I will be leaving in 2 weeks to bring home our new daughter, Vivienne.
And I am scared.
She is 26 months old, 30 inches and 22 pounds. And she seriously scares me.
The truth is, I know enough to be scared. I know enough to be realistic. I know enough to be prepared.
Our second daughter, Sophie, was 27 months at adoption. And she was, and still is, one smart cookie. One very, very smart cookie. She might have just been a toddler, but she read me like a book from the word “go”.
Our other adopted kiddos were younger and much more delayed than Sophie. Less aware. Less able to peer right into my soul. Less able to chew me up and spit me out like the shell of a sunflower seed.
And I have a sneaking suspicion that our Vivi is much like Sophie. She’s been in a foster family. She’s been loved, she’s been attended to, she’s been part of a family. And I don’t think she’s going to like me coming in and breaking all that up. No, not one little bit.
I don’t think she’s going to like me to help her, feed her, dress her, carry her. But I have every intention of insisting on these things, as I fully believe they are the basis for understanding the difference between care-er and care-ee.
I’ve got two weeks in China to focus completely and totally on her. Little Bitty Miss Thing. And I plan to use every moment of that time to get off on the best foot possible. Even if that means making her really, really mad.
In light of the fact that she is, well… two, is leaving everything she knows, and has most likely been properly spoiled to death by her foster family, you might have an inkling as to why I’m scared.
Why I might not be sleeping so well at night…
wondering how our first meeting will go.
wondering if she’ll be able to see right through me.
wondering how long until she knows she’s got my number.
And I can hardly wait.