J turns 4!

 

Dear J,

You were sitting at the kitchen island this morning when I came out, wearing just your undies and eating blueberry waffles with cinnamon sugar on top. You grinned at me as I leaned down to wrap my arms around you, smiling into your warm skin. I kissed you and whispered, “Happy Birthday, my boy!”

You smelled of sunshine and sweat, sticky cinnamon wafting into my nose, your muscles shifting beneath your skin as you turned to wrap your arms around me.

“Happy Birthday TO ME! Happy MY BIRTHDAY to you, Mama!” you exclaimed, eyes twinkling.

Our jubilant JJ. You are fierce, you are bold. Getting to be part of your life, watching you grow into this incredible, intelligent, exacting kid – it’s one of the biggest joys and privileges of my life.

Your personality is one of a kind. It can make you a challenging pre-schooler sometimes. A lot of the time. But I can see inside you; I can imagine the person you will become. These traits that are difficult in a young child are going to serve you so well one day, and you’re going to grow into an amazing adult. May you always believe in yourself as much as you do today. As much as Mom and I believe in you.

We wish for your highest happiness and contentment in this life. But if you have big ambitions, I can see you choosing to change the world. We are with you, sweet boy, no matter what path you take.

Happy Birthday, dear heart. 

Love always, 

Mama

Severance

 Today, little one, there was a hearing for your case. I honestly hate writing all those words. I hate that you have a case file, a case plan, a case manager, an attorney, a judge. Don't get me wrong, since you were born substance-exposed to a mother who can't care for you, I'm glad you are safe. I just hate that you weren't born safe and celebrated. 

Your mother hasn't been achieving any of her goals in order to reunify with you. She refuses contact with her DCS case manager, with her attorney. She willfully misses attending court hearings. She was not present today when the judge announced that she was granting the motion to change your case plan from reunification to severance and adoption. 

The judge, the attorneys, the case workers present: this is their job. It's a noble thing, to protect children and help families and I'm grateful they are all doing it. But it was hard to listen to everyone speak and for the mood in the metaphorical room (it was a telephonic hearing, so we didn't see any of them) to be relatively mundane and ho-hum. For them, it was just another day. But not for us. And certainly not for you. 

I am excited to get to be your forever Mama. I love you so much. I feel humbled and honored to be able to know you and love you and guide you and celebrate you for the rest of my life. My heart though, sees another mother losing her son. My heart feels this loss of yours, this separation from her. I cannot celebrate that. I cannot dance joyfully and hold you to my cheek and have pure happiness; that feels wrong. There is no joy without the pain, and there is no pain without the joy, and so we are all wrapped up together with this ribbon of duality. 

We still have a ways to go, sweet one. In a month, there will be an initial severance hearing. No knowing what comes next until we find out whether your mom attends that hearing. If she doesn't, the judge will sever her parental rights right then and there, and your case will move over to the Adoptions unit, and we can pursue your adoption date. We don't know who your biological father is, so the court is posting a 90 day John Doe paternity ad. His rights cannot be severed until that 3 months has elapsed. 

What I do know is that tomorrow and the next day and all the days after that, you'll be here. You always have a home with us; you are one of us already and nothing will ever change that. I know you'll be loved and cared for and safe. That's enough for me, until you can legally become a McGill. 

July 23rd

 

One year ago, we waited. The midsummer’s heat hung heavily in the air, its blanket of humidity a promise of rain to come. The sun was sinking below the tips of the mountains as we stood together in our small front yard, holding hands and watching the street.

One year ago, a white Nissan SUV pulled up in front of our house for the first time and parked on the curb. Two handsome young men gathered a bag of carefully packaged ice creams in containers and lifted a bucket-style carseat out of the vehicle. Our eyes met as they walked up the flat stones that lead to our front porch, where we had a small table for the kids to sit and eat ice cream and chairs for the adults.

One year ago, we saw your face for the first time. With questioning brown eyes and apple cheeks, you watched us crowd around you. There were many introductions made that July evening, as we were all strangers to one another.

