Viva La Colombia

A Room with a View

I know that I owe everyone a lot of posts to catch up to speed as to what's been going on with my life.  Since that sounds a little overwhelming at the moment, I'll start first with the most recent thing and try to work my way backwards.  I'm nothing, if not the pillar of logical data distribution. 

I look back at the posts from February and it's hard to believe how sad I was.  The job search was grueling.  Work at the firm was kicking my ass.  And we were poor.  The good news is that I have finally! found! my dream job.  Believe it or not, it's not teaching.  I am now the knight of death for new American lawyers.  That's right, I am a manager at a legal process outsourcing firm. 

On days that I'm not traveling, I work at home.  They're paying me twice what I was getting paid at the firm.  And they're paying me to travel to cool places, like New York, Los Angeles, London and Mumbai.  Oh sure, every once in a while they throw a trip to Tulsa in there, but for the most part, it's a great gig.  Thus far, I feel like I haven't really done anything, but they claim to be very impressed by my "productivity."  Ahem.  I haven't done anything. 

Suckers. 

I'm here. I'm fine.  I'm a lazy blogger. 

The good news is that I was able to see an endo specialist in the area and she has agreed to do a lap and possible hysterectomy, if necessary.  There are days when my broken girly parts don't bother me so much and I think, "oh, this isn't so bad, you big wimp." 

And then there are days where I would gouge out the whole works with a rusty spoon if I could. 

In this past two years, the bad days out number the good days and, frankly, I'd like for the whole works to just be over.  Therefore, I have a date with a not-rusty scalpel next Friday.  On the upside, I plan on fully maximizing my access to pain-killing narcotics while I have a legitimate excuse to lounge about in bed with a remote. 

Turning point

There have been a few times in my life when I sincerely knew that I was depressed.  The summer of my 25th birthday comes to  mind.  Otherwise known as, "the summer of My Discontent."  I had lost my job because I wouldn't let my boss touch my ass (we later settled out of court and it paid for a good chunk of my law school tuition that year), I broke up with my fiance and had just purchased a house that I couldn't afford.  If it hadn't been for the fact that I could never devastate my family with a suicide, I was emotionally in the hole enough to consider it.  That fall, I started law school and things eventually got better.

Before I go any further, let me unequivocally state for the record:  I would never, ever, ever consider suicide.  Although simply falling asleep for a really long time sounds really attractive sometimes, I would never leave my babies. 

Okay, with that being said, I'm presently feeling some of the same emotions I remember feeling that summer:  withdrawn, lonely, desperate for things to get better.  I don't think that any one thing will solve my problems or how I'm feeling, because there are so many factors that are contributing. 

First, I have to do something about pain management.  Recently, it's come to my attention that the copious amount of ibuprofen I've been taking are ruining my stomach.  I've tried to see a doctor about it, but as predicted, her answer was to simply write me a scrip for birth control pills and shoo me out the door in less than three minutes.  I am so sick of medical doctors. 

Second, the job hunt has me down.  'Nuff said. 

Third, I feel like a total failure at home.  I can't keep up with the laundry, the dishes or even thank-you cards.  I haven't written a bona fide thank-you card in months and there have been many occasions where it was mostly certainly required. 

On the weekends, I don't want to get out of bed.  On weekdays, it takes me hours to accomplish simple tasks. 

At what point do you determine that this is simply a blue day or blue week and hope for the best?  At what point do you determine that it's a problem that you need help for?

The other part of the problem is that I feel like my profession really makes it impossible for me to admit vulnerability.  Pragmatism and good judgment are supposed to be my bread and butter.  If I can't accomplish those two things in my own life how can I counsel people to do so in their lives? 

BRB

Be back very soon.  Big possible events occurring.  Trying to figure out what to do.

***

Hate big, life-changing events. Very much.

Addictions

I look fondly back on a time in college when I dated the one and only person in my life that was in a band.  He played lead guitar and was everything you'd think that a college-age band member should be.  He smoked a lot of pot, smoked too much and drank Jeremiah Weed with beer chasers. 

On Saturday mornings, we would lay around his patchouli-scented apartment.  He and his roommates would strum on the guitar and smoke Camel cigarettes while I worked on Symbolic Logic homework (in hindsight, I no longer wonder why I didn't do very well in that class.)  I really enjoyed that time in my life, because my guitar-playing boyfriend was fun and interesting and would write pretty decent music for me.  He and his roommates used to say that I was their only groupie.  I liked that. 

We led a mellow existence.  It was the type of life that you can live only while in college.  Free from responsibility, other than making it to the next music gig on time.  The guitar-strumming boyfriend wrote a song for me called, "Addictions."  It was a sweet melody that crooned about his Camel habit and his addiction to me. 

Eventually, the guitar strummer went off to work at a summer camp in Colorado and we lost touch.  Sometimes I think about him, and I always remember that song, "Addictions." 

I have a hard time dealing with people with addictions.  No one in my family has ever struggled with a chemical addiction, alcohol or otherwise (unless you count the time my brother got busted for growing pot in his dorm room.  Although, I'm not sure that qualifies as an addiction as much as it does just as being just plain stupid.)  Therefore, when I have dealt with people that have chemical addictions, I become frustrated quickly. 

Frankly, I don't understand addiction very well.  Although, intellectually, I understand that the addiction is powerful, much addictive behavior I perceive as selfishness and self-absorption.  In the last several years, my method of dealing with addicts (of one form or another) has been to simply excommunicate them from my life.  I realize this is not the best way to deal with the scenario.

The reason I can't tolerate addiction is because I loathe manipulation.  And more than that, I hate being the one being manipulated.  Whenever I have encountered addicts, I don't think they realize how transparent they are. 

I'm not sure how to end this post.  I guess what I'm asking is that for those of you who have dealt with addicts or had them in your lives or are recovering addicts, what do you do?  How do you deal with the addict without losing your mind?

It's a White Wedding

You know you're at a white trash wedding when:

     * The officiant apologizes several times during the ceremony because he keeps "screwing up." 

     * At some point during the evening, the bride refers to the maid of honor as "looking kinda crackwhore-ish." 

     * The reception is BYOB, but no one thought to supply glasses, so the guests keeping taking straight shots of Windsor out of the bottle. 

     * The highlight of the festivities is when the DJ plays Cotton-Eyed Joe and nobody falls down. 

Good Times.

B.Y.O.B.

