We all know that an average pregnancy lasts for nine months.
We also know that in a total of eighteen months,
a woman can carry and give birth to two full-term babies.
Well, today is the eighteen month anniversary of the day we began our adoption process.
That means that I could have given birth to not one but two babies by today.
And yet our daughter is nowhere near close to being home.
When I wake up tomorrow,
I will officially have been waiting longer for Emily to come home
than I did for both Hollyn and Libby combined.
Oh, how I long for her.
It's funny the words we say
and how we never ever think about how they will affect the people around us.
I remember countless times when I was pregnant that I verbally wished for my pregnancies to end, for my daughter to just be here already, because nine whole months of waiting was such a long time.
And it did feel like a long time, especially with Hollyn,
whose pregnancy was discovered within days.
I've heard several women say these words in the past few weeks,
completely unaware of the wait I am currently facing.
Don't get me wrong-- those women have every reason to be ready for life outside of the womb to begin with their children.
They long to see their little faces and snuggle them and watch them sleep and begin to uncover their little personalities.
I so get that.
Their words were not meant to hurt; they were meant to imply that they are excited.
Their are words out there that so clearly express what they are feeling--
anxious, anticipation, nervous, joyful-- just to name a few.
But eighteen months of waiting for my daughter?
There are no words for that.
And the worst part?
There are so many mamas out there who have been waiting so much longer than I have.
Adoption is hard.
Waiting is hard.
Watching my daughter grow up in pictures without a family is hard.
Would I do it again?
Am I willing to wait as long as I have to to bring our Emily home?
With bells on.
Am I good at waiting?
Is it fun?
Negative, Ghost Rider.
Here's to a Friday night spent catching up on good TV, drowning my sorrows in Trader Joe's pumpkin flavored awesomeness, and attempting to stare a hole through the picture of my daughter on my phone.
And here's to praying there is no 'thirty-six months waiting' in our future.