Amidst a global pandemic, carrying both the grief and joy that can come from joining families via adoption, our hearts grew.

Last summer, while we got to know you and your uncles, I sometimes wondered if it was going to work. I wondered if I could do it; if I could be your Mama when you had these men already who cherished you so deeply. I’d never parented in this slow, transitionary way and I worried that I would not be able to be enough for you.

Today, we celebrate that we’ve known each other one year. Today, I am a better human and a better mama than I’ve ever been before. Today, you are legally our son and we have two more brothers and one more sister than we did a year ago. We have joined all our lives in this inextricably magical way, and the path forward is clear to me.

Together.

Always together.

About Mothers

 There's a writer I follow on social media whose work consistently robs me of breath. A month ago, she posted that she was giving a writing workshop the day before Mothers Day, specifically to create a piece of writing about our own mothers. I registered right away. 

Although I have been writing about my mother for years, I was excited about learning from someone whose writing I admire very much. I was also anxious about writing and reading my piece aloud for the group, but I wanted to try. 

I pushed my sewing machine back into the center of my crafting table and made space for the laptop. I closed myself into our little craft studio and locked the door behind me, after warning my kids to please give me this time and space. (Don't worry, T was home, but they love interrupting anything they can!)

In the workshop, we listened to several different poems and pieces written about mothers. We participated in small writing sections, with prompts and purpose, and then we were given thirteen minutes to craft a letter to our mothers. There were some prompts that could be used if desired, but it was designed to be anything we wanted to write. 

I found words pouring forth from my fingertips as they flew across the keyboard. My wife always asks me, "What are you typing so furiously over there?" I guess I got my dad's heavy fingers. 

My mother isn't hard to write about. She's my center. She's my foundation. She's my best friend. But it was interesting to read over my piece after I wrote it, because I felt like I was not fully present during those thirteen minutes. The teacher instructed us to not stop writing. Do not go backwards to correct or review. Don't lift your pencil. Keep going. 

And I did. 

After the time was up, we broke into small groups to read our pieces and give each other feedback. My group, and indeed the majority of the workshop population, was older women than I. I spotted a single man, who did not end up in my group. As I listened to these women read what they'd written about their mothers, I wondered if my piece could possibly stand among these pillars of strength and imperfection. I couldn't even really remember very well what had come out of me, so I was sweating and emotionally on edge from all the pieces I'd been hearing. 

Voice shaking, neck and ears flushed with anxiety, I read. 

"Dear Mom,

I find you always in water. The boiling of a pot, the rushing water in a sink of my children’s dishes. The burble of the coffeemaker and the whistle of my tea kettle. The sound of hot liquid flowing into a ceramic mug. You have always been the ocean, you are it and it is you. Rushing, strong, crashing waves but then receding, lapping at my shores. Constant and unending. The salt of your tears always pulls at my insides, our spirits intertwine and it is impossible to not cry when you cry. Summers in the swimming pool, days of laughter and sunscreen and bowls of fruit. And then you rinse your hair out in the yard, always under the hose.

Water, like you, can change the shape of everything over time. Sometimes the water diverts, and sometimes the water carves its place in the rock. Yielding but also insistent.

Over my adulthood, I’ve watched you continue to grow. I don’t know if I really knew you when I was a child. I knew your bottomless love and selflessness, but I didn’t know you. I made observations about how I knew I wanted to parent my own children, admiring your presence and your commitment to us and noticing even then how you put us first.

Now that I’m a mother myself, we’ve discussed that your selflessness is a problem for you. Prioritizing yourself sometimes seems impossible. I’ve watched you find truths that took you to your knees, but you got back up and kept looking, even though you were hurt. I’ve witnessed you stand taller, refuse to be talked over, become more steadfast in your convictions, and make your voice louder. You are surer of your voice now than I’ve ever known you to be.