One of my roommates from college is coming up for a wedding this weekend.  She asked me to come, too.  I don't know the people, but I'm usually up for a party, so I said, "yes." 

Yesterday she told me she thought the wedding was going to be casual event  Then she told me that the invitation had cartoon palm trees on it.  And that it said if you came to the wedding you were sure to get "lei'd." 

The invitation also said the event was "bring your own beverage." 

Hey, we're country.

Do you think the bride and groom would mind if wore my beer goggles t-shirt and cut-offs? 

Behind the Times

Many of you may have already heard about this project.  If not, go to this website forthwith. 

Essentially, a very thoughtful woman wears nothing but a little brown dress for 365 days in a performance art piece.  I think it's a powerful statement about American consumerism. 

If I get the professor job -- I'm seriously considering doing my own version. 

My Mother's Keeper

I do not have a good relationship with my mother. 

I never have.  None of my mother's four children have much of a relationship with her.  There are many reasons for the sorry state of our maternal bonds, including our mother's young age when she married our father, her religious background and her own pathetic upbringing. 

When I was a senior in high school, she moved to Las Vegas.  She met husbands three and four while living there (hereinafter "H-3" and "H-4".)  H-3 was a nice, old guy, but a little country for my taste.  I liked him.  My mother, apparently, did not.  She left after 18 months. 

She met H-4 through a dating service for repeat offenders -- I mean, previously married and divorced people.  H-4 is okay.  He's socially inept and obnoxious, but not a bad person.  After H-4, she seemed to stabilize.  Recently, she and H-4 sold their Las Vegas home at a huge profit and moved within a few hours' drive.  She told us that the move was to be closer to the grand kids.   That's what she told us.

Recently, there has been trouble in paradise and I have gathered from all appearances that the marriage between her and H-4 is over. 

Initially, this didn't bother me, because, well, I've been there and done that.  But, then she did it again.  She's decided to move to Tucson (sans H-4), because her younger sister and her partner are adopting a baby.  The baby is due in late August. 

We've been through this before, too.  She will move to Tucson; she will set-up there; and my siblings and I will be afterthoughts.  The extent of our relationship with her will be apologetic phone calls six weeks after a birthday or Christmas, because she couldn't get it together enough to send a card or gift.  On a good year, she might remember to call a day or two late.   

It's hard to understand why we're not good enough for her.  At what point do you decide that enough is enough?  Where do I draw the line in the sand? 

Yesterday, my niece told my sister that when people grow up, they don't need their mothers, but they always need their fathers. 

And so, I will be angry for a while.  I will call my Dad and I will tell him everything.  He will feel bad for having married her.  He will tell me the same thing he's told me for years.  Eventually, I will get over it and accept that she will disappear for a while. 

She will meet another man.  Things will be perfect, at first.  She will want to bring him for a visit, because she needs him to know that she has the perfect family.  I will let her visit.  I may even get excited.  I will be the perfect daughter for her. 

Because I am my mother's keeper. 

The Big Easy

Genetically, our family has been on a five-hundred year losing streak.  The shallow pool that is our family's genes has made our entire family grateful for modern medicine. 

When I was 11 years old, my brother was diagnosed with juvenile diabetes.  Our lives changed forever after that day.  Our house became completely sugar-free and our lives, even as teenagers, revolved around Kelly's blood sugars, shots and insulin reactions. 

My father doted on Kelly.  Not only was he the youngest of four kids, but he was ill most of his life with various conditions, in addition to his diabetes. 

I was always a little jealous of Kelly.  He glowed in the attention of my older siblings and father.  When he asked for things, he got them.  My father always justified the material gifts as compensation for the other challenges Kelly faced.  I'm still not sure how a brand-new laptop stabilized his blood sugars.   

When Kelly was sixteen, our family physician told my Dad that it was unlikely that Kelly would have biological children.  The corrosive nature of his diabetes had taken it's toll on Kelly's body and the doctors opined that his condition would preclude the possibility of children. 

Kelly never seemed to have an issue with the diagnosis.  In fact, when he married a very practical German woman two years ago, the topic of children was raised and both the groom and bride quickly dismissed the idea, both claiming they were way too cool to be bothered with something like rug rats.  His very German wife found the idea of children to be very unpractical, no doubt. 

So, imagine my surprise when my mother called me at work yesterday to excitedly! tell! me! that Kelly's wife is eight weeks pregnant.  First try! Isn't that great?!

It's not that I'm jealous of the pregnancy, because let's face it:  my children are far superior to anything that my family's pathetic gene pool could produce.  I'm jealous of the simplicity of it all.  I'm jealous of the idea of being able to change your mind and then have it all work out so perfectly.  I'm jealous of the innocence that goes with conceiving a child as planned.  With no problems, no fuss. 

I've no problems admitting that I'm the winner in the gene pool lotto, but sometimes, it would sure be nice to have the easy way out. 

Blame the Scandinavians

In our fair city there is an extraordinary amount of Scandivavians.  I like them.  The old Scandinavians have a reputation for being strong and humble.  They also tend to live by the motto that "no body likes a show off."  God Bless Garrison Keillor.   

In keeping pace with my Scandinavian neighbors, I am excited about our new house.  It's in a nice neighborhood (but not too nice.)  It's a decent size (but not too big.)  It's liveable, yet modest.  Modern, but not new. 

Imagine my surprise when out of nowhere, my excitement crumbled into a thousand tiny cold feet.  I came home in a blubbering mess last week claiming that there was no way we could move.  I don't know what happened.  It was like the idea of committing to house was all of a sudden a huge thing that I couldn't go through with.  B wasn't upset.  Secretly, I think he really would like to move into a new house out in the overpriced 'burbs.  I loathe the 'burbs and will be much happier in our modest inner-city dwelling.  I won't say "ghetto" because that would be very unScandinavian of me. 

Because no house is complete without photos of inner city youth. 

The diaper gang:  It's Pampers or Bust. 

So, uh, yeah.  We're moving.  After calling our realtor and imploring her to call the deal off, she refused to do anything until we had taken at least the weekend to think about it.  And that, my friends, is why hiring a professional is worth it.  In the end, we decided to stick with our new 'hood. 

Lo and behold, our new crib:  And driver:

On Holiday

Is it really a holiday? 

My idea of a holiday is to lay around the house, eat junk food and watch movies, preferably the good kind.  And yet, every year, I drag myself to one of those family-hanging-around-the-grill-and-drinking-beer events.  And every year, I regret it. 

