sisters

Today is my baby sister's 40th birthday. It's hard to believe that we are in our 40s. How did that happen?! But it's also amazing to revisit the wonderful, rich, roller-coaster relationship that we've built over the years.

I'm guessing based on the Christmas tree that this photo was taken just a
few days or weeks before Tiffany was born. My last Xmas as the only child. I think that was probably
the best gift I got that year, even if I didn't know it.

I think I was excited to be a big sister till the day she was born (or came home, in some kind of freaky plastic torture carseat - and PS, nice shorts, mom) and realized I would have to share my parent's love, attention...my toys!

What was this business? I can't say I was that lovey dovey nurturing big sister that I wish I had been. But I seemed to fake it well. Isn't she so cute and tiny. She must have been about Carter's age in this picture.

Spaghetti face! That curl on the top of Tiff's head is trademark. Those natural curls started early!

I wish I had more of our growing up photos digital. Many of them were awkward. Bad hair, bad glasses, bad outfits. Much like our relationship. We fought. A lot. I remember getting punched in the face over a dead hamster. Screaming matches over clothes and Barbies. Blaming our dog Poco's broken leg (the result of a "let's play veterinarian" game I cooked up) on Tiff. And, seriously, punching in the face was pretty normal. We did not get along AT ALL. Until we did. And then we were roomies and training partners and best friends. Sisters. Sure, we still have our knock-down-drag-outs sometimes, but here's what I know. 

Prepping for the triathlon. I was ready to bail on this one
and Tiff kept me going. When I don't have enough strength for myself,
she's always there to fill the void.

Tiff's 5th Ragnar. With a smile on her face. She inspires me every day.

We walk for breast cancer, because there are no ass-cancer walks.
She never had to wear a hat or a color to support me during the tough times.

My sister is amazing. She is brilliant and tough and loving and patient and caring. She is talented and sweet and adventurous. She runs tri's and half's with me. She'll hike, waterski, snowboard, babysit, wine taste...whatever. She loves her musicals and movies. She is my best friend. My sister. And I can't imagine my life without her. Sometimes I wish I could rewind some of the past so that I could have more of the amazing moments we've had as grown-up sisters. But I'm not sure it would be the same. Some of the beauty of us today is all the shit we went through back in the day.

This face is the one I love. Just like all of her nieces
and nephews...they all adore Aunt Biff!

Run. Drink. Medals. This girl is a winner.

Happy Birthday, Tiffany! I love, love, love you! You are one of my greatest gifts. I hope that your birthday and your 40th year will be amazing. Just like you.

12 day of pain-mas

For some reason, this holiday season has been a little more painful than most. It started 10 days ago and it seems like somehow there’s been illness, injury or owies pretty much every day since. So here goes our rendition of the Twelve Days of Christmas...the painful version.

12...Barfers Barfing. Sloane gets the stomach flu at 2 in the morning and pukes for 6 hours. Including twice in our bed. Why does it always look like corn?

11...Pukers Puking. Sloane gives her stomach flu to me. I spend 7 hours curled up on the bathroom floor barfing, to the point where I may never eat mashed potatoes and gravy again and my back hurt for two days afterwards. I counted it as exercise and part of my holiday diet program.

10...Husbands Heaving. And then Scott got it, so he started throwing up just as I was vacating my residence in the bathroom. Good timing. But having just finished 36 hours of gross-ness, the last thing you want disturbing your much-needed sleep is the sound of violent yakking through the bathroom door. Especially when you don’t even have the energy to be comforting or help at all. Good luck, hubby. Welcome to hell.

9...Ladies Falling. Yep, tripped in my high-heeled boots and fell down the stairs. Boot heel broken, ankle just sprained.

8...Kids-a-Coughing. Tagg, who miraculously avoided the family puke fest, starts coughing and then spikes a 104 degree fever. Thanks to Tylenol and a day home from pre-school he’s back on the mend a few days later. But lots and lots of "honey medicine" for his throat, education about the value of coughing into his elbow as opposed to my face, and soothing for the sad, sick child.

7...Fish-a-Floating. The kids decided to “feed” our Beta fish. Granted we don’t like this fish but filling its bowl with an entire jar of fish food and the copious amounts of change in our family swear jar seems borderline cruel. And the kids did it three times in just a few days. Feeling bad for Dory the fish, I bought it a little plastic plant for its bowl while I was buying round two of fish food. At WalMart. I would like to believe that the over-feeding, coin toxins took Dory out but I have been informed that these sweet plastic fish plants meant to spruce up Dory’s bowl may leech toxic China-WalMart chemicals into the water. Either way, the damn fish is dead. Tagg thinks he/she’s on vacation at Vanessa’s house.

