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

To E

 Two years ago, you were in first grade and beginning to make real friends who were of just your own making. A few houses down from us lived Kay. She was in second grade, and you chatted together at the bus stop and on the way to and from school. She started to ask if you could come over to her house to play, and you began asking us if she could come to our house. 

You and Kay were different kids. She was the youngest child, the only one at home, and was accustomed to playing independently. You are the eldest child, and had a 2 year old brother who insisted on being part of everything. The way you played was so sweetly accommodating of him, but the way Kay wanted to play was simply older and more mature than you were capable of. Over time, you spent less and less time together. A new girl moved in across the street who Kay befriended, and you grew closer to Jay, the little girl at the other end of the street who has several big siblings and a little sister close in age to your little brother. There are no hard feelings anywhere, we all still greet one another affectionately when we cross paths. 

This afternoon we went on a bike ride, all of us together. Now you're in third grade, and Kay is in fourth. You were blazing down the street wearing light-up pink sneakers, your pink sweater with black hearts tied around your waist, and your Lisa Frank-esque psychedelic unicorn helmet atop your joyful face. Your life is still centered around sparkles and singing while you swing and shoes that flash and flip sequins and Dragon dance routines of your own invention. 

We ran into Kay and her friend. I watched Kay from a distance, feeling a distinctly motherly pang of sadness that their childhoods are slipping past so quick. She was always gangling and thin, but this year her gangling youth has gained the beginning of elegance. It brought a smile to my face to recognize the beginning of her adolescent experimentations with identity and trend, finding where she belongs. She got a short haircut, had worn red Chuck Taylors on her feet. Knee high black and white striped socks, fingerless gloves, oversized cardigan and shorts. Her bike is big, surely it can't be a kids size anymore. 

Will you need an adult bike next year? How long do I have before you trade unicorns and mermaids for eyeliner and ever-present headphones? Don't get me wrong, kid; I'm here for it. Watching you grow up is the greatest honor of my life. But I see Kay changing, and I see you changing, too. I know you're almost eight and a half now. You aren't a little child anymore. You rejoice in counting down and reminding us how long until you're a teenager, until you can drive, until you can vote. (Yeah, turning eighteen means voting to you, and I can't tell you how amazing I find that.)

Ten years ago, Mom and I were in foster care training classes, and I'll never forget one particular thing we learned: Every stage of maturity and newfound independence is cause for both celebration AND grief. Celebrate moving forward and growth. But we must also mourn the loss of what used to be, what is gone. You need me less and less, at least in the way small children need their parents. You can make your own snacks and meals. You choose all your own outfits. You can brush and style your hair (dubiously, but nonetheless). You're an amazing help with your little brothers. 

I got to carry your dangling arms and legs and your strong, thin, big kid body to bed a few nights ago. You fell asleep on the couch reading books with Mom. It was hard to fit you through the doorway while I held you, and I laughed. I used to be THE BEST at laying your small sleeping form down in bed so slowly and gently that you wouldn't wake. You were the easiest baby to wake up and the hardest to get to sleep. Now you are so difficult to get out of bed that I know the universe is cackling out new, stubborn stars to celebrate the ways you challenge us. 

Tonight, I'll close my eyes and remember how round your sweet pink cheeks used to be when you grinned. I'll do my best to remember your slightly gravelly small voice, and the way you used to say "lasterday" and "starflake" and "shicken". I'll smile and a tear will roll as I say goodbye to your small ways and your little chubby hands and your incorrect pronunciations. I'll smile as I think of all the grand things in your life that you've yet to experience (and as I privately rejoice that you still say "trocklate" instead of "chocolate"). 

Love always, 
Mama

First Month

 Sweet J. 

Legally, you've been placed with us for a month. Yesterday, your case moved from the Foster Care division to the Adoptions division of DCS, and today I spoke with your Adoptions worker for the first time. 

Since we first saw your photo in July, we've been waiting. To meet you. To hug you. To bring you home. To call you ours and to become yours. Today was another step along the path to legally solidifying you as part of our family forever. In July, my mind whirled at the thought of what it would be like to have you home, to enfold a one year old into our family unit. Today, I cannot imagine my life without you in it. 

You bring such light and love with you everywhere you go. You are as charming as you are stubborn, and I love that you want to ensure everyone hears your many opinions. As the littlest, I think it's your goal to be the loudest so everyone knows you're here. 

You're here, my boy. 

You're home. 

You are beloved. 

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.