Thank you, everyone who commented on that last postlette; I am less panicky now, but our situation is the same. If Mr. Book receives some kind of excellent job offer in the next two weeks, we stay—if not, two weeks later we will beat feet to the Southland. At this point, I am preparing for the move and the Mister is hoping that we don’t have to make it.
Ruth wrote back very quickly after I told her that we were planning a move, which I greatly appreciate. She says that it seems quite unlikely that we’ll see them before the move, but that they should be able to come to us once a year—that in fact she and Nora had been talking about only visiting once a year anyway, so this might not make a difference. It’s an odd feeling, to be reassured in such an unreassuring way. Still, it was nice to hear that they’re still planning to follow our agreement (which calls for them to travel to us once a year for a visit). And since we saw them twice last year (and it looks like the same this year), I suppose once isn’t so much less than that.
I dislike the idea that the birth family is supposed to “move on” a year or two after placement; to me, it goes along with an assumption that they will stop thinking of the placed child as family and that the adoption will quietly close (or go semi-open, just in case someone needs medical information or similar). And yet we are doing some of the things that I think look like hallmarks of moving on; we had and are parenting another child, and now we’re moving away. We’re not moving on, if you wondered—we still think about Cricket every day, we still wish he was with us. And I feel pretty guilty about moving away from him.
Tuesday afternoon, I had my first panic attack in a long while. I hate not knowing what’s going to happen. I told this to Mr. Book, and he said that we more or less know—sure, there could come some bolt from the blue, but barring a minor miracle we will be in my Homeland a month from now. In the meantime, I’m jumpy and nervous, and it’s affecting the baby’s sleep. It’s also weird to have Mr. Book around during the day—good, don’t get me wrong, but a bit odd. I find myself narrating my routine in a awfully self-conscious way. “Well, uh, this is when I soak the diapers, so I’m, uh, I’m just going to, uh. . . .”