6...Goose-Eggs-a-Laying. I’m doing a little cleaning up in the basement and start moving a wine rack that’s perched on a high shelf which has just a couple of vintage bottles that I save for memory’s sake, including an empty $500 bottle of 1982 Chateau Margaux that some Vegas sugar daddies treated us to years and years ago which still holds the record for the most expensive wine I’ve ever had. Sure enough, the rack tips and that particular bottle cracks me right on the forehead. Almost knocked me out. Bleeding and Cars bandaids follow. And then I get to rock a ping-pong ball size, goose-egg lump on my forehead for the next three days. Apparently, just in case I had any illusions, my Vegas sugar-daddy party days are OVER. And that's the worst headache I have ever had from a bottle of wine.

5...Sharp Knives. Never try to cut the strings off a roast when the knife is aimed right at your wrist and there are a gazillion people in your house. This will not end well. Especially when your helpful husband distracts you at a critical moment by admonishing you with a “hey, be careful.” A) Don’t distract me when I’m doing something dangerous and stupid. B) Don’t tell me what to do. I WILL stab myself in the wrist, dangerously close to major veins and tendons just to prove you wrong. At least I didn’t bleed on the roast. I didn’t want to get Chopped. Apparently I should have gone to the Instacare to get stitches but I didn’t so….

4...Tetanus Shots. Well, just one really but still, a shot. In the ass. Hence another bandaid. And the nurse said that my butt was my biggest "muscle." I wish I could have tipped her.

3...Banged Heads. A kid at school threw a train at Tagg’s head, so now he and I have matching head wounds. He also favors Cars bandaids.

2...Tequilas Down. Okay, it wasn’t tequila. It was really expensive High West Silver Whiskey which I was making into an adorable gift basket for a friend who likes their “Lemonade.” I had the recipe printed out, farm-fresh honey, a couple of organic lemons, fresh herbs, this over-priced whiskey which is made in Utah, all packed into a cute tin bucket with crinkled paper shreds. All I had to do was pull the cellophane around it and tie a festive ribbon into a lovely bow. I touch the bottle to move it into primo-wrapping position…and the entire fucking neck of the bottle breaks off in my hand. Breaks. OFF. And cuts my finger. I am bleeding, again. Gift, ruined. Surely there’s glass shards and/or my blood in the over-priced whiskey, and perhaps in my finger. Seriously? How did I get the one bottle of whiskey that was pre-destined to shatter on contact? 

1...Hangover on My Couch. I'm not going to lie. There's a pretty good chance this holiday season of disaster, the 12 days of Pain-mas, may drive me to drink entirely too much one day here soon, so I will likely be laying on my sofa watching football or bad 80s movies while feeling like shit. I think I deserve it. And, let's face it, there's a fairly good chance that I won't do anything that requires stitches while I'm couch-bound so that's a good start to the new year. 

awkward family photos

My kids are adorable, and I don't think I'm just one of those biased parents (even though I totally am). She's gorgeous, he's handsome, they are picture perfect. So, imagine our surprise when we get this for a school picture.

 

What the fuck?

Seriously, photographer...I am no professional but there is no way you looked through the lens and said OH YEAH, this one is a keeper! If you can't do something dumb or crazy enough to get a smile out of both of them at least ask someone to tidy up her hair or push her bangs to the side so she doesn't look like she just rolled out of bed. And maybe, just maybe, see if you can get the little guy not to smile like he just ate a jalapeno, or a green bean. 

This hideous school photo is worthy of a submission to Awkward Family Photos, but I feel like I need to wait till they're 18 and can truly appreciate the beauty of it all. I KNOW they were cuter than this when I sent them out the door, and I KNOW it's going to make for some equally awkward embarrass-their-first-date moments down the road. Hilarious.

Side Note...can you believe how BIG both of them look?! What a difference 2 years (and a good photographer) makes. Spend the money, people. Spend the money. And don't put your bald-ish daughter in a ridiculous knit cap with a fake flower barrette because that's almost as dumb.

night night time

I was putting Sloane to bed tonight, which is one of my favorite times of the day. We have a little routine. We read three books, usually Dora-related although I try to sneak in some of my favorites too. Then we sing three songs starting with Good Night Moon, the song Tagg and I made up years ago and has since become a family favorite. 