It's as if the word "holiday" evokes some sort of mandatory get-out-of-the-house event.  Shouldn't the fact that I'm not working qualify as a holiday?  (Although, I am currently at work typing this, more on that later.)  I find it unsettling that we (and by "we" I mean "me") drag ourselves to these events knowing we'd rather be doing something else.  But, it's by some magnetic, social pull that we find ourselves on a plastic lawn chair in the brother-in-law's garage drinking warm beer and swatting mutant-size mosquitoes.  All in the name of Holiday.

How many times to I have to hear my husband's aunt describe how very much she hates lawyers and then proceed in painful detail to elaborate on each and every time she's been fucked over by one.  Hello?  Didn't we cover this last year? And the year before?  And the FUCKING YEAR BEFORE THAT? 

Did I mention this is the aunt that has never had children, but knows everything there is to know about babies?  I'm such a lucky girl.  The other lovely thing about her is that once a week (I know this because she tells me everyfuckingweek) she puts all her pennies in a jar and takes them to the bank for the boys' education fund.  I should be very grateful, you know.  The account is up to $86.74.  And it only took two years to get there.  That should buy at least a minute or two of classes at Harvard.

Oh, and I almost forgot to tell you about the friendly neighbors who stop by, just to see what the ruckus is and then sit their hillbilly asses down, because lord knows no holiday is complete with a full discussion of aliens, butt-probes and Nascar.  Oh, the humanity.

And then, there's this weird quasi-girlfriend thing that's happening with my brother-in-law.  This woman keeps showing up to family events for at least the last year and no body knows who or what the hell she is.  Is she his girlfriend?  They insist, "no."  Ahh, but she did spend the night in his room last night.  Are they friends?  Given the twelve-year difference in their ages, I'm guessing, "no."  It's pretty unlikely that a 33-year old man would be Just Friends with a 21-year old woman who is dumber than a fence post and works as a check-out girl for the local sporting goods store.  Yeah, because they have so much in common. 

I could go on here, but I'm guessing my point is crystal-clear.  The next big holiday some big changes are going to be happening.  There's not going to be any more drives out to the proverbial farm for face time with the relatives.  My ass is going to be planted at home with a stack of movies.  And well, maybe a little time at the office, because a day at the office is still better than a day with the in-laws. 

If I do say so myself

The Dante's Inferno Test has sent you to the First Level of Hell - Limbo!
Here is how you matched up against all the levels:

Level	Score
Purgatory (Repenting Believers)	Very Low
Level 1 - Limbo (Virtuous Non-Believers)	Extreme
Level 2 (Lustful)	Low
Level 3 (Gluttonous)	Low
Level 4 (Prodigal and Avaricious)	Very Low
Level 5 (Wrathful and Gloomy)	Very Low
Level 6 - The City of Dis (Heretics)	High
Level 7 (Violent)	Moderate
Level 8- the Malebolge (Fraudulent, Malicious, Panderers)	Low
Level 9 - Cocytus (Treacherous)	Very Low

Take the Dante Inferno Hell Test

If you ask me, the first level sounds like an okay place to hang out:

Charon ushers you across the river Acheron, and you find yourself upon the brink of grief's abysmal valley. You are in Limbo, a place of sorrow without torment. You encounter a seven-walled castle, and within those walls you find rolling fresh meadows illuminated by the light of reason, whereabout many shades dwell. These are the virtuous pagans, the great philosophers and authors, unbaptised children, and others unfit to enter the kingdom of heaven. You share company with Caesar, Homer, Virgil, Socrates, and Aristotle. There is no punishment here, and the atmosphere is peaceful, yet sad.

I mean, Socrates lives there, for crying out loud, how bad could it be?

Tagged!

Okay, Betsy tagged me a while  back and I promised I would do good on this one.  And god knows I LOVE to talk about me, so here goes:

Four jobs I've had in my life (in reverse chronilogical order):

     (1) Lawyer

     (2) law student -- although not technically a profession this was all I did for three years, so I figure it has to count for something.

     (3) photographer

     (4) fast food clerk -- at Hardee's to be exact.  Fascinating, I know.

Four Movies I can watch over and over (not necessarily in order of preference):

     (1) Trainspotting  --  because I am a sucker for a Scottish accent.

     (2) To Kill a Mockingbird -- because it's just a damn fine story

     (3) Shrek -- because I actually DO watch this movie via Nicolas over and over and over . . .

     (4) Groundhog Day -- do I really need to explain this one?

Four places I have lived:

     (1) Really small town in Midwest

     (2) Medium-size town in Midwest

     (3) Large town in Midwest

     (4) St. Paul

Four TV shows I love to watch:

     (1)  ER -- God, could John Leguizoma be any hotter?

     (2) Are there any other shows besides ER?

Four websites I visit daily:

     (1) Blogs -- way too numerous to mention

     (2) my bank account site -- I'm obessive about money that way

     (3) CaringBridge.org sites -- to check on other adoptive families in Colombia

     (4) My law school's career services website -- because you can never scope out too many jobs

Four of my favorite foods:

     (1) Brie

     (2) Other cheese

     (3) Bread to go with the Brie

     (4) Wine to go with the Brie -- really, who needs other food when you've got good cheese?

Four places I'd rather be right now:

     (1) Colombia -- I know, you're all moaning with irony, but I really do miss it

     (2) Home -- with my kids and playing trains in my ratty sweats

     (3) Outside -- really anywhere except my stuffy office

     (4) Did I mention anywhere except my office?

I'm not going to tag anyone, but you haven't done this one and you know who you are, feel free to express yourself.  No pressure.  Really. 

Tastes Just Like Chicken

I thought it was about time that I get off my fat ass and post some interesting things here in my own little private corner of the universe.  The problem is that with two kids, there isn't a whole lot of anything interesting going on in my life and there is a serious shortage of time in which to do anything interesting and/or write about it. 

Michael is growing at an alarming rate -- seven pounds in eight weeks.  He is, apparently, catching up from getting a slow start at the orphanage.  I feel a lot better about our time in Colombia, although I still think our coordinator is mean bitch and shouldn't be allowed to work anywhere near adoptive families. 

