On Hating Baseball, Passionately

I understand that baseball is America’s pastime. I understand the allure of drinking beer in the sunshine; in fact, that’s something that would constitute my sort of heaven. I understand how one might be intrigued by the significance of actually seemingly arbitrary statistics.

Even with that knowledge, I can’t help but just hate baseball.

Maybe it’s the ADHD. Or the fact that paying $8 for beer that will be warm and half spilled by the time I get back to my seat isn’t something that excites me. Or the fact that I can’t sit still for three hours watching tiny little men in pants run/stand around a giant lawn.

It’s probably that. I can do that for free pretty much anywhere.

I’m happiest when I’m trying to guess how fast the pitch is going to be. And even that loses its luster after like 7 minutes, or roughly 1/3 of an inning, which is like 3.8% of a game. (See, I did speculative math just to prove my point. That’s how intense my dislike is.)

Then what? Sunshine that I had to pay for? Or worse, a rain delay? Ha. I know we’re all terrified of the lightning strikes that have really just been a sweeping epidemic for baseball player deaths, but I think mud baseball would be way more interesting to watch. They’d slip and slide and it’d be way more interesting than the current quick jog to first and then maybe you’ll be out because you’re forced to run to second and everyone knows that’s where they’ll throw the ball. Oooh, double play. Interesting, for a split second. Much like a heart attack. Then back to the slow steady rhythm of the ball, strike, ball, strike, foul, ball, strike, ever consistent keeping of the count. It’s a baseline for boredom, an undercurrent of apathy, an elucidation of the reasons behind the effectiveness of Chinese water torture.

For some, it’s a near religious experience, a replacement for yoga, for meditation. For me, it’s nothing but sunburn and struggle.

My littles are going to the game today. My aunt told me that they get to go to school for the first half of the day and then they get to go to the game. They’re about 9 years old, and the little boy is the most passionate baseball fan I’ve ever seen. He loves it. He thrives on the game play, the player stats, the experience. I adore him, and I love that he loves it.

I finally understand how my mom feels about my cat.

Ah, well. I can avoid it as much as I like, which I do intend to keep doing. However, if I do find myself in a ballpark, I will be content to soak up sunshine and eat hot dogs, which are truly the only redeeming quality of the baseball experience.

(I’m mostly kidding – I do get bored easily, which is why baseball isn’t the sport for me. I don’t hate it as much as I pretend to, but I enjoy how riled up everyone gets when they’re defending it.)

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On Adoption Camp, Nervously

We’re about to start Domestic Adoption Camp. This year is a big year for me – I’m co-coordinator of the Elementary Programming, which means that every single activity that the Pre-K through 5th graders are doing was crafted by myself and my co-coordinator. This is a huge deal. The success of the camps requires the dedication of the volunteers, and I’m hoping that every single child enjoys every single minute of camp.

Domestic Adoption Camp is the smallest camp run by the Heritage Camps for Adoptive Families. It’s also the newest – only in its fourth year. This will be second year being involved with Domestic Adoption Camp, even though it’s my third with HCAF.

I’m hoping that we’ve come up with a programming schedule that is flexible but also enjoyable, and something that will be memorable for the kids. More than that, I’m excited to have been given such a huge responsibility. I know that sounds silly, but I like to think that I take to leaderships positions pretty naturally and I hope that I can handle any unforeseen conflicts with grace.

The best part of camp for me was the Adult Adoptee Panel. My brother and I got to sit down with several other adult adoptees and speak to the parents about our experiences. It was lighthearted at times, but also heavy. These parents are so dedicated to their children, and it shows in how involved they are, not only in their children’s lives, but also in the various communities that they belong to, namely, the adoption community.

This year, I suggested that perhaps we’d bring in a parent or two to talk about their experiences raising adopted children. The camp organizers loved the idea, and they asked my mom if she’d be willing to come and speak. (I said yes before I even asked her.)

I’m excited that she’s coming. I didn’t realize how excited I was until I kept bringing it up to anyone that I talked to about camp. I can’t wait to get up there with my brother and my mom and talk about adoption. She’s great. I’m biased, of course, but I really do believe that she did the parenting thing correctly — a little bit of strict guidance mixed with a lot of understanding.

We did all of the setup today. We’ve got tie dye on the agenda, which will be one of the best (and worst) parts. It’s messy and hectic, but I think the kids will really enjoy having something to take home with them.