Sloane and I made up our own verse so it's her song too: 
   Good night moon.
   You're here too soon. 
   I'm not ready to go night-night. 
   I'll get my jammies, we'll sing some songs,
   give everyone a kiss good night.
(at which point she gives me like a dozen open-mouth, adorable, sloppy, toddler fish kisses). 

We usually follow that up with You Are My Sunshine, and then Twinkle Twinkle or Soft Kitty.

Tonight was a little different. We finished Good Night Moon and then Sloane told me to get in the bed, her little tiny toddler bed which is already full of crap - blankets, dolls, animals, books. But I thought she wanted to cuddle so I curled right up. So sweet. Incredibly adorable. I can't wait for the snuggles. And then she slid out of the bottom end of the bed and headed for the door. 

Me: Where are you going, Sloaney-boo?

Sloane: It's night-night time, mommy. Sleepy time. I turn off light and close door. 

Totally ready for snuggles and cuteness, I'm thinking this is the most adorable thing EVER. Until she turned off the light, and closed the door. 

And then left. 

Apparently she was putting me to bed for a change. 

Well played, dear girl. Well played.

it's a comfort thing

Sloane likes to put the tassels of her blanket in her nose and twirl them. It's her little comfort thing. Part gross, part adorable. We've tried to put a stop to it but, in the grand scheme of things, it seems kind of harmless. And, let's face it, sometimes you just need something that makes you happy, no matter how odd, adorable, or cute it is.

One of Tagg's pre-school classmates turned five today and is graduating to the kindergarten class. He was talking about the bus and "real" school and seemed excited about it, but a little sad he was moving on so I thought I'd ask him about it. Here's how that brilliant idea went down...

Me: Tagg, do you like school?

Tagg: No.

Me: Really? Why not?

Tagg: Because I like Nickelodeon.

Me: What?!

Tagg: I'd rather go to Nickelodeon school.

Me: Mayday. No more cartoons in the morning, or he'll be graduating from VH1 high. 

shoplifting

The kids and I were meeting our old nanny at the mall for dinner and she was running a little late, so we took the opportunity to scoot down to Naartjie (one of my all-time favorite shops) to get a birthday present for my niece. In just 10 minutes, Sloane had managed to destroy several precisely stacked display tables of pants and shirts, rip the tags off about 3 items of clothing and peel the size stickers off another half dozen. This is while I’m trying to look for proper sizes in a matching outfit on the sale rack, a borderline impossible feat, while Tagg is running laps back and forth to the front of the small store. 

And then he doesn’t come back. Or answer when I call him. Panic. I’m running around the store, enlisting the clerks to help find my lost son – which they did in about 30 seconds. Apparently the front window is a favorite hiding place for errant kids. Completely frazzled, I pay for the gift along with a few other things I couldn’t live without and we head off to the restaurant.

As I’m pulling Sloane out of the stroller, I notice a pair of pants that were tucked under her bum. Size 3-6 months. She’s shoplifting at 2 years of age. And not even for the right size stuff! Our nanny burst into laughter and agreed to watch the kids while I did a walk of shame back to the store. As I passed the stroller, I noticed a pant leg with a tag hanging out of the bottom. 

No she didn’t, I think.  

Yes, yes, she did. The entire stroller basket was stuffed to the brim with probably 40 pairs of pants and shirts in all sizes. So now my walk of shame is complete, as I hurry down the mall with an armload of stolen merchandise and, disgraced, hand the pile of clothes back to the same clerk with the condescending smirk who just helped me find my lost son in the window.

I will be withdrawing my application for mother of the year tomorrow. 

And, seriously, if she's going to shoplift I need to at least make sure she's stealing the right size stuff!

family photo smackdown

Our favorite photographer, Jodi at A Yummy Life, has been on maternity leave this year. Tragic for us. Great for her and her lovely new baby girl. We were lucky enough to snag a coveted out-of-hibernation photo shoot for today and I spent too many hours and hundreds of dollars tracking down the perfect set of outfits, perfectly color matched but not toooo matchy, hand-picked to contrast with the scenery, and designed to flatter all of us. I have visions of brilliance in my head.

Our day started at 6-ish AM, a little earlier than our usual Saturday (or any day) schedule. We had soccer at 8. It was cold. Tagg was basically the only player on their team so he ran ALL day. Then the kids went to Nana and Papa's while I did a long, SLOW, training run for next week's half marathon. Then we went home to change clothes for a trip to the pumpkin patch with Sloane's birth family which was wonderful, and then we ran home for our third costume change of the day to do pictures at 5:30.

