Thirteen hours from now we will be meeting the woman who is carrying the baby that will be our son. Let’s see if I can round up some appropriate emoticons to express my feelings in this very moment:

😳😱🙍😬😅

Ah, there they are. 

I feel very protective of our expectant mother. Haven’t even met her, but I do just the same. When she meets us tomorrow, she’s not looking at an adoption book; she’s looking at the two people she is trusting to raise this baby. Face to face. So, it’s pretty important we present ourselves as the trustworthy, ethical people that we are. That shouldn’t be a problem, right?  But you know how when you’re nervous, exceptionally nervous, you occasionally say stupid things? I’m hoping tomorrow doesn’t become an event that can be included in the “occasionally” part of that sentence. 

As I alluded to earlier this week, it’s hard to know how to gauge your excitement. For example, if I tell her how hopelessly grateful we are that she is responsible for allowing us to grow our family, will that scare her?  If I play it cool so she doesn’t see how frightened I am that she may change her mind, will that come across as distant and uninterested?  The answer to both questions is a pretty hardy yes, I would say. There is a medium in there somewhere, and that’s where I want to be. I plan to do what I always have, which is just be myself. That usually is the best course of action. Usually. Myself is not so terrible. Usually. 

Fifteen hours from now, maybe things will seem real. So far, they do not. But I suspect that after we are given the opportunity to chat with the expectant mother for a couple hours tomorrow, the landscape will look quite different.  We will see her, we will see the baby growing inside her, and we will get to know the woman who made our dreams come true. Things are getting real.