Here’s what was going on 3 years ago, in May, as we prepared for our first adoption.
I am realizing that there is actually a lot more I could be doing beside working on my virtue of patience.
Once we get a referral we are encouraged to send a small package of items to our child. Several items are recommended and should fit inside a one gallon zip lock type bag. It should include a small photo album, one 8×10 photo of the family, a small blanket to act as a transition item that the child can take home. However, it is possible that none of the items will be returned, so they encourage you to buy/make duplicates so that you can have them for the child on the trip home.
I have been doing a little research on the forum of our adoption agency and you would be amazed what some of these women can fit into a one gallon plastic bag, here is the list from one mother:
blanket, rattle, pic, book, bib, onesie, sleeper, toy. Since I am an overachiever I am going to try to get a kitchen sink in my gallon bag. I refuse to be out-done.
Apparently there are also some streamlined packing lists that have been developed as well. Some of these organized travelers have made some of the most detailed packing lists I have ever seen. I am not sure how to top a packing list that includes the number of pair of underwear I need to pack and your above average toiletry list including tampons, but I thought it might be possible until I saw that the list also included Duct tape – is there anything Duct tape cannot do? I decided the list is complete and that I should use it and not attempt to fix something that is clearly not broken.
Travel shots – well this topic lends itself to a story. For those of you who consider yourself a friend or acquaintance there are probably a few basic pieces of information you have about me that are well known:
1. I am full of useless facts and information – and every once in a while some useful facts.
2. I don’t eat blue food.
3. I have an insane fear of needles.
Soooo, Trenton was the first to get an appointment and go to the doctor in preparation for adoption and travel. He came home with 4 band-aids, two on each arm, blue in color. When I saw them I said “WHAT ARE THOSE!!??” He calmly replied to my panic, “What?”… “Band-aid, four band-aids! Why?” I blurted. He explained calmly that we needed to get travel shots (I knew that! not FOUR). I was a mess, my appointment wasn’t for another two weeks – I would be a wreck by then, worrying about the needles!
I arrived at the doctor, she knows me, they all know me, we all worked together for the past year. Going to the doctor for me is like a visit with old friends – except the part where friends feed you dessert and these people stab me with needles – OK it’s more like some strange kind of torture, but I like them all until the needles come out. Anyway, I explained to the doctor again, that I don’t like needles and that I would be happy to provide documentation to avoid any “just-to-make-sure” injections. I talked her down to only two! I was soooo proud of myself. So the medical assistant comes in, I warn her that I do not like needles. And she says it will be OK because she normally works with pediatric patients and she is fast and good, then she added that she was military trained, “in case you need to throw a punch.”
I thought I was all set, I’ve been poked before, I have something like a 50% success rate of staying upright throughout the process. The odds were against me today! She poked me once, she poked me twice… the needles were out. Ahhh, but the worst was NOT over. Moments later I requested permission to lay on the floor – denied. I immediately followed with another request to lay on the floor – I was redirected to the exam table. The next time I followed with a statement, “OK, I am going to lay on the floor now.” So I did. Picture it, like a crime scene, I am sprawled out on the floor face down with my hot sweaty face pressed against the cold tile floor of the exam room.
Moments later I am surrounded by a couple more of my “friends” who are wondering if a “code” is in order. “NO, IT IS NOT!!”. I am thinking, “Do not call a code, everyone in this building knows me and they do not need to see me laying here on the floor over a dumb little needle.” The story goes as you might expect, I have to stay to be observed, they give me water and a lecture about letting people know I “pass-out” from needles. Apparently the average health care professional hears the words “I don’t like needles” several times each work day. I was told that those words must be followed up with “… and I pass out.” The medical assistant put a formal note in my chart. It’s official, I pass out from needles.
Back to the point of this blog, I need one more shot, for Yellow Fever. This blog is long enough. To be continued…