Needless to say, the kids were, after this crazy jam-packed day and no naps...uncontrollable. Even though we bribed them with french fries and M&M's, they wanted to run, jump in the mud (remember the part where I said HUNDREDS?! the pants were dirty in 10 minutes!), hit each other with sticks (aka, light sabers)...anything but stand in front of a camera and smile. It was off the hook, and not in a good way.

So we're trying to do one more family photo. Just one. The leaves behind us are brilliant with fall colors - bright yellow, some rich evergreens, the actual sunset. This is a photographer's DREAM setting, with some professional models. My kids are running hither and yon, like they've become instantly deaf, ADD, ADHD and are just insane. We finally gather them in for a cute, cute, cute family photo with this great light and backdrop, but Tagg is still fidgeting. Scott bends down, Tagg jumps up and - BAM! A bloody, broken nose dramedy is in the house! Yep. Scott yells the f-word and folds over like he's been punched in the nuts. Tagg starts crying like he's been punched in the head. I hear what sounds like water dripping and immediately know that Scott's nose is broken and bleeding. Sloane dashes off toward the nearest mud puddle because she knows no-one is paying attention to her when there's blood and swearing involved. And the poor photographer is mortified watching this train wreck unfold in front of her.

Fast forward a few minutes. Scott has diaper wipes shoved up his broken nostril and is using the rest to clean his hands and face. Tagg says, " Daddy can you kiss my head better? You hurted it with your face." Scott kisses his head and says "I'm sorry I hurt your head with my face, buddy" while he has a diaper wipe hanging out of his nose (which Tagg thinks is hilarious).  Tagg says, "Daddy, you squirted your nose on my head, but I winned you." Yes, Tagg, we all think you "winned" Daddy - poor, swollen, broken-nosed, in-pain Daddy - on this one. I can only hope that Jodi got some awesome pictures of this reality family moment. Seriously?! How does this happen!?

But later this evening, Tagg caressed Scott's nose and gave it a get-well kiss and said, "Daddy, I see your nose is fixed back together again." And he's right. It is. I hope the family pictures turn out but even if they don't, this moment is a keeper.

the swear jar

The Swear Jar

Is it bad to have a swear jar when you’re four? I’m guessing that’s a "yes." And yet another reason why I will not be winning the Mother of the Year trophy. I picked the kids up from Nana and Papa’s house on Saturday. They were starving. I was trying to cram too many errands in a 24 hour period than are humanly possible. So I figured fast food would be in order. They could eat in the car (against one of my cardinal rules) while I drove to the grocery store, and hopefully we could avoid a major meltdown in the produce section. I was visualizing this detailed gameplan when I realized I needed to decide which burger joint was getting our business.

Me: “Tagg, what do you want for lunch?”

Tagg: “I want a fuckin’ smoothie.”

Me: Long Pause of Disbelief. WHAT DID HE JUST SAY?!?!

“Um, what?”  

Please, please let him say PUMPKIN smoothie. PUMPKIN smoothie…

Tagg: “I want a fuckin’ smoothie, please.”

Me: At least he said please. No wait...this is really bad. Speedy Internal Debate… Do I ignore it? Do I tell him not to say it? Last time I did that he said “dammit” about a hundred times in a row. Do I pretend like he actually said “pumpkin?” I have to say something, right? What do you say to your 4-year-old dropping the f-bomb like it’s any other adjective? And what have my parents been teaching him?! 

So I pulled over and told Tagg that was a very adult word, and not a nice one at that and he shouldn’t use it ever. And if he ever heard an adult use that word he should tell them it’s not a nice word. And then we went and got a fuckin’ smoothie. After I texted Scott to let him know that his son is now fluent with his patented swear word. I mean, I may be “Dammit Girl” but this f-bomb stuff is ALL Scott. I do like to gloat a little bit about that.

And I now have a swear jar for the kids. I put in a quarter every time they drop one of the good ones. The not-so-awful ones get nickles and dimes. Pennies for any time Scott and I drop one of any caliber. At this rate, we might be able to pay for college.

the crack

Kouing Amann. Ever heard of it? Tried it? If not, you should. It's seriously the best pastry EVER. People (some who read this blog) actually have sex dreams about it. Hence the surrogate title "crack" because (a) that's what it's like and (b) who can pronounce Kuoing Amann (queen ah-mahn, fyi, depending on what blog, wiki you look at). 