You no longer have children in your home to shepherd. Your rescue puppies are gone, and I know you feel sometimes rudderless. This time is yours. Time you never wanted anyway, but here it is and here you are and I have to say, I am incredibly and repeatedly stunned by my pride in you. To see the work and efforts you’ve gone through to plumb the depths of despair and still hook your fingers around a small pocket of purpose is something I didn’t know I’d get to witness you do."

My group was incredibly supportive and sweet of my piece. A couple of women even commented that they thought it ought to be published, which I found to be such a high compliment I barely knew how to express my gratitude. They all told me they hoped I would share it with my mom. One writer commented that if she'd received a letter like that from her daughter, she'd probably do something silly like have it tattooed on her in its entirety. I gave them all my word that my mom would get it. 

This morning, I sent it to her. She's my mom, she's no stranger to my writing or to my love. She loved it, because she loves everything I do. It makes my heart sing to have this relationship with her. 

I felt the gentle presences of those other six women from my group, when I sent my mom the letter. Those other six daughters, all whose mothers have passed on. I was the only one who got to send a letter today. I carry those women, those incredible writers and loving, angry, unresolved, yearning, confused, joyful daughters with me on my shoulders. I hope they felt that they were with me today. 

Mothers and daughters. This is something that transcends us all. Everyone has a mother, at least in the way that every child was brought forth from a womb. That mother may have died, or been forced to give you up, or loved you the rest of her life. But once we become mothers... we are connected to this timeless network. This universal and yet painfully unique experience of mothering. As vast as the sky and as detailed as the shape of our fingernails, we are all one and we are all completely our own. 

To mothers. That deepest and most complex relationship. 

This Is The Start of Our Sweet Little Story

 After the birth of our first two children, I loved writing out their birth stories. When I was doing the birthing, I cherished hearing the memories of all the other strong women in the room. I loved knowing what all was happening while I was focused inward. I chronicled those experiences, for myself and for Mom and for E and C to read for themselves one day. This one is for you, my youngest son.

Your story began on an unusually cool day in August of 2019. It only reached 99 degrees Fahrenheit, in a month where every day easily surpasses triple digits. It’s not surprising to me that, as a lovely little morning creature, you were already hard at the work of being born as the day dawned bright. In my imagination, I can see your mother breathing deeply and concentrating as she pushed you out to greet the day. You were born in a little bathroom only two miles northwest of our home, and I didn’t even know that someone momentous was breathing his first breath of the sweet, humid air that’s found in every place life blooms.

If I close my eyes, I can hear the cicadas sing and smell the creosote hanging in the summer breeze. Zinnias grew in our garden that August, and we had a yellow-bellied Siskin finch visit often who loved to eat the aphids that gathered under the leaves. Maybe we’ll grow zinnias again this summer, so you can see what the garden looked like during your birth.

I regret that I cannot account for every moment of those early days and weeks for you. I do know that you were loved. You had people who couldn’t wait to meet you, to hold you and look upon your small crinkled face. I’ve seen pictures of you as a little babe – even then, you were a skeptic of this bright new world. Your first mother and father loved you. They loved you as best they could. But you also were loved by your grandmother, your grandfather and step-grandmother. Your aunt, and your incredible uncles. 

We are so grateful that we get to know your uncles and aunt, and that you will have them in your life forever. We are thankful for the opportunity to maintain your connections to your birth family. It is our hope that one day you can reconnect to your first mother and father, to know them and to have them know you. 

Your uncle B took you home with him in September, when your parents could no longer care for you safely. He and uncle A set aside everything to love you and raise you. I know from their stories that it was a year of duality. Utter joy at your small presence, while pushing the limits of pure exhaustion. They rejoiced in your growth, in your sharp intelligence and your easy laugh. You lived a life of love and cuddles and safety with them, but all the while your case, your future, was in limbo. Surviving in times of unknown answers and unending timetables is an incredibly stressful thing. Your uncles are two of the strongest people I’ve ever known. After many tears and long nights of discussion, they decided to see if they could find an adoptive family for you who would let them still be your uncles.

