almost and not yet

Disoriented is now a funny word to me. It means that one is not centered, not right, not oriented. I am currently disoriented. I think that I might be oriented by February, perhaps even January, but in the meantime, I am not centered. I am at odds and am having trouble finding beginnings and endings.

How does one prepare to become the parent of a toddler with daily medical needs inside of 3 months? When will I be able to know what size colostomy bags to buy, and where might I be able to find them, and now that our insurance has changed, by the way, what measure of trust can I have in their dependability? I can't even get the dog hair vacuumed in the living room regularly, and we're out of trash bags, and tomorrow's lunch is looking suspiciously like catsup sandwich. What the heck do we think we're doing?

The questions are there, bidden or unbidden, teeming below the surface like a thousand toothed fishes watching, waiting. To stir the water is to unleash a mighty offensive, one that could easily devour everything down to the last stitch and stem. Is it any wonder that the past ten days have found me reeling to catch my balance and taking meds to counter the vertigo that has mysteriously materialized to plague my too-brief minutes? I am disoriented indeed.

And then come photos, new photos, of this brave little boy that is almost and not yet ours, struggling up the side of an inflated playground slide. He is loved, of that there is no doubt, perhaps spoiled--could nomenclature like "our little prince" be a clue from the foster home as to the fragility of our futures? So loved, so doted on, so willing to take risks, so smiling...

I cannot yet find in myself the rush of emotion when I look at him. I think, "Youyou," and yet simultaneously, I think of all that must be done, and there is a distance, as though I can talk about his sonship from only an academic standpoint. The exception is the other day, when I was leaving the house for school. I paused to look into his room, a room in waiting, a space in which there is only air and not breath, and I reached inside to touch the freshly painted wall. "Someday, he will try to describe the color of his bedroom," I thought, and then was the moment that I had a son and he was real, and as suddenly, the moment was gone and I had to run to teach the children of others.