A while back I posted about attempting adoptive breastfeeding.  That part is hard.  I do want to share information about that subject, but I know the topic makes some squeamish.  Hey, speaking of squeamish -- this on will really get you -- this morning, I pumped before getting ready for work.  Nicolas joined me in the room.  He generally played on the floor, while asking me "are you pumping?" about every 10 seconds.  After completing the ritual of bodily fluid extraction, I put the collection syringe on the chair and went to clean the horns [of evil.]   When I returned, oh, about 30 seconds later, Nicolas was playing with an empty syringe. 

I calmly asked, "where's the medicine mommy had in the syringe?"

Pointing at his mouth he replied, "here, I taked the medicine, mama." 

So, there you have it:  breast milk does not taste like chicken.  It does, however, taste like Children's Tylenol.

No, say it ain't so!

If they kill my man John Leguizamo off of ER, I'm gonna be really unhappy.  He's the hottest thing on that show since George Clooney.  Nay!  He's the hottest thing on that show ever.  Nobody compares to my man, John. 

What shall we call him?

I realized it's been a while since I've talked about my cooch, so let's do that.  My girly bits are giving me a hard time, and I haven't had pap in ages.  Today I went to a (gasp) regular old-fashioned OB/GYN for the first time in three years.  Sad, but true. 

At the appointment and before the exam, we chatted a bit and he gave me the whole, "I like to get to know my patients before the exam, so they feel less violated." 

Snort.

"Violated?" I snarked.  "Please, I've gone through fertility treatment. I've had more people up there than pigeons in Trafalgar Square."

Blink. Blink. Blank stare.

My replied did not evoke the sort of reaction I was shooting for.  He slightly crooked his head shot me a look of surprise with just a hint of disgust at my inappropriateness.  I mean, me?  Inappropriate?  Never.  I'm a pillar of Victorian propriety. 

Quit laughing, I am so appropriate.

Anyway, as the exam progressed, (rather appropriately, I might add) the doc asked me about our adoption, which had been noted on my chart.  I explained the basics:  one kid from Colombia, excited to return for second, yada yada.  He says to me WHILE HIS HANDS ARE UP MY CROTCH, "I never understood why people adopted from other countries when there are so many children available here." 

Yes. He. Did. He adoptionismed me during a pelvic exam. 

Seizing on this rather bizarre education-opportunity, I calmly explained things were more complicated than that.  Sensing my frustrating, the doc quickly back peddled and murmured something about "the system" needed "fixing." 

Whatever, Dude.  You are still an asshole in my book. 

Flu Snot

My kid is the healiest kid on the block (or the apartment complex, depending on your mood.)  He has not yet had a cold this year and has dealt with only one tiny bout of the rotovirus.  So, why oh why, do I have the flu today? 

I'll tell you why:  because I didn't get the effing flu shot.  Nicolas got the flu shot and B got the flu shot at work.  But, noooooo, I was too busy to get the flu shot for myself. 

Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

Well. . . crap.

My social worker is mad at me.  I called the main office last week to ask a notary question.  I hate it when I do shit like that.  Of course, when I'm asking the notary questions, I can't help by push it a little further and ask other insanely inappropriate questions about where we are on the list or what can we expect for a time line.  I always have to push it a little further than I should.  Fuckity-fuck. 

Now that I'm on the outs with the social worker, I can feel Despair crow-barring her way into my brain.  Despair, that cruel bitch says, "now, you've pissed off the social worker.  Ha, ha.  You'll have to wait MONTHS for a referral now.  Maybe you'll never get one! Stupid cow, you pissed off the social worker." 

I hate this wait.  I hate not knowing, not being in control. 

With each passing week, my optimism slips a little further away and I immediately start preparing myself for the worst.  Despair, who can cleverly masquerade herself as Reason, says, "one child should be enough for you. You would have never been able to handle two children anyway.  What about your bass?  Think of how awful it will hurt when you have two to carry around.  You're not strong enough to pull it off. Forget about two." 

God, I need a Tootsie Roll.  And maybe a chocolate cigarette. And a Scotch.  The single-malt kind, not that blended shit. 

You're It!

I've been tagged by Avonlea!  Here are my answers, though not necessarily complete and/or well-thought out. 

Seven things to do before I die (not in order of priority):

1. See Nicolas grow into an amazing man
2. Visit the not-so-well traveled parts of Colombia
3. Live in another country, preferably Colombia
4. Write a book on Colombia
5. Make partner in my firm, or leave and start my own firm
6. Participate in a triathlon
7. Buy a house

Seven things I cannot (or will not) do:

1. Go to church and really believe in it all
2. Anything athletic
3. See without glasses
4. Stay up past midnight
5. Have biological children (that's a WILL NOT do, even if I could)
6. Move to my home town
7. Be a stay-at-home Mom (that's a CANNOT do)

Seven things that attract me to my spouse (in random order):

1. Kindness
2. Generosity
3. Good at kissing
4. Cute butt
5. Nice legs
6. Compassion
7. Patience

Seven things I say most often:

1. I suck at this
2. Whatever
3. Right, then
4. Nicolas!
5. Please
6. Thank you
7. B!

Seven books (or series) I love (in random order):

1. The Dispossessed: Chronicles of the Desterrados of Colombia
2. Colombia:  Fragmented Land, Divided Society
3. London
4. Sarum
5. How I was Adopted
6. Anything by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
7. One L

Seven movies I watch over and over again (in random order):

1. Trainspotting
2. It Started in Naples
3. The Divorcee
4. The Full Monty
5. Pride and Prejudice (the one with Colin Firth)
6. Room with a View
7. Amadeus

Seven people I'm curious about that I'd like to join in:

     1.  All of yous guys

Seven things to do before I die (not in order of priority):

My Secret Ambition

I have a confession to make:  I don't mind being a lawyer.  I really don't.  In my opinion, the hardest part of being a lawyer is having clients that take their problems to a lawyer and then expect the lawyer to wave a magic wand and make everything better.  That's not really the way it works.  Luckily, I practice in an area where I don't have individual clients and the few I do have are insurance companies who are basically "professional clients." 

But, I have a secret.

What I really want to be is a writer.  The biggest problem with my ambition is that I'm not a particularly good writer.  When I was in school, I avoided writing classes at all costs.  I was an Art major for crying out loud!  Learning how to write was at the bottom of my to-do list.

Wherein lies my second problem. 

I used to be creative.  I won a bunch of awards for my work.  Everyone expected me to go on to work somehow in the art field.  I even signed up for graduate school.  For some strange reason, I went to law school.  At the time, I think I was looking for stability and a guaranteed income.  I knew law could provide that.

