My closet is immaculate. Neat and organized. Pants and shirts–hung on hangers. Color-coordinated, even. And my bed is made–all day, everyday.
There isn’t a single dust bunny — or any other kind of dust-mammal — under our bed. And our linen closet is clean and smelling Snuggles-from-the-blue-bottle fresh.
I organized my kitchen cabinets, throwing away lids to Tupperware who had long since lost their mates. I vacuumed every last crumb our toaster left behind on our pantry’s floor.
There is a car-seat installed in the backseat of our car. Typing that is surreal…
We have a stroller parked next to our front door.
One package of tiny diapers. One package of wipes. One container of formula.
A baby bottle.
I bought and returned (and then bought again) a few tiny outfits. But I can’t bring myself to cut their tags or throw away their receipts.
My breaths are all deep these days. And I’m a little too regular, if you catch my drift.
I’m nesting like any other expectant mother. And our nest could not be more ready.
We’re almost there, way past that 26-week mark. The closest we’ve ever been.
I’m very well aware of all the things that can happen between now and then. That looming 72-hour mark is enough to take even the most confident adoptive mother to the edge.
But I have to have faith.
She picked us. She’s placing him with us. I have to believe this adoption is going to happen as she wants it to happen.
For now, back to my nesting. I promise to keep you all in the loop.
Fly on home now, baby bird. Your mama is ready.