I've been spending alot of time on You Tube, looking for fave videos and songs while waiting for the none too timely arrival of Mr. Misho. Expect to see some crazy posts in the ensuing three weeks before departure. Many postings will come late at night.
OCTOBER 2ND - Mom's birthday, and the launch of our official pick up date of Mr. M. We finalized the travel itinerary today with a departure of September 26th, two nights in Dubai (at a hotel next to a camel racing track - yes I said camel), arrival in Addis on September 29th, lolly gag around Addis, and then torpedo into the care center on October 2nd - actually the 3rd, but it's Mom's birthday, so we're calling it the 2nd.
We'll be flying the Emirate skies which supposedly is the closest thing to nirvana you will ever have. Supposedly, it makes Singapore Air look like Aeroflot. Here is the video for the first class lounge services, in aire, in the new Airbus 380 (though, we would have to sell an organ to fly first class, so no, we're not). I truly believe they recruited an ex porn movie director. The lingering glances and the weird bar loitering cannot be ignored.
Alright kids. Here's the Mono-tage of the best baby shower in the universe. I tried to keep my knees glued together during the present opening segment, but I may have shot out a crotch peek inadvertantly. So apologies to the weak of heart.
We got the birth certificate!!!! And with it, this beautiful photo of our stunned little guy! It's clearly a "what the..?" kind of moment. We don't have a travel date, which is pissing me off to no end. Everyone on the forum who has received their birth certificate got a travel date...except us. Friggin frack. Not getting much detailed response from our social worker except that they're finalizing the travel groups. Finalizing for everyone but us!
A big woo bowl of love and gratitude to everyone who came to the best baby shower in the universe thrown by my loving and sexy friends; Katherine and Robbyn! Crazy candid photos to come soon.
People were wonderfully ill behaved in a variety of inappropriate and sick ways. Plastic babies were encased in ice! Profanity flew around the room! Cats were chased by heat seeking toddlers! The Mom and Pop to-be didn't pass out but could have if there had been yet one more bottle of wine. And yes, there was even scrapbooking. Now, for those of you who know me, I'm not a scrapbook kind of gal, yet even I melted when viewing the party guest-generated keepsake that will track all of Misho's numerous and record breaking accomplishments.
I'm talkin to you Phelps! (No pressure Misho).
And thanks to everyone who continues to shower us with gifts and goodies! Its like having a secret santa on your doorstep each day.
So here are the latest baby gear stats since I know your all wanting to know my latest product picks:
The closet is almost full. The crib and changing table are here. We painted the room this weekend. The dogs lovingly rubbed their tails in it. We had a brief color snafu where we almost ended up with "bleak Russian-orphanage blue" (yes, its a color) on the walls. But luckily, the hue died down a bit (probably in response to my mom-zilla tantrum about not wanting "friggin cliche baby blue!!!") and the result is serene, soothing, and satisfying.
I think we've picked out the stroller. Well, at least we've eyeballed it. Still haven't tried it out to see if it (readers, you know where I'm going with this) collapses (refer to earlier entry about bastard stroller that tried to kill me). We'll see how this goes. I may end up carrying Misho around until he's 16.
David trying to be "coy" (well, that's what he said) and me with my underwear peeking out of the back of my pants (just trying to start up a rap career people).
Like for Godot...we wait. It sort of feels like someone is holding my child for ransom. Ethiopia thinks we're his parents, we think we're his parents, I'm 100% sure our dogs think we're his parents (they've sniffed the onsies; they know something is up), and frankly, I think Misho on a subconscious level is hip to the gig (whatever that means).
And yet. We wait.
If Godot shows up instead, I'll be pissed.
And by the way, the photo up above is to find out if my husband is actually reading this blog. Duddie? (And yes, that is David, sitting in a tub, at the Bellagio in Las Vegas)
Shelby (aka Misho's mom - in case the universe didn't hear it clearly the first time.)
Well as you can all see, the wait for birth certificate and travel date continues. The silence is deafening. At times, I emit an almost Zen-like patience that the Dali Lama would envy. This lasts for about three and half minutes normally during Project Runway (which I'm none too happy with this season I must say) or a frenzied flamenco class during a tornado, and then its back to the basic level of fret. Not so much fret, but irritated impatience. I sort of understand the bureaucratic reasoning behind the wait, but then I fear the gnomes and what sort of shenanigans they could inject into this process if it goes on too long (see a the Bad Day entry of August 1 for context).
Please gnomes, stay far far away from our son. Find other ways to channel your anger and thoughts of revenge. We'll pay you off, in some sort of gnome-accepted currency; small shiny objects, gingerbread condos, and/or of course, liquor.
Yes. You could say...I'm praying to the gnomes. Its possible. And bound to get worse as the wait continues.
In the meantime, my friends are helping me pass the time by turning one of the only two photos we have a Misho into truly high art.
If you are questioning my current mental state, you have every reason to do so. We're hanging by a thread here people.