It's apparently the hot new thing in San Francisco, but here in Utah we've been addicted to the Crack for over five years. Since before Les Madeleines, our local "dealer," was on the Food Network. I was lucky enough to discover "crack" at Les Madeleines in Salt Lake City when their store was across the street from my little ad agency and my partner Barry and I would visit a few times a week for a sugar and caffeine fix. I'm still addicted, super proud Romina the chef is making a name for herself, and happy she's not across the street or I'd be a huge, huge individual.

Had one today. I make this noise when I eat "crack"...mmm, mmm, mmmmmm. It's kind of guttural and has a little passion to it, some decadence and indulgence, just like this dessert. It is ooey-gooey delicious-ness that is worth every single calorie (all 500 of them). And you will be addicted. Trust me.

first kiss

Do you remember the name of the first person you ever kissed? 

A friend of mine raised that question with a bunch of co-workers the other day and she was mortified that virtually none of the men remembered the name of the girl who ushered them into manhood, who shared this incredibly romantic, life-changing milestone moment with them. For some it was just a girl with a sports bra on the wrestling mats in the gym. For others, it could have been one of a multitude of girls. All nameless, faceless bodies with boobs and lips and, did I mention? BOOBS. Or maybe it was just boob potential, or boobs attached to lips that would actually kiss them. At any rate, she was scandalized that these men had diminished these young girls to objects without feelings, faces or even names.

I must have been a teenage boy when I was a teenage girl because I seriously don't remember the name of the boy I first kissed, like really kissed.

I remember a lot about the moment. I was 13, the new girl in school. Frizzy hair, thick glasses, bad skin, off-brand jeans, in the band. We were playing "2 Minutes in the Closet" at a birthday party (thanks Judy Blume! I would link you to the "rules" but apparently this game is now called 7 Minutes in Heaven or 10 Minutes of Paradise and a few other things that have tarnished my memory of this oh-so innocent, toe-dip into tween romance and sex moment so I'll just let you Google those on your own. In short, it's a game where a boy and a girl are pushed into a closet or otherwise small and dark room at a party and you are expected to do "whatever" for two minutes, while everyone outside the door giggles and speculates.

My memory...The closet was crowded with junk. There was a mobile with lots of little silver birds that kept getting tangled in my unruly hair. I think his name was Eric. Maybe. He was a little taller than me with brownish curly-ish hair, pretty cute, considering it was the early 80s and we were 13 years old. He might have had braces. You'd think that's something I'd remember, right? I was nervous. I had no idea what to expect. Anyway, he kissed me. With tongue. Yep, my first kiss was french. Hey, go big or go home. I remember liking it well enough, but also being a little bewildered that this swapping of spit and groping of tongues was such a big deal.

I am kind of sad that I don't remember his name. Or have a better memory of that moment. I wish I'd kept a journal back then so that all these years later, I could remember all the details and the roller-coaster of emotions that I'm sure came along with my "first kiss." But I'm glad I got to revisit it. Maybe I'll dig up an old yearbook and see if that jogs any memories. Or maybe I don't need to. I'll just keep my romanticized "first kiss" memory as it is.

Question of the Day...Do you remember your first kiss? Name? Face? Details? Do tell!

Update...for the record, the first kiss WAS named Eric. Found my old junior high yearbook (scary). He was blond-ish (black and white photos give you some leeway here); definitely cute given that it was the early 80s and we all had awful hair, clothes, and were in the depths of puberty; and, judging by the closed lip yearbook picture smile, I'm guessing I was also right on the braces. Good memory!

our knitting project

I’m always pleasantly surprised by the ways our family is knitted together. It reminds me of knitting actually. Not that I’ve ever really knitted anything so I guess it’s more like it reminds of what I think knitting would be like. I imagine that we started out thinking we were going to make a sock, and then we kept adding to it and pretty soon it became a scarf and then we added some more in different colors and it started to look like a sweater and the we add more in more colors and it might end up being some kind of poncho thing with a hood right now.

I say that because our old nanny was just in town visiting from her new home and life in California. She loves these kids like a favorite aunt: phone calls and gifts on birthdays and holidays, pictures from her new life as a college graduate. We chat over dinner about Sloane’s potty training, Tagg’s new addiction to Star Wars, her boyfriend’s crazier-than-ever mother, her search for a new house. She always feels like family to me and I hope that no matter what happens in the future, she feels that way too. 