Several years later, here I sit in my comfortable office with lots of neatly stacked files and books.  I know I can get through the stack of files and probably do an okay job at litigating these cases.  What happened to the other part of me?  The creative part that wanted to do great things with the sublime? 

I'll tell you what happened:  law school.  Those bastards just suck the life right outta ya.  If you've got any creativity at all, the Man just keeps smacking you down until you get it through your thick skull that nobody wants that shyte around a law firm.  In the law it's Logic and Reason or bust. 

Reading blogs and absorbing the different writing styles and techniques has given me stimulation I thought I'd never have again once I left University.  For a few minutes each day, I can enjoy other people's writings and reflect on the person I once was. 

I feel like I took the easy way out.  I didn't brave the challenges of looking for a job in my field or strive to improve my work.  I gave up.  I sold out. 

There, I said it.  I am a sell-out.  A sell-out for a house in the 'burbs and a nice car.  Oh, except I don't have either of those things. 

I guess the joke is on me.

Stick-to-it-tiveness

Growing up in a farming community taught me a lot of things about work.  Back then, in order to be a successful farmer, you needed to get up really early in the morning, work hard all day and go to bed really late at night.  Things have changed in thirty years.  Now, in order to be a successful farmer, one needs to be sophisticated in futures trading, market peaks and production scales.  Work ethic is only part of the equation.

One of the highest compliments one of the old farmers could pay was to tell someone he or she had "stick-to-it-tiveness."  If you could just stick to something and muddle through, you were an alright person.  Futures, trades and scales were for fancy people.  They didn't have stick-to-it-tiveness. 

Tuesday, my secretary came to work and she wasn't pregnant any more.  And that's not even the worst of it.  She came to work with a smile on her face and worked her ass off all day even though (a) she was having a miscarriage; and (b) her sixteen-year old special needs child left the toilet running ALL weekend and her beautiful house is totally flooded.  For Real.  Flooded with poopy water. 

My secretary doesn't know about terms of art, insurance coverage or legal issues, but damn, the woman can work.  She works in the face of adversity:  her daughter is in Iraq being shot at; her husband is dead; her special needs child is a blessing, but a constant challenge.

She comes in every day and she smiles.  She never says anything negative about anyone, even the Bitter and Strange Lady. 

She has stick-to-it-tiveness. 

I only have so many . . .

. . . brain cells to go around.  I used the vast majority today to write a coverage opinion and comment over at Fertilely Challenged.  Please take a moment to read her post and think about the issue.  The ability of doctors to "pick and choose" who they will treat has the potential to affect all of us. 

Unless you're a troll, then just move right along.  Infertiles don't take kindly to yer kind 'round these-hur parts.

Tag, you're it.

I've been tagged by ReproGirl. 

THE RULES:
1. Go into your archive.
2. Find your 23rd post.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the sentence in your blog along with these instructions.
5. Tag five people to do the same.

Here's my line:

"Everyone was in a pretty chipper mood until Nicolas decided milk was for babies and he threw the sippy cup unceremoniously to the floor whereupon the sippy cup lid burst forth from the cup and warm milk gushed onto my MIL's shag carpet."

If I recall correctly, this post was largely about Nicolas being somewhat of a genius.  He still is.  Umm, I'm not really good at the whole playing tag thing.  Mainly because I am not ambitious enough to look up people who have/have not been tagged.  I lack the commitment it takes to be a good tag player. 

I'm also the world's worst auntie.  I just realized my niece's birthday was two weeks ago and the pink purse and gift card I bought for her are still sitting in the passenger seat of my car.  At work, I return every phone call, file everything on time and always meet deadlines.  Why is it so hard for me to do that in my personal life? 

Oh, I'm off to call the mortgage broker.  This new house thing is taking up space in my brain, and really let's face it:  I only have so much to go around.

My brother is not (that big of) an Asshole

I take back the mean stuff I said about my big brudder.  He's not an asshole.  He does, however, work for Homeland Security, which means he will be leaving for Louisiana for an indefinite amount of time. 

Stay safe, Shane the Pain.  I love you.  You have a girlfriend now, so don't do anything stupid and get yourself hurt. 

Biological Amnesia

When I started this blog, I meant for it to be about our next adoption.  A place for me to vent and discuss my feelings and the process.  I've found, however, that this blog incorporates an awful lot of Nicolas into it.  What am I?  An adoption blog?  A mommy blog?  An infertility blog? 

This time around, I don't have the same strange feelings as I did when I was going through ART and struggling with the decision to adopt.  I feel good, this feels right.  I don't have the conflicting emotions or the grieving.  In short, I have nothing to blog about.

When we were struggling to get through the infertility and ultimately making the decision to adopt, I hated reading mommy blogs, even if the women were recovering infertiles.  I would read a few paragraphs and think, "well, this is nothing more than an insane woman talking about her kid!  What a mean bitch." 

Biological Amnesia.  It's what happens when you have a babe after infertility.  It happens to fertile people too, but in a much milder form.  Fertiles forget the pain of childbirth. Infertiles forget the pain of laps, shots and a two-week wait.  Can adoptive moms get biological amnesia?  I don't know.  It still hurts when I see pregnant women.  To this day, I cannot see/touch/hold a newborn, because I know I will never parent a child that young. 

But with this blog, I think in a way, I have been guilty of having biological amnesia.  I forget that not everyone wants to hear about everything brilliant that Nicolas does, but those in the trenches still fear they might not have that. 

Infertility permanently robs infertiles of something primal.  It takes from you the certainty that is life.  Reproduction is essential for the species.  It is basic.  It is instinct.  Something of which we will never be a part.

Yes, infertiles can have families.  We can adopt or foster.  We can be "normal" to the extent we can have clothe our children and play in park together and have family gatherings.  But, there is part of us that will always grieve our abnormality -- infertility.  The Biblical curse of a wicked woman, a sign from mother nature, however people want to rationalize it.  We were not chosen. 

My brother is Diabetic and has been since he was eight.  My father went through a long process of grief and overcompensation for my brother's illness.  What was there to grieve?  My brother was alive and well, he just needed to take shots everyday for the rest of his life.  The grief was for he loss of a perfect child. Grief for the abnormality. 

Yes, I may get a temporary reprieve from the memory of infertility with the little joys that come in a package named Nicolas, but there will always be a part of me still in the trenches.

