I’ve recently decided that I want to spend a bit more time making our house into an adorable home. So of course, that meant that I found myself sad and staring at an email announcing $5 magazine subscriptions and now I am happily subscribed to several design magazines. I’m hoping that exposure will slowly turn me into the cute, crafty, DIY-er I imagine I could someday be.

A few weeks ago, I purchased some lobster claw oven mitts. I was ridiculously excited. Why? I’m not sure. Now that I think about it, my expectations may have been unrealistically high. I mean, lobster claw oven mitts are most likely going to be a guaranteed letdown, like funnel cake or concerts.

They arrived. I tore open the package, thinking “Lobster claws!” And then I put one on. The material was not necessarily sub-par, but also not nearly as commanding as I had imagined. The mitt itself is not as red or bright, more like faded t-shirt your mom sewed into the shape of a lobster claw because you needed something to wear for Halloween….20 years ago.

It’s cool, though. I can get down with the mediocre claw.

And then I put on the other one. My worst fears were realized. (I actually did think about this before I purchased them online.) The other mitt was also a right-handed mitt. The logical solution would be to turn it around and use it on your left hand, but there’s an uncomfortable bunching at the innermost point of the claw that puts an undue amount of pressure on the space between the thumb and index finger.

So…I’m less excited. I imagined myself wearing an apron and holding big roasting pans with my perfectly fitted lobster-claw oven mitts. Instead, I’m now imagining sharing the mitts with a friend – does this mean I’ll begin cooking meals? – and then high-fiving jubilantly. That’s all I’m going to get. So I’m going to make the best of it.

Every now and then, I find myself completely and utterly out of words.

Over the last two weeks, I’ve started at least ten drafts of blog posts. Normally, I just write them and post them. I don’t plan them or edit them or add to them; I just type away until I’m done. But the past two weeks have seen fits and starts of half-formed ideas, a tangle of political and social rants, emotional outpourings, and matter-of-fact recaps.

And I’ve been unable to get any further than those first few sentences. I’m just not sure what to say. I think that lately, I’ve been experiencing some disquieting emotions – the kind that aren’t necessarily bad or good but are profound and unquantifiable. I assume it’s yet another of those pesky growth points, the slipping away of adolescence and the uncomfortable emergence into adulthood.

***

Mike and I spoke on a panel for prospective adoptive parents on Saturday. We were both excited to do it, and I hope we were helpful to some of the parents. The focus for the group was more international adoption rather than domestic, and so I think we weren’t nearly as exciting as the other two panel members, two teenagers who’d been internationally adopted when they were young.

Regardless, it was kind of fun to be able to do that. I love that there are so many families who want children enough to go through the hassles of the adoption process and as I grow up, I love being able to lend my experiences to their information pool.

The parents asked good questions: does being adopted make Mike and I less close/closer/doesn’t matter? We answered doesn’t matter – we used to fight a lot and are now super close. They asked about naming. They asked about school. They asked us how we were told we were adopted and neither of us remember not knowing. There was never a sit-down discussion about it; it was just a fact.

Mike and I told them that if they work it in as a part of their children’s lives, adoption isn’t a scary thing or a big thing at all. They can start small and build on the explanation over the years. Mike made a really astute observation that I actually had never thought about – he talked about how the circumstances that prompt the adoption aren’t always the rosiest, and that when kids ask, to just tell them what’s age-appropriate and then elaborate later on.

We discussed the idea of open adoptions. I told them very honestly that I was filled with jealousy when Mike got to meet his birth father. I told them that as I age, the curiosity about who my father is only grows. We both agreed that sometimes open adoptions are the best thing, but that sometimes, they’re not right. And when they’re not right, it’s best to leave it alone.

I hope that they came away more sure of their plans to adopt. I know that they’ll all make great parents – we stressed honesty and transparency as the building blocks for great parenting. I think they’re right when they say that no matter how well you’ve prepared, you’re never really prepared.

I’ve been super slammed with life this week (last week, too), so there’s been no time to post anything. I promise, you’ll have a real post now. (African time now, like maybe now, maybe soon, or at some time in the distant future.)

***

We have a Pope! I’m at 33% for my “Pope Wish List”: he’s South American, yay! But he’s also 76 (approaching octogenarian status) and pretty conservative when it comes to stuff like the gays (the whole “move the church into the 21st century” thing isn’t going to be happening any time soon).

***

Madeline and I played trivia last night for the first time in forever. Our only goal was to end the game not in last place. Mission accomplished. We ended up in the middle of the pack after somehow successfully completing the visual round which was naming the country of origin of some baseball players. Damn, we’re good, because it was a shot in the dark for us. We also did excellently in a few other categories. We did not fare so well at British slang or the first audio round.

I love my mother. She’s the bravest, most courageous person I know. She’s terrifying when she wants to be and she’s the funniest person I’ve ever met.

My biggest fear in life is that I’ll lose her.

I didn’t ever think about that, really, until I was reading some women’s magazine as a teenager. There was a one page article, decorated with water-colored flowers, that talked about the effects of losing your mother. The one that hit home the most was picking up the phone to call her and not being able to. To this day, if I think about that for too long, I’ll feel the pinpricks of sadness in the back of my throat, the tears welling up behind my eyes.

I try not to think about it.

I hope she knows I don’t take her for granted. I had a dream about her the other night, and when I woke up, all I wanted to do was run into her room and wake her up and tell her how much I love her. (Granted, this would be impossible since we do not live in the same place anymore.)

I was reading this blog this morning, and the post hit home, just like that article so many years ago.

There are things that my mother and I share that no one will ever be able to take away, including this memory:

We’re young. Not sure how young. My mom and I are watching tv downstairs. My brother is exercising on the treadmill upstairs. All of a sudden, there’s a very loud thump and a scream. We go upstairs, and my brother is wedged between the treadmill and a desk, the treadmill still running. He’d tried to touch the treadmill while running, and predictably, had not managed to keep his footing and fallen.

When we tell this story, no one laughs. But my mom and I lose it every time, dissolving into giggles before the story’s even finished. I guess you must have had to be there. But it’s almost just as fun to watch the stone faces that we get in response.

So this week, when I saw this .gif, I knew I had to send it to her. 

I know it’s not funny.

But it’s so funny.