flashback: tagg's birthday

First birthday photo...July 26, 2008. Such a love.

I think about Tagg's birth parents a lot. Some people think more than I should, but on his birthday I can't help but think back to the day he was born. I was exchanging some Facebook messages with Paulie, Tagg's baby-daddy (cuz, you know, that's how you communicate these days) and we were reminiscing about the first time we met, the 24th of July - a local Utah holiday celebrating the day Joseph Smith decided that Utah was "the place" for his little band of Mormon pioneers to settle.

We met them at the Porcupine Bar & Grill. Can I just tell you how stressful it was to pick out the "perfect" place to meet this family for first time? They had just made their own cross-country pilgrimage - in an airplane, of course, not on foot with a handcart and an ox, but still - into uncharted, undocumented territory. We agonized over the right place, with the right ambiance. Nothing too chain-y, something kind of cool and central but that still seems a little kid friendly, and maybe just maybe had a little Utah flare. Borderline impossible task! But porcupine seemed to be a good fit - casual, good food, homemade sodas, and close enough to the canyons that we could drive up and have them appreciate the natural beauty of the Rocky Mountains (aka Utah).

It's called "Our Gift...New Parents."
The perfect offering for a gift from
birth family to adoptive parents. I bawled.

When we walked in to the restaurant, Scott went to shake Juno's mom's hand and she said, "Oh no...we're huggers in this family!" and gave him a big bear hug. That pretty much broke the ice. I am a total hugger! Sometimes, inappropriately huggy. She and I sat next to each other at dinner and she told me that they knew we were the ones from the first time they saw our profile book. "I've ready it at least 50 times. We feel like we know you." They brought us a Willow Tree statuette of a mother and father with a little baby and said, "We want you to know that we believe that this is your baby and that you are meant to be his parents. You never have to worry about that." It was the best day. And the kind of thing where you know, deep in your heart and your bones and everywhere that counts, that these people are "family."

On July 26th, Juno was induced in the morning (she had to get home for volleyball tryouts the following week...yeah, think about that!) so Scott went to work, and I went for an incredibly distracted run with my phone turned up full volume. Just in case. Then we went to lunch, still nothing. We talked to Juno and her family throughout the day and they were playing cards, teaching Paulie how to do the jitterbug or something, and watching sports on TV. We went to the Nordstrom Rack, the Verizon store. We even thought about going to a movie but figured the second the previews were over, we'd get a call to report to the hospital. So we went up to the hospital and hung out for awhile. We were worried that it would be awkward, but it was really cool to spend some quality time with all of them.

Not as cool as a few hours later when we hear Tagg's first cry through the hospital room door, and Paulie came out with tears in his eyes, gave me a big hug with my face in his armpit (he's about a foot taller than me!) and said, 'promise me you'll take care of him." - heartbreaker -

When we finally went in the room, Juno had him in her arms and she looked at me with nothing but content in her eyes, and placed him in my arms. Just like her mom said she wanted to. I look back at the pictures from that day and you can see how much love there is in the room, and around our little boy. Baby mama and daddy smiling, baby grandma and grandpa laughing, me and Scott over the moon with joy, Tagg trying to figure out what the hell just happened. It's an incredibly special moment and one that cements, for me, that adoption can and should be a beautiful experience that is about surrounding a baby with love and family and opportunity. No matter what shape or form or title that takes, it's all that really matters.