Oh, blog. We need to talk.

You see, well, lately, I'm just not that into you. It's spring and there's so much to do outside. And there's just not that much free time in general, between work and parenting and housekeeping and all the other things that take up my time. Certainly not enough time to sit down and write a thoughful essay post, complete with pictures all displayed in the correct order and alignment.

Not that there's really been anything worth writing about going on in my life, to be frank. Even I get bored of nothing but pictures of Conan being his usual cute self.

But if I'm going to be really, truly, deeply honest, the real culprit is Facebook.

Yep. There. I've said it.

It's just so much easier, so much quicker, and (this is big) I actually get comments and likes and feedback on stuff I post there. A couple of sentences and I'm done. Or a picture or two. No context needed, which is a real blessing when there's no real story to tell, just 'hey, my kid is cute!' or 'this place we went was pretty'. 

Hell, I can even post pictures directly from my phone, no finding the cord, no downloading and sorting, nothing. (Ok, to be fair, there's probably a way to post pictures to the blog from my phone too. But I don't know how, and I'm not real inclined to go figure it out. Sorry.)

But! There's still hope for you, blog! Because... [drum roll please] ... we've decided to adopt another child!

The process is daunting and there are many, many things to learn, to evaluate, and surprises to discover. My best blogging has historically been about some kind of journey. First, it was building a house. Then, it was about getting married, and establishing a home. After that, pregnancy and parenthood. And now, the next adventure is adoption. It's going to be great, I promise.

The kid I don't want

As a parent, I spend a lot of time thinking about what I want for my kid.  I imagine him being talented, charismatic, intelligent, athletic, kind, generous and thoughtful (not to mention tall and good looking).  I want him to have plentiful opportunities, wide-ranging experiences, and lots of fun.  It's fun to let my mind wander to the future, dreaming of the amazing things Conan could do - maybe he'll be an astronaut! maybe he'll be the poet laureate! maybe he'll be a TV chef!

On the flip side, sometimes I think about what I don't want him to be.  Oh, there's the obvious ones that all parents probably have: I don't want him to be a drug addict, or a gun runner, or a pimp, or a tabloid front-page celebrity.  I mean really, I'm his mom: I don't even want him to get dehydrated, let alone arrested.

But that's all in the future.  When I think about the short term, the kid I REALLY don't want him to be is the one that is good and nice and obedient when grown-ups are around, and then mean and spiteful and awful to the other kids the minute they are alone.  The one where his mom thinks he's a little angel and everyone else just rolls their eyes and wonders how she can be so blind.  Maybe even ALL the moms think he's a little angel, and it's only the other kids who know the truth.  I knew kids like that when I was young, and it was horrible.  It was incredible the way they could transform from angels to bullies the minute the adults left the room. 

For the record, let me say right now that I don't think Conan is now, or will ever be, that kid.  He's such a nice little boy.  Everyone says so! 

But then, I'd be the last to know, wouldn't I?

Story Time: The Rotten Egg Incident

Bear with me, I feel the need to reminisce...

I was always a good kid. I never really got into defiance for the sake of defiance; I always wanted to follow the rules and loved the praise and approval I received for being such a good kid. Occasionally I was naughty, but mostly I was not the trouble maker. Which is why the Rotten Egg Incident is still such a sore spot for me: I was innocent, but I looked guilty as hell. And it was spectacular.

I was about eleven, maybe twelve years old. My cousins, Heather, Sadie and Jessica, had come to visit, and the next door neighbor kids, Jamie & Ben, were also over at our house playing. Heather was three years older than I, Sadie was my age, and Jess, Jamie and my brother Jon were two years younger than we were, with Ben a couple years behind them. We were having a grand time, playing around and in the pond, on a beautiful summer day, while our parents chatted in the shade.