Meanwhile, we were pursuing our foster care license. We had one class left to complete, plus our home safety inspection before we could submit our application to the state. I received a text message one day from the worker doing our training classes, asking if she could call me later. I answered that of course she could and wondered why she wanted to talk. My brain offered up, “Maybe she’s got a baby for us…” and then instantly I laughed at myself because that was ludicrous. We weren’t even licensed. Later that afternoon, she called and wove a tale of two young men who were hoping to find the perfect family for their 11 month old nephew, a family who would accept them as a couple and also as uncles who wanted to remain in his life. It was all I could do to clench my lips shut long enough for her to finish the story because I wanted to shout, “YES! Yes yes yes!” to these young men and to this little boy who I had yet to meet. 

I wanted them all. Somehow, they already lived in my heart. 

In the waning golden sunlight of a July evening last year, the four of us waited with bated breath in our front yard to meet you. We had seen pictures of you, and we had done a video call with you and your uncles. But on this warm summer evening, I felt deep in the pit of my stomach that I was about to meet one of my children. It was surreal to think that I didn’t know you at all. I didn’t know what made you smile, what helped you feel safe, how you went to sleep easiest, or what your favorite food was. I suppose none of us know any of those things when babies are born into our families anyway. The uncles came bearing ice cream for all of us and carrying you in your car seat. For the first time in their lives, E and C abandoned their ice creams in favor of sitting in front of your car seat on the ground to smile at you and touch your wiggling toes. E brought out books and read to you, while C carefully examined your fingers and your nose and kept kissing your head. It wasn’t long before the kids dragged the uncles into our home to show them around. You demanded to be put down in C’s bedroom to investigate his cars and trucks and bookcase. I took a photo of the 3 of you for the first time, your heads bent closely together. It was then that I noticed your hair is nearly the exact same shade of brown as your siblings.

After that first meeting, we planned family dinner nights. We got to celebrate your first birthday together, and Mom and Uncle A baked and decorated your cake. 

We started to have you over by yourself for a few hours at a time. Our license was approved in late August, and we started having you for overnights the very next night. We were building many relationships. 

It is an experience unlike any I’ve had, to commit our lives to two adult strangers and a baby before we knew each other. We have all grown so close in such a short span of time. You were placed with us officially at the beginning of October, and that started the countdown clock to your adoption.

Now, as spring blooms and brings with it the Mexican gold poppies and orange globemallow, the last grain of sand in this hourglass has fallen into the base. Our time as your foster family has come to a close, little one.

 Today is Adoption Day. Today you are legally a McGill, a third child, second son, and fifth family member. You are cherished. Always.

This is the start of our sweet little story;
the part where your page meets ours.
No matter where the tale takes us tomorrow,
the story will always be of love.

Sleep Tight, My Love

 My littlest one. 

Somehow, it's already been six months since we met you. We've had the privilege of being part of your life for six of your 17 months on this earth. I find this... wondrous, and also, if I'm really being truthful, slightly sad. Sad in the most selfish possible way. I'm sad I didn't know you sooner. I feel greedy to admit this, but it's how I feel. I accept that I don't get to have memories of your earliest days. I am grateful to have the memories of you that I do get. 

Realizing that half a year has passed already since we met you has really set me back on my heels. So much has happened in six months, and I worry that I might miss something. I want to memorize you as best I can. 

I just laid you down for a nap before sitting down to write. You were so tired. I'd forgotten how much I love the napping ages. It's a moment of such peace and stillness, that instant that your body somehow burrows into itself, your weight deepens into my arms and my breast. You breathe a deeper breath and huff out a tired, sleepy sigh. I love that you let me rock and sing you to sleep. Thank you for indulging me. I know you are fully capable of falling asleep by yourself. That same selfish part of me wants these moments with you. 

At 17 months old, you are a mischievous grinning dust devil. Always busy, always moving, always watching everything so closely that you can go back later to investigate properly. I think if you could speak full sentences, you would sing out, "No time for cuddles, Mama! Things to do!" And I laugh and smile and clap my hands to watch your achievements. So when you're ready to go to sleep, I crave those small quiet minutes when you want to gently rub your owl friend's soft wing rhythmically back and forth on your cheek as you lay your head on my chest. I sing softly and quietly, knowing the reverberations of the song will vibrate their way from my lungs and ribs into your growing body as sleep takes you. 

