In Lieu of Nine Months

Our certification process for being foster parents is almost done: CPR, check. TB testing, check. Hours of training on the Child Welfare System, check, plus binder. Livescan fingerprints, check. The home inspection is coming up this week, so outlets are covered, safety locks and so forth are done, and the baby room is ready enough (more will happen once we know specific age and gender).

We go to the bookstore and I gather books and magazines about babies and parenting. I have two competing thoughts: One is, there is so much to know, and the more I try to find out, the better it will be for me, my husband, and the kid. It's right up there with bringing about world peace. And the other thought is, don't people realize that parenting has been going on for a really, really long time and that our ancestors didn't have Babywise and What to Expect: The Toddler Years, yet here we are, a species that has multiplied substantially and with at least some sparks of goodness along the way? Should I work myself into a frenzy about gathering all the right baby "essentials" when women in third world countries give birth at home, sling their newborn onto their sides, and head back to life as usual because that's the expectation? I waffle. Excitement turns to anxiousness and returns to calm anticipation in the course of a minute.

I am excited to the point of nervous doubt—to want something this much is almost a taunt to the Universe to deny its fruition. But we can't stop the wanting. And hopefully the Universe will see what a great deal this is, two decent, intentional, energetic (d), organized (me), loving, and WILLING people just asking to take in a kid who needs a place. I don't see the catch, so I'm choosing to be optimistic.

Today, we fieldtripped for baby items that we won't get until the time comes, but which require some research and evaluating. After perusing the internet and reading Consumer Reports, we toured the stroller and car seat sections of a few babycentric stores and figured out which stroller (Zooper Boogie) and which car seat (probably Britax Marathon) will work best for our lifestyle and provide the best quality and value over time. And that won't cause irritation and annoyance when I use them. Thus, they have to be black, not yellow with ducks, beige with bears, or green plaid, just BLACK. (My mother is perplexed by my lack of enthusiasm for baby-themed clothing and gear. I, on the other hand, am perplexed by stores in which every piece of little boy clothing is appliqued with animals or the words "All Star" and every sports ball known to ESPN—no child is that fascinated by either barnyards or athletics. This is the just the beginning of our parenting differences. I envision a collection of non-pastel onesies with pithy sayings that would make my 14-year-old students envious. She's hoping I'll come around to the Rainforest crib set. Won't this be fun?)

As I sat on the floor of a stroller aisle, watching my prodigiously handy husband figure out the quick release inflatable wheels faster than the salesperson, I realized again, as I do over and over in different situations, that my husband is amazing. That he's going to be an unbelievably good father. That any kid would love having him as a dad. That I am undeserving and unworthy of him, and that just getting to be on this journey of life with him is the biggest gift the Universe could have ever arranged for me. I hate that I forget this sometimes, that I have taken for granted how incredibly gifted and fortunate I am to have this exact man in my life, precisely how he is. But I love how the Universe gives me reasons all the time, like today, to realize again just how good everything is because my husband is here.