I didn't think there was an equivalent to TTC freak-outs in adoption, but I was wrong. It's called home-study freakouts.
Will she look at our baseboards? Will she freak out about the wood behind the upstairs bathroom door that needs to be scrubbed down after some water damage? Will the newly-aquariumed turtles still pose a problem because people think they have salmonella and they're a hazard to toddlers who manage to be unsupervised for the length of time it takes to get a chair to the aquarium, fish out a turtle who doesn't want to be caught, and stick it in their mouths? Will the basket of unmatched socks make her think we're unorganized? What about the cardboard box of hanging files -- does it suggest we're not really grownups? The trash people didn't pick up the dead recliner we left out for them -- will sticking it at the far end of the driveway be good enough, or should we try to haul it into the basement? Do I need to weed around the compost bin? Should we have repaired and repainted the front porch? Do I need to scrub the bathroom floors tonight? I definitely need to do a few loads of laundry and wash not only some clothes, but the bed linens the cat threw up on and the cotton shower curtain. Do I need to make sure there's no dirty laundry anywhere, even in the laundry basket?
I was pretty sanguine about everything until yesterday, upon which time I proceeded to freak right the fuck out.
In some ways it's like comps were in graduate school -- even though you know your advisor isn't out to get you, even though you know they want you to succeed, even though you know you're studying your ass off, freaking out is still part of the process, and the exams themselves are anti-climactic. And in some ways, the exams are anti-climactic BECAUSE of the freaking out.
Both sets of friends who've gone through this are doing the email equivalent of patting us on the shoulder and kissing our foreheads, telling us to breathe and calm down because it will be fine, really it will. They're laughing ruefully about the crazy things they did before their first home visit (and we aren't alone with the baseboards, no sirree!), and knowing that the things they freaked out about didn't matter, because the social workers aren't going to be concerned about the fact that dogs shed; they want to know that any kid would be safe and loved and taken care of. And my rational, logical part knows that. But my emotional part, oh, it's terrified.
It's just that it matters so. much. Ms. P and I were talking about it at dinner last night, and it's not just that I want a kid desperately, that I've wanted one and waited for one for years upon years. It's also that, in some way I can't explain, parenting is part of What Is Mine to Do in this life, it's part of what I'm here for. And so the infinite delay is maddening, like I'm being teased repeatedly by the universe.
There are only three things in this world I've ever wanted this way, wanted in a way that was unchanged by time or distance or reality: Ms. P, a kid, and spiritual communion. And so tonight I'm going to wipe down the baseboards, do laundry, scrub tubs, clean floors, and pray.