I will say this:  what I gained in adoption was far, far better than anything infertility ever took from me.  If that's the adoptive equivalent of biological amnesia, then I'm guilty of it, too. 

Never a Bride[smaid]

First off, a small tribute to strong women.  While I was in law school no less than three of my female classmates went through divorces.  Divorce is tough when you've got nothing else going on.  Getting divorced in law school is REALLY tough.  Not necessarily because law school is inherently harder than any other graduate program, but because your grade for a entire semester's worth of work must be squeezed out onto paper in a grueling two-week course of four-hour exams.  The stress is enormous.  Add a couple of cranky kids and a spouse bent on revenge and it's a recipe for failure.

Two of my classmate's divorces were particularly acrimonious.  And when I say acrimonious I mean like private investigators following people around (remind me to tell you that story some time, v. funny); and telephone conversations being recorded illegally; and people's garbage being ransacked.  There were times I questioned whether either of them would make it through.  I'm proud to report both women have made it through a little worse for the wear, but with their children safely at their sides. 

One of these friends called me today to tell me about her vacation with her boyfriend and children.  She's getting married!  And I'm the maid of honor! 

I'm really proud of this woman.  She emerged triumphant from an extremely abusive situation.  She can finally celebrate her upcoming marriage and future life. 

Now, onto some stuff about me.  I've only ever been a bridesmaid once when my sister got married.  I was only 16.  It kinda sucked.  I was young, the dress was horrific, and my sister and I didn't really like each other.  I'm excited to be the maid (I guess technically, I'm a Matron, since I'm old and married and not exactly a virgin) of honor. 

I've been in a lot of weddings, but usually as the guest book signor-upper or the program hander-outer or the punch bowl watcher-over.  What am I supposed to do here?  Do I have any real responsibilities or anything?  Aside, of course, from the 30 or so pounds I will be losing in anticipation of the blessed event. 

My, What a Fine Big Cheese I've made for the King

I have both the curse and privilege of being number three in a family of four children.  We grew up in the country, far from the luxuries of city life.  One of the luxuries we did without was television.  We actually physically owned a television set, but it didn't get any reception because we lived so far out in the boondocks.  Every once in a great while, we would get lucky and get Public Broadcasting, but only in French.  Back then, only rich people had satellite dishes.  We weren't one of them.

In order to pass the time, my father invested in a small Fisher-Price record player and several hundred children's records.  One of my fondest childhood memories is all of us sitting around in the evening listening to one record that played a story of a peasant farmer.  The farmer tried so hard to make a fine, big cheese for his king.  After his cheese masterpiece was complete, he put the cheese in wheel barrow (I don't know if it was actually a wheelbarrow, this is just how I imagined it as a five-year old) and took the cheese on a journey to visit the king.  Throughout the journey, the farmer proudly states, "my, what a fine big cheese I've made for the king." 

Along the farmer's journey, he encounters several impoverished mice or individuals otherwise in need.  The people he encountered say, "my what a fine big cheese you've made for the king" and proceeds to take a bite of the cheese.  The farmer graciously offers bites of his cheese because he is proud of his masterpiece and is eager to help those in need.  When the farmer finally reaches the king to pay his homage -- lo and behold -- the cheese has been completely eaten by the other people the farmer encountered on his journey to the king. 

Some days, I feel like the farmer.  And I don't think I'm alone.  I suspect most working mothers feel as though each little piece of what they have to offer the world is offered graciously, but slowly, they realize they've nothing left for themselves. 

For the next several days, I have business in another state and will be away from Nicolas.  When I return, I'm quite sure that he will have done something brilliant or reach an important milestone, and I will have missed it.  That is my cheese, my time with Nicolas.  I am selfish that way -- I just don't want to miss anything.

When I get back from this trip, my cheese better be all in my wheel barrow, or some heads are gonna roll!

31, going on 13

I recently had a birthday.  In celebration, let's recap my recent birthdays in descending order:

Birthday number 30:  In Colombia picking up babe.  Generally speaking, a pretty big birthday.  Most people like to make a big to-do about this birthday.  Mine, notsomuch.  I spent the day in an airplane.  The hubby is completely non-romantic.  Usually, his mother wraps a gift for me and puts his name on the card and hands it to him and says, "give this to your wife."  Since B's mother wasn't in Colombia with us, I don't even think he realized my birthday came and went last year. 

Birthday number 29:  For some, this is a pretty big year.  For me, I spent the day TAKING THE BAR EXAM.  Yes, the bar.  Not one of my favorite birthdays.  Would much rather forget that one.  I did, however, get very, very drunk two days later. 

Birthday number 25:  Broke up with old boyfriend before dating current hubby.  It's true, I broke up with somebody on my birthday.  It was not pretty.  There was a large alcohol-consuming session in which I attempted to forget previous boyfriend. 

Birthday number 21:  Was working for icky boss.  Could not go out and properly celebrate because there was an early photo shoot the next day.  Wound up throwing up in the darkroom sink.  In hindsight, I'm kinda glad I did that. 

Birthdays 14-17:  Spent birthdays being a debate nerd at debate camp.  I know what you're thinking and yes, there is actually a camp for people who spend their free time cutting sentences out of academic journals and pasting them onto pieces of paper.  Good times. 

All-in-all, my birthdays have been a tad on the dull side.  No big parties, no big celebrations.  Not that I mind.  I feel weird when people spend lots of energy on me.  Some friends of mine threw me a baby shower for Nicolas and I just felt so, so weird taking presents from people.  Whenever I see anyone from the shower, I always have to mention whatever gift they gave and gush over it.  I have this weird Norwegian guilt thing -- and I'm not Norwegian.  Go figure. 

Hi-ho, H-i-ho, It's off to Work I Go

This afternoon I received a call from a headhunter in a large city a few hours away.  At first I was all, "no, no, I don't want to work for your snarky firm."  But, then, she mentioned the starting salary.  It was a lot more than I make now.  And, they have adoption assistance!!!

I'm seriously considering it.  Taking a different job would mean stress and it would mean moving, which means even more stress.  There are definite pros:  more money, more benefits, adoption assistance, bigger city.  There are definite cons:  no family in the area and moving.  There other big con is that I don't know the firm that well and I don't know what it would be like to work there.  Plus, I would have to bring in a certain quota of clients every year, and that part really scares me. 

Tonight, I'm going to talk to B very seriously about considering this new job.  If I took this job, it would mean that B could stay home with Nicolas.  No daycare bill, which is a big plus.  At this point, I'm willing to at least do the interview and see what the group has to offer. 

