Well, in light of several friends' blogs I have recently had the privilege of reading, here's to mine! Several years ago at a reading conference, a wonderful (and insightful) New Zealand educator read some things I had written and told me I should take up journaling--who knew what could turn into a book? While I don't feel that this will go that direction, I agree with the journaling part of her suggestion--it's nice therapy, a great (and easy) way to keep those you love in the loop of your life and considering that I found a blog my mom had published for a few years before she died (keep in mind that I found the blog about a year AFTER she died), who knows of what importance my little old insights will be to someone someday? So, here's to blogging!
Nothing much to report for today except I still have the same darned crud I have had for a while now. My voice is a bit better, but being in the classroom all week has really put a hurt on the whole recovery process. John told me that I got the results of my immunity test and they said I had immunity. Gotta love military health care. DUH. The purpose of the tests was to see just how much immunity I had, not that I had ever had any. In any event, I think stress and the germ factory I work in, married to all my allergies and the Southern Maryland environment, really just makes me a never-ending URI.
Still leaning heavily toward Kyrgyzstan because the baby will be younger, but a couple of people have emailed me with information about the organization we are planning to go with and I am still sorting my feelings out. There are emails from both the pro and con camps, so I just pray that we make the right decision.
Enough rambling. Let's see who even pays attention... :)
I know I will be a reader of your blog. Looking forward to it. Thanks for including me. I have lived adoption and I know that I am meant to be the daughter to my parents. I don't have a memory of a time that I didn't know that I was adopted. I have always felt special, chosen and most importantly deeply and profoundly wanted.
ReplyDeleteA poem my mother had framed in my home when I was a child.
Not flesh of my flesh
Nor bone of my bone,
But still miraculously
My own.
Never forget
For a single minute:
You didn't grow under my heart
But in it.