Since we got our court date, I’ve got the worst pre-date anxiety ever.  I can’t shake the fear that we’re going to get stood up somehow.  We’ll be standing on the sidewalk in front of a cosmic movie theater, checking our cell phone, and, despite all the plans, we’ll be seeing that movie alone.  A lot of people don’t make it through court the first time, but I hope we do.

I’ve been kicking away some other negative thoughts lately.  Some of it related to the politics of international adoption (people who think all adoptions should be within a country, not outside) and race (people who think transracial adoptions are naive and doomed) and age (an author who is big on the idea that toddler adoption is filled with attachment issues).

In this huge dogpile of pessimism, the only interesting stuff I’ve heard was in a New York Times article: “An examination by The New York Times of the 2000 census — the first in which information on adoptions was collected — showed that just over 16,000 white households included adopted black children.”

I would have thought this number was way higher. 

Anyway, the article points out the difficulties in transracial families –but I finished the piece and thought, “You know what?  I don’t care.”   

I believe the world is a mystery and good things happen.  It’s easy, it’s so easy, to criticize everything.  And to think of reasons not to love people.  In the end, I love reading and thinking and– to some extent, sometimes, I even love politics.  But adoption is about people, not ideas.  It’s about children who need love.     It’s not naive to believe in transracial adoption.  It’s naive to think that your politics are so right, children need to suffer because of them.   Who would want to grow up in an orphanage?  Who would want to grow up without parents?  What kind of person would wish that on kids just to satisfy a smug and vicious belief system?  

Life is complicated, but we shouldn’t be afraid of it.   People can believe whatever they want, but I prefer to believe that love for a child can’t be the wrong color.  

Anyway, I feel all right these days.  I look at these pictures we’ve gotten and all the nay-saying becomes a quiet, distant noise like a neighbor’s dog.  The photographs (a little boy, teetering back and forth on his tiny legs) remind me that we’re all people and nobody knows what kind of men or women our sons and daughters will become.  But we are made for love anyway.   Shasta and I are ready to fly to Ethiopia and meet this little boy who is getting bigger every day . . .  We can think of nothing else.