When I was a kid, the admonition to be home before dark was such a drag. Now, though, there are days when I'd give a hefty sum to be able to step foot into my home before the sun sets. It rarely happens and because of my workload, the past ten days have been early to work and late to bed.
Yesterday, though? I ended up leaving to pick up the kids at school and for once, I didn't have anything pressing to return to the office to do. I took full advantage. We ordered pizza rather me staggering around the kitchen looking for something to whip together. I was able, instead, to clear the decks in the kitchen and catch up some laundry duties.
Aside from a teenager's freak out dealing with county science fair registration paperwork, it proved a nice evening.
The most exciting part for me, though, involved sitting down to sketch out my basic ideas for a book that I would like to write. I jotted down a basic premise as well as character skeletons for each of my main characters. I think I will next sketch out some ideas for chapters/happenings so that I can have a touchpoint for myself--writing regularly is a goal of mine, but has seldom been a reality. If I can map a general direction with signposts for myself, I can more easily jump in and pick up where I left off last time.
People constantly tell me that I should write a book or update our adoption blog about our experience with our failed adoption. Who would want to read that? Certainly not the droves of people who continue to walk into situations of adopting older children only to find that those they placed so much trust in were not worthy of it. Definitely not the holier-than-thou, if-only-you-had-tried-harder, but secretly-glad-it-didn't-happen-to-them parents of adopted kids who blended rather seamlessly into an already existing family unit.
And, because my family and I are still living it in many ways, I find no need to 're-live' or visit it right now. It simply would involve chronicling truths that no one wants to know exist. I realize that we have saved others heartache or at least opened eyes very widely to all the possibilities that might befall a family--that makes it a bit less onerous to carry around such a tale. Believe me, there is no valor in being the first family who takes on all the anger and frustration of a very hurt little person. People will still point a finger at you, as if you were the person who did the initial traumatizing rather than allowing the thought, for one minute, to occur to them that your world has been rocked in a tremendous way through no fault of your own. They refuse to admit that without even a spark of a bond after nearly two years, there is no amount of love directed toward a little person that will produce healing. That, somehow, if we had done something better, this wouldn't have happened.
Whatever lets you sleep at night, folks. I know there is a quite cathartic blog post in my future, but the issues aren't ripe yet. So. I wait. And ponder. And, in the meantime, I look forward to figuring out more of my writing project