I stole an idea from a creative writing teacher at my high school, too. In class, he had us write letters to our future selves. I think I’m due to receive mine this year, and I can’t wait to see what seventeen year old me had to say about stuff. I wonder if I’m where she thought I’d be. (I’m guessing not, but we’ll see.) I’m going to have all of the kids write letters to their future selves, talking about what it is that they think they’ll be doing, what they love now, and encouraging them to write a bit about what being adopted means to them.

One of the things that I love about these camps is that while the focus is on adoption, it’s not entirely about adoption (at least for the kids). Since I primarily work with the elementary kids, I don’t force the topic of adoption. If they want to talk about it, they will. And some of them are bursting with pride about it while others don’t want to talk about it at all. My brother usually works with the middle or high school kids, and I know that they spend a lot more time focusing on adoption and what it means to them. The camps don’t force the kids into anything – they let them handle it all at their own pace in an environment full of adopted kids and adoptive families. It’s beautiful to see what happens.

I love how curious the parents are. During our panel last year, they asked so many questions. We honestly could have sat there and talked all day. Mike and I talked about our differing relationships with our birth families and how they affect us — last year, I had just come back from my birth mom’s wedding, and I was still reeling from all of the love that surrounded me (and her) during that time. I remember thinking it’d be weird that my mom wanted to go with me, but it ended up working out perfectly.

This year should be interesting. I know my mom is nervous, but I also know that she’s going to do great. The parents are going to love her sense of humor (it’s sharp), and her knowledge about children in general (she’s a Special Education Teacher with 30 + years of experience). She knows a lot more about parenting than she thinks she does, and I hope that Mike and I are proof of that. I told her to talk about our teenage years specifically, because I know that a lot of the parents are terrified of that. I laugh, because last year, I told them that my mom’s motto during that time was “This too shall pass,” and I think they appreciate that kind of honesty and humility. I know that they all worry about doing the right thing, and I think it’s important to go into it with a flexible attitude while knowing that some things are going to go well and others aren’t — and you just have to adjust and move forward.

On Two Years, Anniversarily

I remember what I was wearing when I walked into the Black Crown Lounge on Friday, July 13, 2012 – a sleeveless printed mini dress, black and tan. That’s not important.

When the bartender handed me the drink, our eyes met and I felt some sort of electricity run through me. I panicked and looked away. I don’t panic, usually. But then again, it’s not every day I run into someone who stirs that kind of curiosity. (His version of events is very different. He claims there was no shock of recognition, nothing except the standard physical appeal. He is wrong.)

I’m never very bold when it comes to this sort of thing, so I just let my friends do a little bit of information reconnaissance. I noticed that the bartender would pass by, taking out the trash or something. I ignored him. (I’m so smooth. So many skills.)

After a few near misses — the awareness of proximity not lost on either of us, even though he’ll never admit it — he approached me and asked me if I’d like to hang out some time. I giggled, and said yes. “Should I get your number, then?” he asked. Oh god, I’m the worst at being nervous. I gave him my number.

The next night, I picked him up and we went to the goth bar. Totally my scene, but not his at all. We went home and he made me a martini (I’d never had one), and we watched a documentary.

The rest is history. Five weeks later, we drove to the Grand Canyon.

We got bored there. I demanded a lake, so we drove to Lake Powell and camped on the beach. It was just us and the sand and the lake. And the family of Mormons who couldn’t be bothered to pack out their trash, but that’s not important. They left before sunset, and we had the place to ourselves again.

I fell in love with him that weekend and promptly dumped him after we got back to Denver. We never really stopped talking, though. Our relationship continued on, in some form or another. There were the bumps that came in the middle. There were several ultimatums that changed us, shaping our communication, and once, halting it altogether. When we began talking again last summer, he asked me to meet his parents. He took me to a barbecue. He made me dinners. We ran errands together.

One night, he made dinner. I got to his house, and he asked, “You like salmon, right?” I don’t eat cooked fish. I lied, I think. He saw right through it. I still ate it.

This time fell together slowly. There wasn’t any overt statement of expectations, although it was very clear that this was becoming a thing. I was going through a lot when all of this started, and he would hold me and let me cry into him. His quiet strength has always made me feel safe and protected in a way I can’t fully describe.

I remember the first time we held hands in the car. It was an errand somewhere last summer, and he grabbed my hand. I thought my heart was going to explode. I didn’t say anything. It was a declaration he’d never made out loud. I’ll never forget how I felt that day.

We celebrated our two-year anniversary last night. Two years since the night I met him. Two years of us, in some form or another. But mostly, it’s been about a year since we started this, the real thing. He’s not the romantic type, and we’re broke, so I wasn’t expecting much. But part of me hoped for something.

