Although I’m well along the road of  adoption, I still look in the rear view mirror of my past lives, thinking, “Did I do everything I could have to get pregant?” I mourn glasses of wine, long since consumed so long ago, the bottles have decomposed in landfills; the times I scrabbled from under a mate, to the bathroom for my condoms, when, maybe I should have just, to quote Paul McCarthy “Let it be.”

While other single adoptive parents, slather walls of empty rooms with pastle colors or study up on the fine facts behind cribs and stollers. “Should I go for the $600 model or the $1000 dollar, I -rule- the-playground variety, I picked at scabs until they flake away, and the wounds bled. Even a late winter blizzard became a torment. Standing at the living room window, I watched cotton-ball sized flakes tumble to the ground, wishing my far away child were home to shape angels in the snow with me.