Thursday, February 18, 2010


Sometimes it feels like someone up there is looking out for me, and sending me little hints and reminders. A coincidence here or there, a certain something happening at the right time to cause something else, that sort of thing. For example, this past Monday we had a dentist appointment for Paxton which I didn't remember, and ultimately ended up missing. But they had a thing about cavities and brushing your teeth on Sesame Street, leading to several discussions about teeth and teeth care all day. Now the fact that we were sitting around, watching TV and eating M&Ms together while we were supposed to be at the dentist... that was a mistake. But my own mistake. And seriously, it felt like I was being sent reminders all day. I just, you know, didn't listen.


But I'm listening loud and clear to the reminder I got a couple days ago.

I was up around 2am. Again.

No doubt about it, we have a fussy, colicky baby. He's been up several times a night for about a month now, fussing and screaming and flailing and having huge fits (all in our arms, being rocked or bounced or nursed) until finally succumbing to sleep several minutes (or an hour) later. It's... rough, to say the least. And my position on Crying it Out has certainly been tested, though I highly doubt it would work. Dude, if crying it out in our arms isn't working how would crying it out in a crib be successful? But on the other hand, if he's just going to scream and scream and scream anyway... and we're just so tired...

So there I was, around 2 am, up for not-the-first-time that night and rocking and bouncing and hushing, all after nursing (he lets me know that he won't nurse by biting, hard). I gave up. Not the first time, by a long shot, but still... I sat down in the rocking chair and just let him scream as I slowly rocked us both to sleep. I can't recall if I'd had the brain power necessary to remember to throw a blanket over my legs or not. I also can't recall him finally giving in to much needed rest, and I certainly don't recall falling asleep myself.

But I do remember the dream.

Or, rather, the nightmare.


Nik and I were, well, Nik and I. We looked different, but we were us. And we had our sons, and our friends and family, and that weird dream-mall I go to a lot (I must have an innate fascination with malls). We were in the process of adopting a girl. And in the dream we did adopt a little girl. Her name was S__ and she's a girl I know in real life. In the dream I knew there was something fishy about her adoption and it was finally revealed, a little ways into the dream, that she had been kidnapped and sold to us (by another couple from our adoption agency no less). We, of course, helped to reunite her with her mother and worked to arrest the couple who'd harmed everyone. We were good people, in our dream.

So good, in fact, that when the dream-police said that they'd discovered that Ambrose had also been kidnapped and would have to be returned, we agreed. Without a thought. In the dream we started the process of disassociating ourselves from him, packing his stuff, letting people know, etc.

And then... it hit me.

We were returning him. Returning our son. We were saying good bye and likely never seeing him again. We were returning him like a sweater or expired candy. And it was the law and we had to do it and there was no choice, not a one. We had to do it.

And suddenly this influx of emotions...

My God, I've never been through a disrupted adoption but if that's even a portion of the emotions you'd go through I can only imagine...

Dream me had it rough. I nursed him, in the dream (possibly in real life, can never be sure) and sobbed onto him knowing that I'd been nursing him for over 4 months and that didn't mean a damn thing, that wouldn't stop the inevitable. And the image of his peaceful, sleeping face kept flashing up, and new dream-tears and new tears at the heart because, Oh My God, he's leaving, we're taking him back, and there's nothing we can do.

It was... horrific. Horrible. Horrendous. It was just plain awful.

And then... it was over


I woke up around 3:30am. No idea when I'd actually fallen asleep, same with him. But there we were, just the two of us, in the still, dark quiet of the early morning hours. I wasn't cold, not like I should have been sitting near the huge front window on a February night. I was being heated by a very small, very peaceful little body. Ambrose was wrapped up safely in my arms, head nestled into my chest, just as calm and angelic as can be.

And, my God, I loved him then. Loved him somehow more than I'd loved him before. And, no, I didn't think that was possible.

I hugged him and kissed the top of his head and then stood up and took him back to bed with me, for another hour or so before he was up again.

But I wasn't as upset about it this time. And I haven't been as upset about it these past couple days. Because he's here and he's staying here and I'd much, much rather he be here and us be up all night than not be here at all.

Sometimes it takes an emotional kick in the gut to remind me of what really matters (Sleep? Or the baby causing the lack of sleep?) and I'm truly, truly thankful for this. I love this loud, flaily, anti-sleeping little person with all my heart (that isn't reserved for his father, brother, and future sibling(s)), and I'm so grateful to have him in my life...

And here's hoping I never have a dream like that again!

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