Now, the pond at my parent's house is not huge, and it's not deep, but it is murky and the bottom is mucky, not nice at all for wading or swimming. In the center of the pond is a small island where wild ducks nest nearly every year. Exploring the island was the obvious thing for us to do when my dad produced a small boat for us to play with. Jon and Sadie ferried Heather and I over to the island, and then headed back to the shore to pick up Jamie, Jesse and Ben. There was a lot of silliness going on in the boat, and somehow both of the paddles were dropped overboard.

Meanwhile, Heather and I began to explore the island, which was very brushy. We pushed our way through the branches and came upon an old duck's nest in the lee of the biggest alder tree. It still had an egg in it! What a find! I picked it up, examined it, and held it up for everyone to see, yelling to the other kids "We found a duck egg!". And they yelled back "Throw it! Throw it!"

So I did. I hauled back and unquestioningly threw the duck egg.

Which hit the network of low-hanging alder branches and aerosolized into a fine mist of pure rotten-egg putrescence which enveloped all the kids, both in the boat and on the shore.

Now, as is often the case in these situations, I knew as soon as the egg left my hand that it was a mistake. I suddenly saw the kids on the shore holding a tow-rope tied to a weight, ready to throw to the kids in the boat who had lost their paddles overboard. In an instant it was crystal clear, but it was too late. Everyone was shrieking, crying, retching, adults were running from the yard to see what was happening, and there was a mind-boggling terrible stink in the air.

To everyone but Heather and I it seemed like a completely unprovoked biochemical sneak attack. We were stuck on the island for what seemed like hours, while the adults rescued, bathed, and comforted our siblings. I think they even got ice cream. We were told we could wade to shore through the now stinky muck water on our own. No-one wanted to hear my side of the story, because really, what possible excuse could there be for doing such a horrible, stupid, mean thing?

Eventually after all the other kids were cleaned up and settled down someone came and rescued us off the island, but despite my teary-eyed protestations I don't think anyone really believed me that it had been an accident. I mean really, when your story is that you accidentally threw a rotten duck egg right at all the other kids because they asked you to, well, that's a pretty hard explanation to sell. But it's true. I was innocent... and also guilty. And although it was terribly traumatic for everyone involved (especially me) it makes a pretty funny story now!

What Scares Me

In a nutshell, my biggest fear is losing Conan. I'm not a big worrier in general, but sometimes, especially late at night, it just hits me that it's possible something terrible could happen to him, and a huge wave of fear comes crashing down on me. I work my way through all kinds of things that could happen - from the fairly common (car accident, playground accident, gardening accident) to the hypochondriac (leukemia, SIDS, cancer, genetic disease, e. coli) to the sensational (crazed meth-head home invasion, weird cult kidnapping, dingo attack, terrorist plot) to natural disasters (volcanic eruption, earthquake, sudden rise in sea level) to the downright apocalyptic (zombies, nuclear strike, alien invasion, Large Hadron Collider created black hole).

If I'm really in the grip of a fear fit, I may even start to worry about possible pitfalls in the future. What if Conan makes bad choices in high school, drops out, runs away, and overdoses in a flophouse somewhere? What if he texts & drives? What if he drops dead of heat stroke one day after football practice? What if he's struck by lightning, or a meteorite, or a chunk of the international space station? The list of things I could worry about just goes on and on.

This focus on the horrible and tragic may seem morbid, but I think it's actually an effective coping mechanism. Thinking about these things, accepting them as possibilities and then dismissing them as remote and unlikely, makes them seem somehow less scary. I have good friends who lost their son at 4 months, and know several couples who were devastated to lose a pregnancy. My cousin died in a freak snowboarding accident when we were in our early 20s. My husband works at the city cemetery. Reminders that death is a part of life are ever-present. No one knows what the future holds.

So whenever this most primal fear bubbles to the surface, I spend some time exploring it in my imagination. Then, I take a deep breath and remind myself that the fearsome possibility of losing something wonderful is no match for the joy of really, truly loving every minute that I have with my son.