan to post from our recent trip to Haiti. You will see in this vignette that I speak just enough Creole to communicate with a 3-year-old. For those of you who speak less, I have created an English script of our dialogue. I wrote it like a screenplay. After I wrote it out, I thought, "What a silly looking conversation." Still, it is precious to me and I love it.

P.S. I spent more than an hour a few nights ago trying to figure out how to add subtitles to the clip using my nifty Mac. When I finally found an online discussion forum that addressed my problem, I discovered that it was caused by a bug in the software. It made me want to throw my nifty Mac at that kid from the Apple commercials.



LYNDE: Vivine, Vivine, Vivine!

LITTLE GIRLS: Lynde! (SPEAKING IN CREOLE)

LYNDE: No, I know ... (TO CAMERA) Hello! Hi Chad! (TO VIVINE) Say, "Chad."

VIVINE: Schad.

LYNDE: Chad...

VIVINE: Schad...

LYNDE: What is my name?

VIVINE: Chad Lo Lo.

LYNDE: (POINTING TO CHAD) Chad ... (TO VIVINE) What is my name?

VIVINE: Chad.

LYNDE: What is MY name?

VIVINE: (After prompting from other little girls) Lendy.

LYNDE: What?

VIVINE: Lendy.

LYNDE: Yes, Lendy. (VIVINE PINCHES LYNDE'S CHEEK) Ow! That hurts! That's not funny!

VIVINE: (LAUGHING)

LYNDE: Ow! That hurts! (TO OTHER GIRL) Aye, SiLove!

LYNDE PINCHES VIVINE'S CHEEK. THEY GIGGLE AND LAUGH

LYNDE: OK, OK, OK. (TO LOLO) Lolo, your hair! What is with your hair? (TO VIVINE) Your hair is beautiful. Are you beautiful?

VIVINE: Yes!

LYNDE: Am I beautiful? (VIVINE SHAKES HEAD) No? No? Am I beautiful? (VIVINE SHAKES HEAD) Yes, I am beautiful. I am beautiful. (VIVINE SHAKES HEAD MORE.) Yes! Yes! Yes!

CHAD: Vivine, Vivine, am I beautiful?

LYNDE: Is Chad beautiful?

VIVINE: Yes.

LYNDE: Oh! Chad is beautiful.

Double jeopardy

I have to write one short paper per week for my business law class. The topics are issues about which I really should care, such as the exploitation of workers or the interpretation of the Constitution. Not only do I not care, but I feel rebellious teenaged frustration with my teacher's requirement that I think deeply and write profoundly on command. Yo, teach, that is so uncool.

This week's topic, however, has aroused my interest in light of last year's struggles to initiate the adoption process. The topic is: "Whenever one deals with a bureaucrat, his or her freedom is jeopardized." I think I will just cut and paste my blog entries about our "dealings" last fall with the Missouri Secretary of State's office. You might recall how they rejected our adoption documents, screwed up the certifications and then nearly ruined the whole batch with a staple remover. My freedom AND my sanity were definitely jeopardized.

I think I'll probably get an A on this one.

So. tired.

I know I publish the same post every month or so, complaining about how tired I am from staying up late and studying. But this time, I have a funny anecdote.

Today at Steak and Shake, I tried to pay for my dinner with my parking pass from work. The cashier must have been tired, too, because she actually tried to swipe it a few times. I think we each figured out what happened at about the same time. I apologized and told her it had been a long day, which it had. Work is trying very hard to kick my butt. I have tons of reading to finish before school this weekend. And, worst of all, PC is out of town for the whole week. When he's not around, I stay up late just because I hate going to bed alone.

On the upside, not sleeping gives me more time to blog.

Papa's revenge

My father's father, Papa Hedge, was a Ford truck man. (In Texas, it's all about taking sides. Whether it's high school football, politics or cars, you gotta stand for sump'in.) When we bought PC a used Chevy S-10 three years ago, my dad said, "Hmm. So you got a Chevy," which translated to, "Your grandfather would roll over in his grave if he knew of this treason."

The truck started giving us trouble about a year ago. I'll spare you the details of the saga except to say that we have paid enough money to buy this truck twice. I have a very practical approach to the problem. We have no control over when the truck breaks down (and it's not practical for us to sell it) so there is no point in getting upset about it. Just pay the money, eat beans for a while, and get on with your life.

Last week, though, the truck made things personal. PC and I were fortunate enough to score Cardinals tickets for Thursday night's game. We got seats right behind home plate, so we had a great vantage point for watching the Redbirds get crushed 11-1. Then after the game, the truck wouldn't start. It was 10:30 p.m., and the parking garage was becoming increasingly empty and spooky. That was about the time that PC lost it.

By "it," of course, I mean the charming composure that characterizes every interaction he has with the outside world. PC gets angry so rarely that sometimes I think he has forgotten how. In the parking garage, however, I witnessed a tire-kicking, truck-cursing, hand-waving, fit. I wasn't too happy, either, especially after paying $20 for a cab to get us back to my car. The whole episode was Oscar-worthy.

To add to the drama, the next day was July 4. As it turns out, that day is a big for parades in this town. Retrieving the truck from the garage in downtown St. Louis was like a prisoner-extraction scene on 24. As we drove from barricade to barricade, desperately looking for a way through (and getting about six miles to the gallon in our idling sedan), I couldn't help but wonder whether Papa Hedge was looking on and smiling. Nothing makes a Hedgpeth happier than being able to say "I told you so."

Happy 4th

This year I made two pies, and they both rocked! Hooray for apples, hooray for independence and hooray for America being a country where I am free to bake only once a year if I so choose.

100

When I worked at the newspaper, I hated having to do "anniversary" pieces. I imagined the readers felt disappointed to open the paper and see what amounted to this story on the front page: "Nothing is happening today, but remember a year ago when (name of icon) (pick one: killed someone, exploded, got elected or shut/burned/fell down)? Yeah, that was cool."

So this is my 100th blog post. I'm not going to ask you to relive all the moments we've had, like that time you snorted milk out your nose while reading about my first bus ride, or the time we collected all that soap. I'm not going to wax poetic about the first time I posted a photo of my future daughter or how the blog helped me work through my feelings about the adoption process. I'm not even going to congratulate those of you who learned how to post comments to a blog for the first time because of 10 Cents a Word (cough...Dad...cough....Mom...cough).

I'm just going to let it be what it is. Post No. 100. The one in between 99 and 101.