4639. That's the number that did me in last night. That's the figure we owe the attorney in California who represents the birth mother. I was sort of expecting a bill for half that. The number went through the end of March so I haven't a clue what we might owe, on top of that, for April.
Perhaps some of you think I've been handling myself well. I feel it's important for me, in the interest of full disclosure, to inform you that I've kinda turned into a basket case. When I'm not stressing out about money, I'm having nightmares ranging from going ballistic and screaming my head off at a group of women to searching for Matthew and not being able to find him. But I still know that God is in control. And I believe that his plans are to prosper me and not to harm me.
Still, I've told people that I'm not entirely sure what to do when I see bills like that. He's not a boat or a car or even house. He's not something I can just stop making payments on. He's a child. He's my son. And if I could convey, through words, the sharp tingling of my nerve endings when I grind my teeth and, through clenched jaw, mutter those words: my son, I surely would.
60520. That is how many minutes we've spent feeding and bathing and hugging and burping and changing and loving our boy. That's how many minutes have passed since I watched his head enter this world for the very first time. And despite my fears over money and over losing my son, that is the number that matters. Each minute that ticks by with him in my life is so much more important than the number that sucker punched me last night.
My husband keeps reminding me to just sit back and wait on the Lord. A Lord who came down and went to the cross for me and for you. A Savior who owes me nothing. To whom I owe absolutely everything. A God who conquered the grave. It is still Saturday but I know that He is risen. He is risen, indeed.
On a lighter note, last night I taught Garrett that, when asked what he wants to be when he grows up, he should respond with, an attorney. It was so precious and hysterical coming out of his mouth. Of course, when I asked him again this morning he replied with, "A basket player." (Translated= a basketball player.)
You go, short white boy. You go.