Goodnight, baby. 
Sleep tight, my love.

I've sung these Tom Petty lyrics thousands of times, to each child in this family. I love to sing them to you. I love that you are a child in this family.

We've been listening to the song, "Carried Me with You" by Brandi Carlile from the Pixar movie "Onward" a lot lately. It often puts you in the forefront of my mind. Maybe I'll learn all the words and it can become a lullaby, too. 

If you bear a heavy load
I'll be your wheels, I'll be the road
I'll see us through the thick and thin
For love and loss until the end

Just know, darling boy, that you'll never bear a heavy load alone. You've got a lot of people who are walking beside you. 

Love always,

Mama

In-Between

Loveliest daughter, 

These small, "in-between" days are the ones I sometimes forget or run out of time to write about. It's not a holiday, or a birthday, or a milestone. It's another day in a line of days that sometimes melt together, since they are often very similar to one another. This oddly interminable pandemic time passes in its own fashion - simultaneously at lightspeed while also at a snail's stodgy pace. And yet... you are growing and maturing so much. I think I get caught up staring so closely at things that I forget to take a step backwards and look at the whole of you. 

Your confidence is shining bright these days, love. Your joy is catching. It's silly, but your face has grown into your new adult front teeth and you are so unquestionably stunning. 

I was so struck the other night, when I was in your room to sing songs and wish you goodnight. I got such a strong sense of YOU; your heart and your spirit. You are formed. You are preciously and uniquely yourself, and adult E is already there in your heart, growing and learning, but present all the same. It's never been more clear to me that Mom and I are merely your guides. 

Now that you are eight and in third grade and have your own room, we are seeing more and more of your choices and preferences coming out. Your nightstand is a carefully cultivated space of intention. I love looking at your nightstand. And your bookshelves. Knowing that you've chosen the things and you've chosen the way that they are arranged is a small but amazing joy I'm finding for the first time. Your alarm clock. Your lamp with the rope and the pink sea glass. Your little woven runner - where did this even come from? Your horse figurines. Bookmarks. A pair of fashion glasses. A stack of carefully piled books. A plush shark toy. 

Darling girl. My greatest hopes for you are that you dance along this bright path all your days, with your chin to the sunshine and an ocean breeze playing through your curls. You are loved. You are cherished. You are deserving of all the joy you can find.

Love always,
Mama

Four

Four years ago, you entered this world and although I'd carried you for ten months, I couldn't wait to know you. Yesterday was the anniversary of your birth, and while I feel that I know you to the marrow of my bones, you often still have me shaking my head in amazement.

You are an utterly fascinating creature, my C.

Quietly proud. Strong. Unapologetically honest. Brave. Curious. Uncommonly self-aware. Compassionate. Loving. Stoic. Introverted. Humorous. Intelligent. Stubborn. Persistent.

Just as in the year you were born, the wildflowers are beginning to bloom. I love that they will mark the beginning of every year of your life, my wild child.

You are in Montessori preschool right now. You are drawn to figuring out how things work, discovering new plants and insects and animals in our beautiful desert landscape. Your imagination is wonderfully inventive, and I love playing with you in the worlds of your own creation. You are a self-proclaimed "cat guy" and you adore animals. You're learning to ride horses, and I'm betting that this will be the year that you say goodbye to the training wheels on your bike. I think you may enjoy cooking as you grow up, because you certainly enjoy helping to bake and cook and assemble your lunches! I've even been letting you cut your own vegetables and fruit with a knife, and you're working on peeling potatoes - it's hard work for small hands. I can always count on your help when I am sewing, and you are so proud of the hand-sewing you bring home from school!

I don't know many things for absolute certain. But one of them is that I am here on this earth to love and nurture and support you as you grow. You and your sister are incredible people and it's an honor to be chosen to help guide you as best I can.

