Elvie looks like this immediately after waking every single day. I do not. This is more my speed:
I am tired much of the time. It's okay. I have figured out a way to handle it, mostly. Sometimes I wonder if life will ever let up, if I'll ever figure out how to get diapers and bottles washed midday so I'm not waiting up for either the dryer or the dishwasher to be done. But mostly I think about Elvie's upcoming surgery, and I treasure the days she wakes up so full of joy. The surgeons are meeting this week for pre-op planning, and my heart leaps into my throat every time I think about it. We will know a date, and then it will happen. The fear I feel is the same fear I felt the day that I saw Elvie's ribs and the outline of her intestines through her skin, and I knew that her life was more fragile than we'd guessed. I keep thinking that we got home, and she got better, and that is the hope I cling to. It is what I have.
She will be baptized on Sunday into the Orthodox Christian faith. She is going to hate getting wet. We will all be wearing our finest Ethiopian clothes, to welcome her as newly illumined, though to be honest, it seems she is full of light already. It has been a long time coming, and I know that her Ethiopian family will rejoice with us. This is something they wanted for her, too.
Once that is done, we will just wait for what is next. I will stockpile items that will be handy in the hospital because being overly prepared yet strangely unprepared is what I do best. I will keep breathing and waiting. I will hold my baby every morning when she wakes up, even if I can't quite get my eyes open, and I'll kiss her cheeks and her lips and her hands, and I'll let Zinashi hold her all by herself, because each day we have with her is a gift. And if I sound like a cheesy greeting card, then so be it, because it is absolutely true.