I have a mostly finished adoption post—which is to say that I wrote it out longhand and now must transcribe and tinker with it—and that should be done in a day or two, but I find myself missing the blog in the meantime.
Things are hard, still, and oddly busy. A few days after Mr. Book arrived in California, so did my sisters; my parents had their thirtieth anniversary, and we got together to cook for them and talk about old times. Yesterday we went to Disneyland—I hadn’t expected to have the Snerkleberry’s first trip so soon, but he was enchanted by the Tiki Room.
Settling into someone else’s house is harder than I expected it to be. Stupid of me not to have realized, I suppose, but it’s not as though I haven’t lived here with my parents before. The Mister, however, has not. Let me tell you, there’s nothing to get you thinking about family cultures like suddenly being dropped into a new one. Joey, happily, seems to have made the adjustment—his sleep is back to normal, mostly, and he’s chasing the cats at a brisk crawl. I’m cooking for a crowd, now, which I like, and my grocery budget has gone through the roof (which I really like). Mr. Book is looking for work and feeling like an intruder.
I lived here when I placed Cricket, and I don’t know whether that’s a reason for it, but I keep thinking about him here; I imagine Joey showing him around in a couple of years, or him turning up his nose at dinner here, or Cricket being interested in the pool. He’s the perfect age for a visit to Disneyland, but his parents are pretty anti-Disneyland: alas. I’m feeding a peach to Joey and wondering whether Cricket likes peaches; I’m planning dinners for the week and wondering whether Cricket would like them; I’m looking around and wondering whether Cricket will like us. He’s much on my mind.