He offered to cook dinner last night. He made my favorite: pineapple curry. We got a bottle of wine we usually wouldn’t buy. I made my grandma’s chocolate cherry cake, garnished with a blend of frostings and some fresh strawberries. At one point, he ran off yelling something about “the sauce!” We made curry; there isn’t a sauce. I didn’t think anything of it and used the opportunity to turn up the stove to make sure that the chicken was fully cooked. (He told me he knew that’s exactly what I’d do.)

When he came back, he directed me to grab my wine and get in the car. I didn’t even have time to get shoes. He grabbed bowls, the curry, the rice, and the wine. He started driving. He pulled up at a quiet little park a few blocks from our house.

I got out and started towards the back  of the park. He’d set up a picnic blanket and put down a ton of electric tealight candles around the blanket. It was really magical. “I expect to see happy tears!” he directed. I laughed, through happy tears. He told me he tried to get all teal-colored lights but that wasn’t possible, and that the sauce errand had taken forever since he’d been pulling the tabs out of the tealights.

We ate curry, drank wine, and let the darkness settle around us. Then we laid on the blanket, surrounded by little tealights, and watched the bats fly above us. I was overwhelmed. I am thrilled that he did something so perfect. He put his hands on my face, told me how much he loves me, and kissed me, through more happy tears.

I never saw this coming but I wouldn’t have it any other way. I love our little family.

On the Dog, Celebratorily

Our baby isn’t a baby any more! On July 4, Acorn turned one.

Why is his birthday July 4th? Since we’ll never know his actual birthday, but we know it’s some time in July, we decided to make him an “America dog” (not my choice) and to give him a birthday we’ll easily remember. Last year, July 4th was the first day that boyfriend and I started hanging out again, too. We went to a barbecue in Boulder with some of his friends. So it all wraps up nicely.

Baby Acorn in Mississippi.

How did he become Acorn? Well – naming things just has to come. You can’t force it. So of course we panicked. Something so adorable also has to be aptly named. We thought. We thought some more. We suggested things — most of them Mississippi related. I threw out “Acorn” — pronounced “A-kern” — since I had found it hilarious that boyfriend’s grandpa had explained to me how much deer love “a-kerns” when we went hunting. I spent two days trying to figure out what an “a-kern” was before realizing they were acorns.

We laugh because when we went to get him that bright orange collar before we left Mississippi, I was filling out the tag so it could be engraved while we were telling the store proprietor that we hadn’t named him yet. The tag clearly says, Acorn. At one point, boyfriend’s grandpa said, “Don’t know why the hell they named him A-corn,” clearly enunciating the corn.

He was about 35 pounds when we rescued him. Since he was clearly abused or dumped or both, boyfriend always teases me about how Acorn used to have a “loving family.” Whenever I talk about how much I love the dog, he’ll say, “I bet he never did that with his loving family” or something about how much they miss him. I usually end up just rolling my eyes at him and then snapping, “He did not have a loving family! They didn’t take care of him and they don’t deserve him!” (It’s like my mom always said when my brother was picking on me, “The reaction is the reward.”) I remember when he was tiny and sweet, a timid puppy who needed love and encouragement. Now he’s all about chomping and fetching and wiggling. He still needs (and gets) a lot of love, but he’s so much more confident now.

20 hours of car ahead of him on his way to Colorado.

It’s funny what a full seven months of love can do to a dog. He went from being terrified of EVERYTHING (cars, stairs, linoleum, wood floors, dogs) to being an adventure dog. He still has to defer to Carlos, who’s the head of the animal coalition in our house, but they get along and tolerate each other. (Usually — Acorn recently discovered Carlos’s other stash of squeaky toys, which didn’t go over so well.)

One of my friends said last week that she truly believes that we gave Acorn (who also answers to Mr. Corn, General Cornwallis, and Hey!) the best home possible. She looked at him, lounging in the front lawn, not running away because he knows better, and told me that a lot of homes would have given him love but that we had given him the best. Since they’re not my words, I can totally use them to brag about how much he rocks.

As I type this, he’s whining under my feet. Ha. It’s not all roses over here in puppy parenthood. When I got home from two fully exhausting days at adoption camp a couple of weekends ago, he had been alone all day and was needy and whining and miserable. So was I. It made me wonder how people do the whole parenting thing. Especially teachers. Whiny kids for eight hours, oh wait, you’re working a double, but with different whiny kids for the next eight hours! Woo!

