Sitting at work on a rainy Wednesday morning.
The phone rings. It's a 410 area code (our adoption agency)!
{Breathe, Kath...breathe...this is it!}
"Journals, this is Kathleen." {I say, heart leaping out of my chest, breath ragged, trying to stay calm}
"Kathleen, this is M. (our caseworker)."
"Hello," I respond in a strangled kind of voice that even I don't recognize.
She must not either, because she immediately says, somewhat casually,
"Oh, no no, sorry...this is not 'the call.' Sorry to startle you like that."
{No problem at all; pardon me for a moment while I go curl up in the fetal position}*
So, no Matthew yet.
She was simply calling to tell me that Matthew was examined at the well-baby clinic on Monday,
and all is well. He is healthy and developmentally on track.
There are some minor issues to talk to the doctor about, but as my sister said to me last night, "Kath, no kid is perfect."
Hey, I have to have something to worry about, right?
He hasn't even hit U.S. soil yet and I love him (and am worrying about him) like he is already here.
Isn't love amazing?
*[giving credit where credit is due, my friend Kellie first used that fetal-position comment, when I was telling her this story, and I thought it was perfect!]
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