May you always walk a path of love. I hope for your own sake that it has many challenges, and sometimes it will seem that it's in darkness or too difficult to keep going, but always know that I am with you. Every night I tuck you into bed with Captain Sea Salt, the plush cat toy that I sewed for you, and I remind you that if you feel lonely, every stitch of him was sewn specially for you with my love. My heart is in your heart. My hand is in your hand. I don't have to be near you to be with you; always.
Love,
Mama

The Photographer

Today I bore witness to some dear friends' adoption of their second child. These friends are pretty fantastic people, and we've adored them for a long time. But as tends to happen in adult friendships, once we no longer played rugby together, we saw them with decreasing frequency. The adoration remained. Over the years, we've seen them infrequently but always were reminded at each reunion how much we cherish the relationship.

Now these friends have two kids, and we have two kids. Since becoming mothers, we've seen each other way more often and it's been amazing. To hold each other's babies and watch our children begin to develop their own friendships is nothing short of awesome.

And today, I was honored to photograph the adoption of that second cherished baby. I was privileged to photograph the first adoption, too, and after going through hundreds of photos of their friends and family all gathered together to celebrate this small, new family, I am struck.

I am struck by their village.

Everywhere I turned, there were outstretched hands. Little chubby beckoning fingers. Older, calloused fingers carefully guided the gripping fists of an almost-walker. Growing teenaged hands tossed babies and cuddled toddlers and pointed at words in a book.

All shapes and sizes and colors and ages were there to show their love and support for this growing family. If I didn't already know them, I wouldn't even be 100% sure which children belonged to whom, or who the grandparents or aunts or uncles or family friends were. That's the most beautiful part of all.

I can only hope to translate their love for one another through my lens. I hope to do them justice. I hope they can feel my love and admiration for them.

Three

In the quiet darkness, I sit hunched. Good posture isn't my strength.
 
These early hours are mine alone, while everyone slumbers in bed, and my thoughts can tumble over one another without interruption. I am watching the pink streaks of clouds brighten the black of night, just as watercolor seeps across the page. The heater is running and I am pleasantly warm, but the longer I am still, the more acutely I feel the tendrils of cold snaking up my feet and wrapping themselves around my ankles.

Today, I'm daydreaming of that last full day of my pregnancy; that last full day when our bodies were permanently and irrevocably entwined, hurtling towards our impending and certain separation. A time of anticipation and discomfort, of excitement and uncertainty. Except that three years ago, I didn't know it was our last day in this most intimate of relationships.

Tomorrow is your third birthday. I knew I would love you - I already did. I'd loved you since before you were conceived. I'd been waiting for you since I was a very young woman. You see, you were already in my heart long before you lived in my body. But now... to really know you, see you, hold you, kiss you every day...

That is a depth of emotion which I could not have known. I am still learning it, and adding new bits all the time.

You are a work of art, child of mine. My greatest collaboration; always unfinished, as it must be.

C, I adore every fiber of your being. You are impossibly charming. Sweet and affectionate, you can win anybody over and melt the iciest of exteriors with your loving personality. Already, before you are three years old, you wield humor as a weapon. Sometimes it's sword, and sometimes it's shield, but always with intention and always with capability and understanding beyond your years. You are intelligent and curious and your little fingers are strong, sure and quick. You're certainly going to be able to use your mind and your hands to create magnificence, in whatever form sets your soul on fire. I feel a sense of empathy and genuine kindness from inside you. You are still very young, and so you are learning, but the ability to feel another's pain or joy is there.

I am interested to observe as you grow, to see if we will be able to discern which of your attributes are formed within your genes and which were formed by being raised in this family. At this point, it's impossible to know why you are already very effective at identifying your feelings and communicating them clearly, but it is amazing to behold. Last week, we took you to your first swim lesson, which you wanted to participate in and were so excited to do, you could barely wait your turn. Until the instructor helped you into the pool with the other children. I don't know if you were offended that you weren't able to decide when you entered the water or if it was because a stranger was holding you, but you were immediately and deeply unhappy. You stayed with her in the pool for the 30 minute lesson, but none of it was fun. For any of us. I came out to wrap you up in your towel when the lesson was over, and between hiccups, you told us, "I'm really really sad, guys! I did not like that!" My heart broke into a thousand shards, but among the pieces, I was amazed that you could tell us what was happening in your mind and your heart.

