Life is difficult, wouldn't you agree?
My husband surprised me last night. He had been out shopping for work. He hit the thrift stores. (A little background, Steven has always thought that it is a bad idea to purchase anything for our future children. A lot of this has to do with the losses we have experienced in the past, and it also seems to have something to do with his being raised Jewish (apparently Jewish tradition discourages getting anything for the baby before he or she is born). Last night, after a disheartening week, my husband walked in the door with these....
Yep, Giraffe kiddo chairs, complete with sippy cup holders, and a compartment to hold your books, or Goldfish, or toys, or mini-remote control. This item of hope, found at the Goodwill Store made me really happy. The night before we had had a long discussion about a new development in Ethiopian adoption. I don't want to go into it here on the blog too much, but in a nutshell, kids waiting for adoption will not be allowed to stay in agency care centers anymore until after they pass court. We were feeling sad and worried about this, and what it might mean for the kiddos. I was feeling discouraged and depleted, anxious and angry.
Somehow this chair purchasing, something that was completely out of character for my husband, eased my mind a bit. I pictured our two kids, side by side in their little chairs, sipping on sippy cups in our living room. I thought, "Oh this will be a good chair for them to sit in when I do their hair." I thought about all the places these little chairs could be perched; on the sidelines of a soccer match, at a Fourth of July celebration, on the pier at my parents' house, in the Habesha Garden. These chairs made me feel like it was going to be okay. The purchasing of them, in of itself, reveals a lessening of pain in my husband. It is hard to have hope for the future if the mind is full of grief from your recent past. These chairs, grubby and used, hinted to me that maybe Steven was a little bit excited about the adoption. There is a lightness in his act of purchasing them, a hopefulness in their sagging seats, a promise of a future in their tattered edges.
For a moment I glance at the chairs. The sun streams behind them. They are empty, but look eager for occupants. I think about my husband in the middle of his work day stopping in his tracks when he sees them. I picture him placing them gently into the back of his car. I think of him thinking about our future.
I think about him being hopeful, and it fills me up.
Fill Me Up - Shawn Colvin