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.

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. 

Anniversaries

Summertime is always a very full time of year for the McGills. Birthdays galore, a couple of wedding anniversaries, a couple of death anniversaries. This year, for me, it's a time of contemplation.

T's and my birthdays both are during the summer months. Born in the same year, we're the same age except for those days between our birthdays in July and September. Both T's parents and a handful of friends all have birthdays during this hottest time of year. And lest we forget, our E and many of her friends have birthdays in the summer as well. It's a solid four months of splash pads and zoo trips, of sunscreen and melting frosting. The slap of little feet in flip flops across the wet concrete and echoing shouts of laughter. There's much singing of Happy Birthday to be had, and plenty of treats to go with all these lovely birthday wishes.

Then there's the wedding anniversaries. Ours is tomorrow; August 22nd. This year marks seven years married for us. The Copper Anniversary - which we love, as we are southwestern women at heart. My parents' anniversary is only a few days behind ours.

Admittedly, T and I haven't been very good at the whole anniversary thing since our first anniversary. Since then, life has gotten in the way and we haven't felt called to have parties or even do much by way of celebrating. I like to think that we celebrate each other daily, even if that's not always true. Seven years hitched and ten years together feels like a good long time. My wife is a foregone conclusion - in the very best way possible. She's my rock, my sounding board, my tether to logic and reason. Ever the sensible and responsible one, my darling lady. This year was a pretty special one though, in that our state recognized our marriage early in the year and then the Supreme Court ruled that gay marriage is legal nationally - this is our first anniversary that our home state "counts" us as a married couple. Able to file jointly on both state and federal taxes for the first time. Able to both have legal rights to our children. Able to own our home together, instead of her half and my half. We considered doing a vow renewal for our anniversary this year, to celebrate with those who we missed celebrating with seven years ago. Unfortunately we weren't able to make that happen this summer. It simply was too costly. Then I ended up pregnant and now I'm selfishly thankful that I'm not about to be photographed in my current "chubbily pregnant" state. Regardless of gifts and cards though, I've never been more grateful for my wife than this year. The pregnancy hasn't been easy on me, and I've relied upon her moreso than I would have wished. I know it's been difficult for her, and she has truly impressed me beyond measure with her ability to stay cool under the pressure of running our lives. Just to embarrass her for a moment, I want to tell you all that she's done 100% of the toddler wake-ups and drop-offs and probably 99% of her bedtimes. She's singlehandedly balanced our budget, gotten all our bills paid on time, undertaken all the meal-planning, shopping, and cooking. Oh, and did I mention, she also got a promotion at work during all this? And she's taken time away from work to attend our prenatal appointments. I know she knows I'm thankful, but it can't hurt to reiterate.

Thank you my love, for being a supportive and endlessly understanding partner during our whole relationship - but particularly the last two months.

In September, we also take time to remember the family matriarchs whom we've lost. T and I both mourn the deaths of our maternal grandmothers in September. Both strong women, forces to be reckoned with in each of their respective clans. Both grandmothers struggled with our relationship, and I think I can speak for both of us when I say that I regret they departed this life without knowing the depth of joy and love we've found, and without having known their great-grandchildren. In many ways, this feels like a too-abrupt ending; a cliffhanger without a sequel; a novel whose writer never finished. I cannot believe that either one would have wished to miss out on our babies. I hope that in their own ways, perhaps these absent grandmothers get to witness our family growing and to know our children, even if from a great distance. You are both missed.

All these things cause me to reflect. I'm 14 weeks pregnant now, with likely the only pregnancy I'll carry. I know that come March, I'll be alone in this body once more and forever. I know and have said often to myself that I need to try and relish this time, to celebrate the life growing within me. But I frequently find myself firmly mired in each moment, thinking only of my discomfort and wishing I felt better. Then I feel guilty for not cherishing every second, even the ones spent vomiting or with a cramping stomach.

I've spent the better portion of these last two months either being sick, uncomfortable, or asleep. I've thought only of what I must force myself to do that minute, or the next. There's been little time to daydream about this baby. As you might imagine, this isn't exactly how I envisioned pregnancy going for me. Thinking about the last two months makes me feel very sad and full of regret, and yet I cannot see how to have done it differently. I've had this conversation (if you will) with a few people, and some seem to find it distressing that I'm not the happy, glowing pregnant woman they want me to be. I think this is probably just the first of many times that I'll disappoint my adoring fans with what they feel must be inappropriate feelings or reactions, but I've come to a conclusion. It's just too much pressure to try and feel joyful all the time. Sometimes, the fact is, it sucks to feel sick and that must be acceptable.

Now, all that being said - I seem to be feeling better and less volatile this week. I'm glad. So very glad. Bring on some new kind of pregnancy torture - this "morning" sickness is for the birds. I'm looking forward to our Centering classes starting in September, and I'm also excited for E's and my birthdays. We're extra fortunate this year to be able to take E to visit my great aunt and uncle for the first time in Iowa, and I am so happy. I'm waiting patiently (NOT) to feel the babe begin to move, and I am so excited for T and E to feel it, too. Our anatomy scan is scheduled in October, just after a good friend is getting married. Truly, I feel like we're on the brink of some grand adventures and I'm glad to put the first trimester behind us. I hope to find a little bit more of myself in the second.

To sum up: Happy Birthday! Happy Anniversary! Happy memories! Happy life!