We got new stats! Misho has gained a pound and grown a centimeter. He's clocking in at a little over 10 pounds, a little over 55 centimeters long.
Misho is a healthy mammoth boy who will continue to expand in girth, pride, and pleasure!
This is my visualization to assist my young man in catching up from his tiny origins. Not that he will ever or should get that big (unless sumo wrestling is truly in his heart, and then who am I to say?), but it just might give the universe the necessary force to move him in the right, well-fed direction!
Home again. In case any of my lovely friends from Texas catch wind of my blog entries below, please know that I do heart the people of Texas. You're a lovely kind folk that provided me with enormous amounts of food, clear directions in the airport, and a fine drink at the end of the day.
I write to you from the bar at the Wingate Inn in Round Rock, Texas. And as if I really needed to mention it based on that first sentence: I'm having a bad day.
Now, I'm not talking about your run of the mill, things were kind of sucky, every stoplight turned red, and my hair was frizzy kind of bad day. And nor, am I talking about a day where a loved one died, 100,000 people were displaced due to border fighting, or I just found out my dog has an incurable disease kind of bad day (puh, puh, puh). This was a day where it truly appeared that the universe had used its intelligence to design chaos, line up every sort of obstacle, reserve every type of irritant, and set up events that could cause light injury to fall in my cluttered path.
This is the type of day I blame on gnomes.
That's right; gnomes. Not your garden variety gnomes that frequent English gardens or come from that crazy ass book from the 70s - (will insert link to this weirdness later). These are gnomes who went bad, smell bad, invented bad. Gnomes who's primarily goal is to disrupt the lives of the innocent, because...well....for gnomes; its fun. The gnome assigned to me is named Frothington Wurlygurt, and somewhere at some place in time I did something to him. And he saved his revenge for today. August 1, 2008.
Here's the quick and dirty; I woke up bloated (dont' laugh, it sucks). I tripped in public and possibly (no actually) exposed a boob. After the boob exposure, I suffered a deep oh so deep papercut under my pinky fingernail that bled on a small (not mine) dog at the vet. The owner then asked for an HIV test.
The taxi I reserved for my trip to the airport was 45 minutes late due to a flat tire, almost hitting someone, and a moving van almost hitting it. The said taxi almost drove off with my luggage in the trunk when I was basically flung out of the car at the airport. (Now don't forget to register the obvious subtext here - this is the real reason for the very bad day) I learned that families going through court in our timeframe, will most likely not travel to Ethiopia to pick up their lovely children till October. FRIGGIN OCTOBER??!!!!
I got to the airport, and it was filled to the outermost brim with pulsating masses of sweaty inexperienced travelers with gaping mouths (not that there is anything wrong with that). I thought I would be smart and check in with only carry on luggage. (FRIGGIN OCTOBER!???) 30 minutes into the security line, I realize that I am carrying thousands of gallons of liquid in my large carry on that will never, (unless the gnome went to lunch) make its way through security. I wiggle my way in reverse through the security line and through some fluke, rub my hand up against some girl's butt crack. Its too complicated to write it out here and I wouldn't have believed it unless it happened to me, but the crack was big and I was at a very unfortunate angle. (FRIGGIN OCTOBER!!!)
I then proceed to wait in the wrong line, receive conflicting information about where to go, and end up in another terminal because for some reason, mine was the only United flight to gate in the non-United terminal that is conveniently located a mile or two away. I buy a sandwich, walk to my gate and realize that I forgot packaged mustard. (I have to wait to touch my son until FRIGGIN OCTOBER?!!) I irritate the papercut by applying anti-bacterial gel to cleanse my diseased hands (refer back to buttcrack incident). While I'm eating my dry sandwich, I witness and then become almost victim to a nutter-butter airline employee going postal. And I mean batass crazy postal. She emerges from some sort of staircase throwing her open water bottle into the air (missed my head by an inch), kicking chairs, and threatening to take the plane down. Someone named "the queen" has pissed her off, and she isn't taking another bleep bleeping inch of it. And, despite security guards staring, no...one...does...anything. She leaves through some tiny door in the wall that looked like it was connected to my plane with threats of sabotage. But hey, at least we're safe, since my gallons of liquid from earlier didn't make it through.
There's a load of other gnome-generated shenanigans, but alas, the nightlife of rural Texas calls. In short, the plane ride ended in a nose dive. A very abrupt descent into the Austin airport that caused the flight attendent to swear, and vomit in her mouth (or so it seemed). Never a good sign. Nor is it a good sign when it is obvious that the back of the plane is at a much higher angle than the front. You should never be able to detect geometry in a commercial aircraft.
How is the day ending you may ask? I repeat: I'm sitting in a bar at the Wingate Inn in Round Rock, Texas.
David and I live in the big cold blast known as Chicago. We have two delightful doozers, Daisy and Ulysses. David is one of those lawyerly types, and I muddle around in the non-profit world. We are in the process of bringing home a delightful baby boy named Misho. Welcome to the Big Woo!