Rain

     Just when the leaves start to get beautiful, we get rain. It happens every autumn; this year, after an exceptionally dry summer, we welcome it, but still -- I'm not ready for those leaves to wash down into the gutters. 

     A spent the night with her lifelong friend Tori last night (Tori is also from China, adopted by her mother about eight months before A came home), and M went to a friend's house to prep a spit for a pig roast today. They're both there now. I hope A gets some seasonal new clothes for her birthday tomorrow. My sister and M's parents and her godparents can always be counted on for an updated wardrobe at birthday time. God knows she needs it; we sent her out today in a summer dress with a too-small sweater. It's alarming how children shoot up like sprouts after a downpour, and I have a thing--a leftover anxiety from my own childhood when I felt I had nothing but ill-fitting clothes, too tight, too short, too worn--that A will have clothes in her closet that fit and are appropriate for the season. I am projecting, of course, but I think this is a basic thing that will help her know in her bones that the grownups are paying attention, and are actively taking care of her. Clean sheets, clean clothes that fit, clean fingernails, art supplies, books and music. Basics. 

     My treatment yesterday went fine, but the aftermath was, and continues to be, trying. I don't know if it's the Zofran or the steroids that make me crazy-tense, but I've been alternating fits of hollering at the TV and crying for the last two days. Going to have some hot tea and read Everyman, which we're discussing in Novel Workshop on Wednesday. I also have a new poem to turn in on Monday. Strike that: I have to write a new poem for Monday. 

     Feeling weak and cranky, but I got A's birthday presents wrapped and ready for tomorrow. Art supplies, a cookbook, a fancy math set with a compass and protractor, Hello Kitty stationery, peach hand lotion, a CD of Chinese Lullabies by the Beijing Children's Choir (her old copy is scratched, but she still tries to play it), some face paints, and a "diamond" ring from the vintage shop down the street (which M let her pick out last week). 

     She'll be six tomorrow. I hope she knows, or comes to understand, how desperately M and I love her.