Writer's Block

I'm suffering from writer's block. And as you sit here looking at the following paragraphs you are thinking, "Gee, it doesn't look like writer's block. I don't think I'm going to be able to read this whole thing. " So technically I don't know if you'd call it writer's block or not. I know what I want to say, but I'm at a loss for how to say it. Do I get on my usual bitchy soapbox and let the expletives fly about how I hate everyone and everything except Little Miss, John, and the IFC? Or should I take a different approach and just be vulnerable and let out there that I am worn out, tired, completely deflated and discouraged and if you look at me wrong today I will cry? The second option is generally not my style. So I first took the first approach. I sat down to write and to express my frustration and this is what I came up with...

Blog Option #1 What Chaps my Hide?

O.K. I have to admit that 'chaps my hide' is not my phrase, but I'm borrowing it from a close friend. Dear Holly used it in a mock letter she wrote on her blog a few weeks ago in relaying her disgust towards her case worker and the entire process she is undergoing. I don't think she will mind me using it today as today should have been a better day than it is turning out to be.

So lets get on with it. What chaps my hide?! I will tell you.

#1. Loose wires in electrical sockets that pose a potential fire risk, cause all the outlets in most of the bedrooms to stop working entirely, and leave me without a computer for most of the day- for the last three days! Thank you Kermit for fixing it today. No joke, the electrician's name was Kermit.

#2. People (i.e. caseworkers) who don't return phone calls that are part of their jobs and then only do it when it has come to the absolute last minute and they have no other choice but to face up to you. Since the entire IFC is in the medical profession we just don't get this one. Imagine how ticked off you would be if your doctor's office did not call you back with the results of a life altering procedure you've just undergone?

#3. Infertility in general chaps my hide.

#4. Ignorant people who show disrespect towards our birth mother by referring to her as someone who was knocked up or ask other very personal questions about her history and her life. I will not even honor questions with a response anymore. It is none of your damn business! Have some respect. And while we are on the subject... quit asking "what happens if her mom changes her mind?" First of all, I am the mother. The woman who gave birth to my daughter will be the first person to tell you that. I will never be able to express my gratitude for the attitude she has. We love her. We respect her, and I expect that others do the same. Secondly, what do you think happens? And if you don't already know the answer to that question then probably you're not someone who will be entitled to that information.

That's as far as I got. Everything I wrote is true and I do feel that way, but there is more to it. So unlike my usual posts, today I will try the second approach.

Blog Option #2 Why Things That Shouldn't Matter Do.

I know that I shouldn't care that we wont be signing paperwork today, but I do. It shouldn't matter if the state recognizes me as Little Miss' official mommy, but it does. It shouldn't matter how large a check we have to write in order for this to finalize, but it does. And it shouldn't matter how long we wait to be sealed or give her a name and a blessing so long as it happens, but it does. It matters to me. And they may seem like trivial insignificant events five years from now, but right now, this seriously mattered to me and it's not happening. Oh it's going to happen, I know. But I wanted it to happen today. I wanted to eat Mongolian barbecue for dinner and celebrate that out there on someones desk there is a document that states Kensley Courtney is the daughter of Yannette Nichole and John Paul. I know it doesn't matter. What matters is that when Kensley is getting sleepy and only wants her mommy she doesn't sit around waiting for some strange lady to pick her up, she looks straight at me and blows bubbles. It doesn't matter what the costs involved will be. What matters is that I love this little girl so much I would sell my right kidney if I had to. It doesn't matter that there are people out there who just don't get it. What matters is that I have amazing friends and family who do. It doesn't matter that today was a sucky day rather than better one, because tomorrow I wont be anymore of Little Miss' mommy than I was today just because someone signed a document stating so.