My knee-length, frayed-edge, denim skirt just doesn’t seem to be the appropriate clothing for what I am about to do. It’s a little too modern. As is the cap-sleeved T-shirt I am wearing. For what I am about to do I think I need to wear something a little more retro — nay, even traditional. As I am preparing myself mentally to embark on this cultural experience of years gone by, I feel the need for the clothing. You know, so that I can make the experience complete.
Though a dress, high heels, and a strand of pearls might suffice as well, really. And honestly, while I’m mentally in that era, the quiet, black-and-white children would be nice, too. At least for the afternoon. At least as long as I’m doing what must be done. It would make it so much easier.
What next? Out houses? Oil lamps? A dead pig hanging from the tree, waiting to be butchered? (I have told you all about the coloring book the Sperm Donor — aka father-in-law — sent my oldest daughter when she was three, right? One of the pictures to be colored was a dead pig, guts spilling everywhere, hanging from a tree.) A cow to milk? Telephones with cords? Televisions with no remotes? Only one car in the driveway and a whole chicken in the pot? Washing our clothes in a stream? Curling our hair with big, hard, plastic rollers? Poodle skirts and bobby socks? Playing a fiddle by the campfire while the livestock quietly munches and the gentle breeze swishes the tree branches from the nearby forest?
I guess I can put it off no longer. I must go wash the dishes. BY HAND.
I don’t think I even have the necessary equipment for that.
And George, if you’re out there, Tewt the Newt says he needs the name of a good dishwasher repair person.
*And yes, I have spoken with our adoption coordinator who just this week returned to the office after a trip to Vietnam, and no, we still don’t have a referral. Yes, we are still waiting on one more document to be signed. I’m going batty, but I know I’m not alone. So, to the rest of you, no matter how far along you are in your own adoption process, who are also going batty or just feeling numb, I send a great big virtual hug.
** The job is done. A~ and my nephew I~ (like you can’t guess his name) helped me, and I thought, “Hey, child labor! I’m diggin’ it!” Seriously though, we actually had fun. I’m thinking I’ll go buy a, what do you call it? dish drainer? instead of a new dishwasher, and the kids and I can do dishes together every day. We’ll see how long that idea seems like a good one.