We were blessed to find her at a time when I was really struggling with the fiscal requirements that drove me back to work when I wanted nothing more than to be home with my children. Leaving them in a stranger’s hands was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. But she was perfect from the first meeting – she was the only candidate who insisted on meeting at a Starbucks because she was concerned about safety, not paranoid just cautious. I was sold! - and she just got better from there.

I was often jealous that she was leading the life I had dreamed of and planned on – play dates and swimming lessons and craft projects - while I was living meetings and deadlines and office politics. But you do what you have to do to get by, and now I realize that maybe she was brought to us because she was meant to be part of our random, ever-expanding, knitted-together-by-love little family. 

I also think she helped me figure out something that I think most working moms know, or learn: you get as much joy out of the time you have together as you can. You might even appreciate that precious time more because you actually know what you're missing. 

I do have to say that since Nessa left, I have a newfound appreciation for her ability to have EVERYTHING in perfect order when I got home at night. When Scott gets home on Saturdays, it's like Toys R Us exploded in our house and our dishwasher and washing machine are broken. Hey, we all have our strengths. Cleaning may not be one of mine, but I can craft and soccer-mom my ass off!

So who knows where it will end up, this knitted-together family of ours. What shape, size and combination of colors it will end up. The one thing we do know is that no matter what, it keeps us all warm and snuggly.

there's the thread

I went to a baby shower for one of my dear friends recently. She and I were roommates when she got divorced a little over 10 years ago. We were both in advertising, addicted to shopping, liked to hob-nob at clubs and Sundance movie premieres, we were both Pisces, and had a million more things in common. She had a pug who would wake me up before I was ready. I had a cat that liked to pee on her bed. 

We don’t talk a ton since she moved to New York City about 5 years ago, but every time we do it’s like no time has passed. That's the best kind of friend to have, in my opinion. Low maintenance, high value. She’s kind of living the dream – she packed up and moved to Manhattan to pursue a photography career and ended up in design, hopping from fabulous party to famous restaurant to high-profile accounts, always looking gorgeous and free and happy. I quietly coveted her footloose, glamorous, Sex In The City life on those days when Utah felt too pedestrian and stifling, or when marriage and a house payment seemed too grown-up and stressful, or when my job seemed boring and unsatisfying.

And then one day last summer she called me and asked about adoption. She was turning 40 soon and had decided that what she really wanted was a baby. And since the dating scene had been less than productive (even in New York…who would have thought that!) she was going to become a parent on her own. And, in typical Jen fashion, she wasn’t exactly doing it the “conventional” way.

Nope. One of her very dear gay friends had offered to serve as a sperm donor, and they were literally using a turkey baster – yes, an actual Thanksgiving-like-your-mom-uses turkey baster – to do the deed. As it turns out, that did not work for them and they had to go pro (ka-ching) but still, success! She’s pregnant and is officially staring single motherhood square in the face. We had a chance to chat when I visited her in New York and it was interesting to see that she struggles with a lot of the same issues we do with our adopted children: What is the baby daddy's role going to be? How much will he be involved? What if he wants to be more involved than she’s prepared for? Do his parents get to act like real grandparents? What does she tell this baby about how he or she was born and who all of these people are?

After a long discussion about the pros and cons of this option or that strategy, expressing our fears and uncertainties, and admitting that we really have no freaking clue what we’re doing, we settled on the one thing we both do know 100% and without question. We love these children and they can’t ever have enough people to love them, so as long as we make decisions with love and trust in our hearts, we’ll be doing the right thing. Well, actually there were two things we figured that we do know. The other? We’re probably going to screw a lot of things up along the way and that’s okay too. And just like that we’re back to having something in common. I’m excited for her and I look forward to a lot of those sporadic future phone calls and emails, and hopefully some visits, where we can prop each other up and share our unique stories just like the good old days. Maybe we'll get to do some shopping and have a martini while we're at it.

When Tagg was born, someone gave us this lovely book called The Red Thread, An Adoption Fairy Tale. It's about people following this thread that tugs at their hearts till they embark on a journey to find their family and their joy. I kind of think that's how a lot of families are made these days. And a lot of friendships. I know that Jen and I have a "thread" connection, just like Scott and I have a thread that unites us with our birth families. And Jen will have that same bond with her baby-family, I think; sometimes it may wear thin or get a little twisted but you're still joined together by love. And that's what makes it all work.