I know a woman adopting a third child, a boy from Haiti. I am fascinated by this jump from a cliff and a little jealous. I am in awe at the Olympian-like willingness to accept the necessary pain and take home the gold. I am not an Olympian. I’m the guy who gets in a car when the marathon begins and then waits in a bush near the finish line.
It’s the fact that he’s a third child that brings up issues for me. Why did I stop at two?
I wish I was the kind of person who would go for the third child, the fourth child. But I was too worried that I would be like my own mother, crazed with frantic rage, overwhelmed by too many children. And often I believe I was right. I am easily overwhelmed.
There is also a superstitious part of me that is afraid to ask for too much joy. I punish myself so that someone else doesn’t have to step in and do the job. That’s really what my overeating is all about.
But if I was out adopting children from Haiti perhaps I would have less time for pointless introspection and be forced to share my Twinkies?