Tomorrow morning, the Earth will turn her face to the sun. I will watch the sky shift from the vast starry view of the universe to the bright blue of Sol's luminescence. You will open your eyes for the first time as a three year old, and everything will be different. And everything will be the same.

You are so loved, darling boy. Your birth is one of the greatest moments of my life. I feel so lucky that I get to be your mama.

Love always.

Tea and cats and homework

Daughter.

The days often pass me by in a blur, their colors melding together like our watercolor paintings. I was about to type that it's challenging to sometimes sit back and really SEE you as you're growing, but that's actually untrue. It's one of the easiest and best parts of my life, slowing down to watch you pass. Some days, I am taken aback by the sudden length of your feet, or the strong muscles in your back that I could swear weren't there just the night before, or the speed with which you innately understand your math homework.

I told a good friend last week that I worry about not teaching you everything I want to. Before you were born, I knew that I would have your entire childhood to impart all my wisdom. I knew so many things before you were born, and the older you become, the less I find I truly know. Today you're a bright, sunny six year old and already I wonder: when you're an adult and someone asks you what your best memory of your childhood is, what will your answer be?

Will I be good enough for you? Do I hug and kiss you as much as I could? Do you know with every fiber of your being how very loved you are? Or will you remember me as being tired, stressed about the state of our kitchen, or asking you to give me 5 more minutes on my sewing project? I just don't know.

I hope you'll remember decorating sugar cookies, creating watercolor paintings, tending seedlings in the garden, the feeling of exaltation when you figured out how to ride your bike without training wheels, the thrill of jumping into the biggest rain puddle you can find, reading together all curled up on the couch, making dinner together. Mostly, I hope you remember the laughter.

It's time to lure you to the table with a cup of hot lemon cake tea (or sometimes Earl Grey, hot - Mom taught you to say it just like Jean-Luc Picard) and get some of your homework done. I fear I'll never be your favorite person at homework time. But you're on my mind. You're always on my mind.

Love always,
Mama

Stealing the rugby ball during a game of touch

Ten Years Later - the story of Us

On that Sunday, there was no indication that it might be a different or particularly important day in my life. It was February 20th, 2005. I can't recall what I'd done that morning or afternoon, other than I had a sense of excitement, of anticipation, because I was going to bravely walk into the indoor sports center, lace up my new roller skates, and step out onto those plastic tiles. I hoped not to look like an idiot. The coach that night had bleached blonde hair with black and pink streaks, heavy black eye makeup, some band t-shirt, and a broken thumb. Her name was eeka (lowercase e, yep), and she wasn't skating. Since it was my very first practice, I was going to require some special attention. The skating coach was actually a referee, a shy white guy everyone called Pablo. I remember his long braided goatee. Pablo was in charge of running the practice, which was populated with experienced skaters, and they were running drills I couldn't even dream of participating in.

Before roller derby practice, there was men's hockey on the schedule. I remember the building stank of stale sweat and plastic. It echoed with the jeers and laughter of everyone gearing up. Pablo rolled up to me and explained that I was going to be paired with an experienced skater, who would teach me the basics. I rolled, wobbly and uncertain, in my brand new speed skates, over to the corner. Pablo introduced me to a girl wearing a Care Bear shirt (the green bear!) and a jean skirt. She had short hair tucked behind her ears, sparkling brown eyes, and a grin that stretched across her face. Her name was Dirty T. 

I find it infinitely entertaining now, to think about that green Care Bear with a 4-leaf clover displayed proudly on his white tummy - he was the Good Luck bear. Indeed, he brought us more good luck and good fortune than I could imagine. 

