With less than 24 hours to go before we fly out of Seattle, we officially have the jitters. Actually, we've had them for a few days. There are just so many details to fret about, upon which we must decide or undecide. There is the traveling, and all of the things that could or could not go wrong, depending on how we prepare or fail to prepare. And then there is the nearly inconceivable event of meeting our son and executing an adoption in a foreign country. Will this be a dream trip or a something less than dreamy? We simply don't know. There are seemingly an infinite number of details we cannot predict and over which we have no control.
Control. It is the lack of control above all that is the most distressing, of course. It is such a convenient and seductive illusion. We almost never think to question our possession of self-control, especially in a democratic, free-market, free-speech society. As Americans, we consider self determination a divinely imparted right. Just ask George W. Bush. He'll tell you all about it. But when we step out of our comfort zone of consumer culture and into the dicey realms of love, marriage, children, and family, it becomes painfully obvious that control is something one hopes to maintain over one's bladder. And even that is short-lived, at best.
As I was putting Greta to sleep tonight, she was singing some song with the word "anxious" in it. I have no idea what it was, but it went on and on. I wasn't paying much attention, as I was just wanting her to go to sleep, finally, so that I could re-focus on packing and crossing every last thing off of my several lists. She paused in her song for moment and asked, "What does anxious mean?"
"It means excited and sometimes it means nervous or worried," I told her.
"You and Mommy are anxious," she said with what seemed like obvious satisfaction.
Big sister's got that right.