Mexico Monday: The archaeological edition

In which me mine our past failures for wisdom and share naked Millie pictures

Dear everyone,

Hello from the cloud-shrouded PNW! Millie continues to frolic in the fallen leaves in her birthday suit despite the plummeting temps.

The rest of us don jackets and hats (and in my case scarves and gloves) but all Millie cares about is showing off her fine figure, which she barely maintains given the steady stream of treats she demands on a daily basis from doing everything from peeing outside (good girl!) to halting her attack on my bare feet (thank you!) to staying out of the kitchen while I’m cooking (much appreciated!).

We’ve been focused on settling into our new deluxe apartment in the sky and writing about the shameful failures of our past, this being National Novel Writing Month and all, in which are determined to write a new novel, memoir, essay something.

Shameful secrets, you might ask, your ears perking up, because who doesn’t like those. What shameful secrets?

A few mistakes ago (to steal a phrase from Taylor Swift), I was married. When I was married, my ex-husband and I attempted to become foster parents via an agency in Seattle, with the aim of ultimately adopting a child.

This meant we had to go through lots of training, fill out mountains of paperwork, and run the gauntlet of several interviews. All of this took a couple years because we were 1)fighting about whether we would actually do the adoption 2)fighting about many other things, and 3)looking for a new place to live that was big enough for a family.

Well, we found the house and we bought it. And we stayed together because I “hoped for the best,” which is a skill/bad habit of mine in the face of looming interpersonal disaster. The house, at least, turned out to be a good investment.

The adoption, on the other hand, failed. The adoption agency rejected us for reasons mainly having to do with my ex-husband’s behavior but also having to do with me and how I enabled this behavior and lied about it to them. Our marriage was a shambles. Yet, in the throes of my delusions, I told them it was great. Not that I believed this. But I still believed we had a chance to make it great.

He, on the other hand, was honest about his own behaviors. And thank goodness, because then they rejected us in a hot minute. Which was truly for the best. Kids in foster care have enough trauma to deal with without being thrust into a home full of marital drama and marijuana smoke (plus a few guns for good measure).

So that was the end of the adoption. And soon thereafter the end of the marriage. The dream I had of a little dark-hair girl who I would read to and sing lullabies to, like my mom did with me, receded into the distance.

Today, 8 years later, I am finally in a much more stable place. Maybe that’s why I am choosing to write about this now. I’ve made stabs at writing about it before, but never really dug below the surface.

Now’s the time for the excavation or so it appears. Maybe all the artifacts I’m digging up will never get polished enough for public consumption. Perhaps I won’t figure out what I “learned” or get anything published. But what does it matter really? Soon we’ll all be retreating to our underground bunkers anyway. I’ll bring the chocolate, the cheap wine, the coffee, and the naked pug!

Millie, luckily, has never had to deal with this pressure-to-breed / desire to have a family BS. Having been spayed at age 1, she has kept her slim-ish figure and not had to contend with thoughts of motherhood or feelings of failure about never having had puppies. (Although, between us, they would have been sooo cute). Nor does anyone ever ask her nosily “Do you have puppies?”

To which she would respond “No! How do you think I keep my youthful good looks and the figure to keep wearing this tight-fitting hot dog costume? By not breeding, thank you very much. Besides, this world is so overpopulated with puppies - why would I want to have more when I could have a life devoted solely to me, me, me! Now hand over the treats or get out of my way, fewl!”

And that’s because Millie is not the least bit ashamed of her puppy-free life. I, on the other hand, feel both (a little) shame and (a little) regret.

However! Writing about this has made me grateful that I’m in a better place now. And it has inspired me to sign up with a local non-profit here in Bellingham that helps foster kids and parents.

Though I’m not a political activist, like my mom, the election results have made me want to give more to the most vulnerable in my community. With surplus love still in my heart for that dark-haired little girl I didn’t get to adopt, I’m ready to open my arms to some kids who could use that love.

xo

Rebecca