T and I were eighteen. The only teenagers in the whole league. That night, she taught me to keep my knees bent, complete a T-stop, and how to fall to one knee then stand back up. But in the 13 years since then... she's taught me much more. That night, I made a new friend. She was generous and kind and quick to laugh and encouraging. She offered to pick me up for Wednesday's practice, since those were held elsewhere and it wasn't easy to find. I gladly took her up on it. She still is generous and kind and quick to laugh and encouraging, and I still need help with directions sometimes, but now I get to call her my wife. 

In May of 2008, she asked me to marry her. I don't remember if I said "yes", but I do remember the tears from both our cheeks mixing when I wrapped my arms around her and kissed her. We were twenty-one. Three months later, we joined our lives and hearts formally, in a small ceremony at the Laguna Hills county clerk's office. We asked the officiant to skip the ring exchange part, so that we could exchange our vows and rings with one another that evening on the beach, as the sun dove toward the waves of the Pacific. We celebrated with champagne and a barbecue in the cooling sand. 

The next morning, we were in a gorgeous little art shop, and the salesperson asked us what we were in town for. "We got married yesterday!" was the enthusiastic reply. It was surreal. The salesperson looked sincerely happy for us. We drove back home that day and celebrated with a huge number of friends and family members that night. 

The early years weren't simple. We loved each other; but it often felt like it was the two of us against the world. We fought hard for acceptance. We looked carefully around and filled our lives with people who could love us for who we were, but that bubble felt small sometimes. In a world where you feel that your love is constantly under attack, it's simple to grab onto each other and hold tight. We're both stubborn, hardheaded fighters and we weren't willing to give up. 

Over the years, our bubble has grown so much. We're accepted by a larger swath of people. I'm thrilled to tell people, "My homosexuality is the least interesting part of my life," and actually be right. Of course there are still challenges, and there will always be bigoted people, but we've got a huge support system and I know that I can face anything with T's hand in mine. We are extremely fortunate. 

Our family has grown in other ways, too. It started with a dog. Then we brought home a cat. Then we fostered some more dogs and cats and upon T's insistence, I grudgingly found them forever homes that weren't our own. I snuck home a rescue horse not too long after we were married (would not recommend) and surprise! She was pregnant. Soon we had a dog, a cat, the rescue mare and her colt, plus my old rodeo gelding. 

A year after the colt was born, we became licensed foster parents and welcomed three children into our lives and hearts. After two years of loving children who would never be ours, we decided we were ready for a child who was ours. In 2012, T carried and birthed our daughter E. My heart burst open with the intensity of my love for both of them, and I found that it knit itself back together even larger than it was before. Now we had a whole other human to fight for. We knew that we had a huge responsibility for this little life, not just the regular child-rearing concerns but I stayed awake nights worrying about her future with two mothers. Again, hand in hand in tiny hand, we stood together. Now we were advocates for a person much more important than ourselves. 

E grew into a magical, hilarious child. She was more than we ever knew we needed. Yet our family didn't feel complete. We knew we wanted two children. In 2016, I carried and birthed our son, C. Once more, I found myself being broken open and overwhelmed with the intensity of love I felt for not only C, but for our family as a whole. We were more than the sum of our parts. Once again, my heart found all its myriad pieces and stuck itself back together, but now with all the old stitches from before and the new embroidery I pieced it together with, it was larger yet again. As I held our newborn son and our three year old daughter and felt T's arms around all of us, I knew my whole world was contained in that embrace. 

We're older now. Turning 32 this year. Together, we've weathered storm after storm. Hand in hand in hand in hand, we are a unit. We are a force to be reckoned with. With an army of love behind us and our hands locked together, we will face what comes our way. 

It's not been an easy road. Life will continue to present us with challenges. It can be difficult to maintain a marriage while working and completing grad school and parenting two young children. There may be two children to hold between us, wife, but you are still the cornerstone to my castle. You help me keep my feet on the ground and my speedometer below illegality. 

I know that I can face anything, with your hand in mine. This has been the best ten years of my life. 

Happy Anniversary, darling.