“Is this Jennifer from California?”
I say yes, infused with happiness that Ginger* knows who I am. Again my confidence in the Agency is justified. Ginger finishes answering my question about the bucket system of age dispersal. You may certainly request to adopt any age from China, but they assign children based on a bucket system. It goes something like this, you must be thirty at least to adopt and between that and forty a person is eligible to adopt a year and under. Forty to forty-five can apply for a child between a year and two and a half while forty-five to fifty, a child older than two and a half. Since I will be turning thirty the week our application is delivered to the Chinese offices we will be eligible for a child anywhere between birth and a year. I get the feeling after speaking with Ginger, that due to my young age we will probably receive a younger child.
Ginger asks me if there are any other questions, and I have suddenly forgotten the question that had been on my mind all morning. Frustrated and slightly embarrassed I confess to Ginger there was another question, but that I cannot remember it.
Sympathetically Ginger moves through a variety of topics to help me remember. The application. The home study. Deadlines and expiry periods for various paperwork. Waiting for a referral.
No. No. No. No. None of it does the trick. I’m sure the question will come as soon as I hang up the phone, and tell Ginger as much. She commiserates with a gentle laugh and suggests I keep a pad of paper close to the phone. I admit that’s a good idea, while not admitting that I keep pads of paper all around the house. Sitting at the dining table while on the phone and I am looking at no less than two large wire-bound journals, one sketch book, and two pads of post-its. It’s not the lack of paper. It’s just over confidence in my memory.
The important thing is I have the information needed to complete the application, which is done before I even hang up the phone. I don’t remember the forgotten question when I say goodbye to Ginger. But it doesn’t feel that significant. Instead I stare at the table; the clutters of text books, notebooks and calendars have been pushed aside, making a hole where the application sits. Completed it needs only to be mailed. I look at it for a minute, maybe more, and my imagination tries to fill in the uncertain future ahead. After a while I inhale and pick up the application. Exhaling noisily I drop it on the pile belonging to my husband so he can mail it.
*I will be referring throughout this blog to persons and offices sometimes using pseudonyms. This is for privacy purposes.