When I accepted my current position, I was debating between this job and another I had been offered.  When asked about how I would decide between firms, I said, "whoever has the nicest associate office."  Well, we all know how that worked out, don't we?

Why My Dad Is The Best Dad Ever

I know nearly every girl thinks their Daddy is the Best Daddy Ever, but I have to take a moment to brag about my father.  My Dad raised four kids on a civil servant's salary, by himself.  We were always well-dressed, well-fed and well-adjusted.  We all went to college, something I suspect my father pulled off by serious financial sacrifice. 

By most accounts, my siblings and I are moderately  successful in our careers and lives.  We've had our troubles, and managed to weather them.  We are happy.

Last night, my father came to visit our little family.  He had driven five hours (one way) to take an ill cousin to a specialist in our city.  We had a visit (or a "wizit" as the old Germans would say) and then Dad took us out to supper.  During that time, he was continually amazed at Nicolas.  My Dad would suddenly proclaim, "he's so smart!" or "he's so handsome!"  I know every grandpa is obliged to adore their grandchildren, but my Dad is really sincere when he compliments people.  Nicolas did, of course, do his best to show just how smart and talented he really was by using lots of sign language and looking his very cutest. 

At the conclusion of our little tete-a-tete, my Dad gave Nicolas some hugs and kisses.  Then he turned to me and said, "I think the family tree has been greatly improved with the addition of Nicolas."  This comment may sound strange to some people, but it was really touching.  I think in his own secular and non-sentimental way, my Dad was saying, "I love the way this has all turned out." 

For my Dad, watching B and I struggle through the loss and struggle of infertility was hard.  No parent wants their child to suffer.  There were times my Dad hinted that he didn't think adoption was the right thing for us to do.  He thought there were too many "what-ifs" and too many unknown complications.  Last night, when my Dad smiled in amazement at Nicolas, what he was really saying was, "I was wrong, this is better than I ever expected." 

My Dad is the Best Dad Ever, because of all he did, and also because of the man that he is.  Unafraid to say, "I was wrong."  Unafraid to to grow.  Ready to embrace the new.  I love my Daddy. 

Back in the saddle

I'm back. 

The last three days were a grueling test of my tolerance for boring legal crap.  I survived, which is a good thing.  Of course, I'm in the office on a beautiful Saturday afternoon combing through three days worth of correspondence, emails and telephone messages.  That pretty much sucks. 

Our house closed on Friday.  There were a few glitches four hours before closing, but I pulled a serious bitch-tude with the buyers and they backed down.  Does that make me an asshole with a law degree?  Probably.  Should I be ashamed for threatening them with breach of contract?  I'm not.  I hate it when people pull petty stuff right before settling a deal just to squeeze one last drop of green from the other side. 

Homie don't play that. 

Good news, Bad news

What do you want first?  The good news or the bad news? 

Bad news?  Okay.  I'm still swamped at work.  I am most assuredly a morning person, which means I wake up at 3:30am and get to work at about 4:30am.  I work like crazy until the other lazy asses drag into work at around 8:30am.  Just kidding, the staff here isn't lazy; they work very hard.

Around 2pm, I start losing steam.  My brain wanders, and I KNOW I look like hell, mostly because people tell me I look like hell.  Sometimes I run errands outside of the office and that helps.  Of course, by 5pm I look as though I'm about three hours this side of death.  At 5pm, I want to go home. 

Unfortunately, I can't go home at 5pm.  The partners are still here, which means if I'm not here, they notice.  And so I sit, typing furiously as though I'm working on a motion or researching.  The truth is that I'm blogging or writing comments.  Neat trick, huh?   Sometimes, I pay bills or write cards.

I keep up the little charade until it is considered acceptable for me to depart, usually around 6pm.  Of course, there are no partners in the office at 5pm, I'm outta here like a rat on a sinking ship. 

Oh, and there's more bad news.  I'll be out of town for the next three days.  Hope to have many funny stories when I return.  In the mean time, talk amongst yourselves.  I'm looking forward to sitting down with a nice cup of coffee and reading everyone's updates.  Hopefully, copious amounts of alcohol will be involved, so then it will be REALLY funny.  I'm thinking, Kahlua

The good news:  my mother's leaving today and we're going to be closing on our house soon, which means we won't be poor any more.  Yee-haw.

Boys vs. Girls

This post by Cecily and this post by Julie really have me thinking this weekend.

Back in my raging feminist days when I had the luxury of being idealistic, I really believed boys were conditioned to be boys and girls were conditioned to be girls.  I believed society hoisted upon us artificial constructs of what it meant to be feminine and what it meant to masculine. 

To some extent, I still believe this.  I think there are certain traits artificially assigned to each gender by society.  However, my very young child is teaching me that my previous abstract notions of gender identity were a tad -- well, misdirected. 

At night, we allow Nicolas to use the pacifier just to get to sleep.  After he's asleep, we take it out and put it on the night stand for use the next night.  Last night, during his pre-bed rituals, Nicolas walked into our bedroom where I was perched on the bed. 

The next event is what has me worried.  At first, Nicolas was rather innocently sucking on his pacifier.  While staring straight at me, he ripped the pacifier out of his mouth, and proceeded to expel the most massive BELCH I've ever heard, especially from such a little bod.  Then, the little man-child tilted his head back and laughed a glorious (and somewhat disturbing) laugh.  It was as if his latest accomplishment were worthy of an appearance on the Man Show.  He then effortlessly placed the pacifier back into his mouth and exited the room. 

Perhaps we are hard-wired to have certain proclivities and that's okay. But what bothers me is that the current social climate does not allow for any freedom from that perceived norm.  Women who refuse to live by the feminine ideal are perceived to be non-maternal, selfish, or (gasp) butch.  Men who refuse to live the masculine ideal are irresponsible,  feminine and unnatural.  (BTW, I really hate it when the term "unnatural" is used to describe homo*sexuality, because it happens in nature all the time.) 

I still think society to a large degree artificially propagates an environment in which we are expected to perform according to our gender.  While some of what we do may indeed be driven by brain and/or body chemistry, the real tragedy is that society will not allow us to escape those roles without punishment.

Part of the beauty of being an adoptive family is the growth one experiences throughout the process.  You learn that not everything fits neatly and cleanly into a pre-packaged life.  You grow, you adapt, you learn to celebrate the curve balls.

