Not So Adaptable, And Harry

A long time ago, when I was a Girl Scout with a mouth full of braces, I went to Canoe Camp during the summer.  The first year I went it rained torrentially every single day as a result of a major storm's remains blowing through the Adirondacks.  Needless to say, we didn't do very much canoeing, as the small, normally serene lake on which the camp was hosted was covered with swells and whitecaps.  At the end of a very long week in which crafts, card games, and tie-dyed t-shirts were a poor substitute for the canoeing we were supposed to be doing, an awards ceremony announced me as the "Most Adaptable" camper.  I still have the certificate and ribbon, and somewhere deep in my subconscious I guess I have always prided myself on being flexible, adaptable, able to bend when the situation calls for it.
But in reality, aside from Canoe Camp, I find that I am not as easy going as I would like to think I am.  Sure, I can adapt to a change in weekend plans, a detour along my preferred path to the grocery store, or a sharp change in weather when I'd planned a picnic.  But in the big picture of life I am not as easygoing.  In the picture of adoption, in which I have no control over the arrival of a child, I find myself completely fixated on the estimations of time we were given.  And now that we are past those estimations, I find myself very grumbly around the edges.  I thought for sure that Emma would be here by now.  That she is not here is a huge ache in my soul, and even though I want to be happy and filled with cheer about her impending arrival I instead find myself feeling very sad. 
Our friends have a baby, Isabelle, who is three weeks younger than Emma, and I can't see them right now.  I can't hold their daughter, I can't mentally note how much she has grown and changed since the last time I saw her mere weeks ago because then my brain will have to also take note of all the changes and nuances in character that Emma has undergone, and how much she must have grown since those last pictures in December.  Some days I feel like my heart is breaking in metered increments, one notch for every day that goes by until she is here, and if I were to see Isabelle it might just break for good.  I eye the calendar on the wall and watch as the days get closer and closer to Emma's 7 month mark.  Brendan and I are both acutely aware that with Harry's adoption, we'd already had him for a month by the time he was Emma's current age.  We don't quite know what to do with ourselves, or how to deal with the nervous energy that fills our home.
Lest you think our only focus is the baby-to-be, let me give you a little snippet of Harrison.  My God, what a kid!  To say he is talking is a gross understatement.  More aptly put, he is questioning, demanding, explaining, counting, singing, telling stories, and playing word games.  I don't actually know how to explain what a character he is; he is the embodiment of joy, energy, spirit, enthusiasm, and kindness.  He is also mischievous, funny, and a jokester.
When we walk down the sidewalk in Saratoga he waves at strangers and greets them all in kind, only disrupting his fanfare when he sees a dog.  Dogs are top notch in his book, and he practically squeals with delight whenever he sees one.  Puppies are even better than dogs. 
His singing is beyond cute.  If he had an Ipod, his most played song would be Santa Claus Is Coming To Town, which he learned from a music box leftover from my childhood.  "Claus is commmiiing......to tooooowwwwwn!" he sings every night after we tuck him in.  I don't think he really knows what or who Santa is, but he sure loves that song.  The ABC song is a close second, with favorite letter being W, closely followed by the MNOP sequence.
"Helping You" is Harry's favorite pastime, no matter what task you have set about to complete.  He stirs the food when we're cooking, he has his own dustrag when we clean, and he MUST help shovel when it snows.  He is a good little helper most of the time, and we appreciate his enthusiasm even if it does take two to three times as long to get anything done. 
He is fascinated with my knitting needles, yarn, and anything I've made.  He carries around little clipped ends of yarn, his "fuzzies", in an empty parsley can I gave him.  He keeps track of them and notices when they are missing.  "Oh no!  Fuzzy all gone!  Where'd they go?"  he repeats until I either find the one he's lost or give him some new ones. 
And finally. when he learned it was my birthday today (30) he said "Morning, Mommy.  Happy to you!"