Society at large can learn from this, too.  People cannot be expected to come neatly pre-packaged into pretty little matched sets.  Each difference is distinct and worthy of notation.

Crazy, Like a Hairy Red Fox

I recently ran across the website of a dear friend from waaaay back.  We're talking all the way back to the nether regions of my memory -- high school.  On his website he listed his totem, the common brown mouse.  I should probably explain the totem thing. 

I am a total nerd, but with, like, better hair.  In high school -- total nerd.  For Christ's sake, I was on the debate team, people!  All four years.  I lived, breathed, slept for debate.  I even went to debate camp.  Yes, don't look at me like that, there really is such a thing as a summer vacation for three weeks where debate nerds go to meet other debate nerds.  I was one of those people.  Like I said, though, I had much better hair. 

When you are a debate nerd, you tend to form your own, unique subculture of nerd-type people.   Ironically, I would compare the subculture of debate to that of the infertiles.  For instance, we have names for each other that are unique to our infertile identities.  We share things about our cooters and we don't really know each other.  How many other people know what "2WW," "AF," "dpo" and "BFN" mean?  We do.   

Back in the day, when I was still debating, we did similar subcultural identity type-things.  We had pet names for each other; we had special sessions we called "van talk"; we had stupid names for judges we hated.  You get the picture.  Nerds of a feather flock together. 

Part of the debate subculture involved the eventual assigning of a totem to a person.  My friend, Jeff, was the common brown mouse.  Jeff is a quirky guy, who is also brilliant.  He's a mouse because he's small like a mouse; he's cluttered, like a mouse; he's squeaky, like a mouse.  And actually, he does sort of physically resemble a mouse.  In a good way. 

It took me several years to figure out my totem.  You see, you don't just get to pick your totem, your teammates have to help with the choosing of the totem.  It's a debate nerd right of passage.  My totem is the red fox.  Not because I have red hair, though, which I don't. 

Similarities between the red fox and myself include:  being indigenous to the prairies  of the United States; cleverness; craftiness; and preference for living in small family units.  I haven't checked to see if the red fox has fertility issues, but I'll get back to you.  The previously listed items are generally considered to be the good things about the fox and myself.  However, I didn't get the totem because of the good things. 

I got the totem because of the bad things.  Red fox are famous for being a bit on the wacko side.  They are also scavengers.  When I was riding in the van with the rest of the debate-nerds and we were musing on about what should be my totem, somebody mentioned the red fox.  My debate coach immediately turned to me and said, "yes!  It's perfect, because sometimes, you're just really kind of crazy." 

One of the most interesting aspects of fox behavior is that they are unafraid to take down prey that is much larger than they are.  Today, I had a motion hearing that terrified me.  I didn't sleep last night and have been fretting over the motion for several weeks.  This morning I found out that I won the motion, despite the significant expertise and skill of opposing counsel. 

Chalk one up for being crazy, like a fox. 

On being wrong -- and PMS

You know how in this post I was all worried about Nicolas being too busy to sit through the adoption seminar?  Well, I'm not too ashamed to admit I was seriously wrong.  Really, really wrong.  He stole the show.

At the adoption seminar, Nicolas huddled quite close to me for the first few minutes.  And then, a light bulb suddenly went off, and it was like all the room was a stage.  Nicolas was charming and funny and perfect.  I'm telling you, this kid is destined for something. 

I used to think girls and boys were socially programmed to be certain ways.  That, if left to our own devices, girls would be perfectly happy to play with trucks and boy would be perfectly happy to play with dolls.  Wrong, again.  Nicolas would much rather bang the doll against a drum or otherwise be generally loud.  He has no interest in holding the doll or feeding the doll. 

At the seminar, this gender distinction really struck me.  Nicolas loves the ladies.  When we are around other women, Nicolas becomes a 14-month old Don Juan.  I'm not kidding, it's very disconcerting.  At first, he plays hard to get.  Then, he catches their eyes and he makes a shy smile.  Next, he strikes up a little convo, you know, quotes from Elmo and such, just to show them what an intellectual he is.  Finally, he might actually walk up to them and offer them a bit of his cookie -- and the seduction is complete. 

All the parents thought he was great and one of the fathers, in particular, seemed to enjoy his antics. 

At the time we were going through the first set of treatments, infertility seemed so unfair.  I was working around a woman who was mighty proud of her pregnancy and not afraid to tell me EVERYTHING I was doing wrong and that ifIcouldjustbemorelikeher, thenIwouldgetpregnant.  Stupid bitch.  But, I digress. 

When we received the information on Nicolas, we moved cautiously into the adoption process.  Although nothing will erase the pain of infertility from life, I'm feeling quite superior these days.  Nicolas is just so . . . perfect.  He's funny and good-natured.  He eats, sleeps and even poops on schedule.  Nicolas is quite possibly as close as one gets in baby-perfection. 

Why does this worry me?  Because even if B and I are able to conceive and have a biological child, that child will NEVER be as perfect as Nicolas.  A biological child will have to contend with my genes that include, but are not limited to the following:  premature gray hair, infertility, diabetes, cancer, heart problems, thyroid problems, pasty-white-looks-like-I've-been-dead-for-three-days-skin, and that gene that made my Aunt Gert go bonkers.  My husband's list of genetic traits include, but are not limited to the following:  deafness, cancer, high blood pressure and bad housekeeping (okay, I don't really know if this is exactly genetic, but from the state of MIL's house, I think it could be.) 

I mean, for fuck's sake, talk about being behind the eight ball. 

So Scary!

I have finally jumped on the blog bandwagon. 

The truth is that I should have done it two years ago, when all this infertility craziness started.  The big question: why did I wait?  I can't really say why.  I guess if I knew why, I would have addressed the issue and started the damn blog a long time ago. 

After years of infertility, my husband and I adopted a son from Colombia in July 2004.  By that time, I was already addicted to blogs of the infertiles willing to put themselves out there in all their infertilite nakedness.  I think I didn't blog about the adoption because I was still so hurt by infertility.  Perhaps blogging about a potential adoption would have been a concrete acknowledgement that biology was not on our side.

Well, since I got that outta my system, I should address the reason why I'm starting this blog now.    We're starting another adoption.  (insert small cheer here.)  We are again adopting from Colombia.  This time, I have no fears. 

Screw biology.  I embrace this journey and look forward to all it brings with it.