He’s a black lab something mix (collie?), so his furry sweater is really long and when it’s 90 degrees out, it’s too hot to walk him. He doesn’t understand why we can’t go play all the time, because it’s hard to explain to a dog why I don’t want to end up on the 6:00 news for being the kind of dog parent who lets their dog boil. Communication problems.

How he feels about camping.

And miles and miles of sticks. I love him. I can’t explain how much I love him. It’s the same way I feel about Carlos, that whenever I look at them, my heart somehow manages to both squeeze and overflow with love at the same time.

The sass is strong in this one.

I love watching boyfriend with him, too. I know from the moment boyfriend carried him into the house in Mississippi that he was ours, but boyfriend wasn’t so sure. I’ll never forget it when, after we’d given the dog his first bath, boyfriend held the dog’s little head in his hands, wiggled the dog’s ears, and asked him if he wanted to be best friends.

Even though there were moments when boyfriend wasn’t so sure we’d ended up with the best dog, a lot of love and some hard lessons (don’t eat sandwiches or bad things will happen, etc.) have made him into a pretty excellent companion. Watching boyfriend come home from work and play with the dog is my favorite thing. Watching the dog try to run after boyfriend when he leaves for work tugs at my heart. It’s all good. We got so lucky. I know he did, too, but really, it’s us who came out ahead here. We have a funny, floppy son who brings up so much joy and so many sticks. And tennis balls. And antlers. And rope toys.

On Long-Awaited Life Updates, Determinedly

Oh man, life is indeed a roller coaster.

I’ll do the briefest of brief updates, just because I can’t go back and catch up on everything.

– The last spring snowstorm we had in Colorado cracked two of my tree branches in our backyard. I was heartbroken. I loved that tree because of its crooked branches. The boys spent an entire afternoon taking down the tree branches, which had narrowly missed power lines. My backyard is a bit more naked, but I’m grateful that I still have part of my tree. 

We keep joking that we’re going to make a treehouse out of a boat and put it in the tree. As we walk around our neighborhood, I get exited every time I see a boat, no matter how ridiculous it might be to image it in our tree. Boyfriend remarked sarcastically to my mom the other day that having a boat in the tree is a great idea because it’s clearly so structurally sound.

– My recovery from the torn EHL tendon has been slow. I have regained about 50% of the movement. I am now a full 8 weeks post surgery. I am working on keeping my foot protected but also trying to get it to do some movement on its own. I was finally cleared to leave the boot two weeks ago! I have some nasty looking scars, and I’m not convinced I’ll ever have full movement back, but I’m alive. And I can sort of wiggle my toe.

– I lost my job two weeks ago. Long story short – bad business practices and disagreements about my working conditions (they wanted me full-time back in the stores due to nearly a dozen people quitting; I cannot be on my feet full-time, nor do I want to be). I filed for unemployment, which they told me they would not contest. Heartbroken again. I had been finally really starting to enjoy myself but also to utilize my strengths as a leader and as someone who wanted what was best for all of the stores.

— Boyfriend and I are thinking about moving to Mississippi. It’d be more of a study-abroad deal for me, since it’s going to be such a huge culture shock. He’d be pursing a Bachelor’s degree in Agricultural Economics or similar and I’d be after a Master’s in Public Policy and Administration.

I feel that Mississippi is a state in dire need of help on a very real and large scale, and that my involvement there would be a fantastic kick-start to a rewarding career in public policy of all kinds. (Non-profit administration also stems from this degree, and over the years, I’ve come to realize that it’s something I’d love to do.)
The reason that the Public Policy and Administration program intrigues me is because it is the only Master’s degree that really encompasses my loves of government, social issues, writing, and law, while furthering my drive to make a lasting difference in our world.
I’m hoping that this degree will help me sharpen my leadership and communication skills, but also allow me to participate fully in the community in the most effective way.
— I lost my car keys. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, I lost my car keys. Like, gone. MIA. Nowhere to be found. I am so frustrated. We went to Costco the other day, and I came home and opened the door and we haven’t seen them since. I have torn my car and house apart to no avail. I am waiting. If they don’t turn up by Monday, I must have my car towed to a dealership so they can make me a new key.
— Acorn is definitely part shepherd. He plays basketball. It’s the most adorable thing I’ve seen in a long time. He comes with us to a school by our house, or a park close by, and runs around while we (usually the boys, only sometimes me) play basketball. He’ll play defense and try to get the ball from you, he’ll bark while he’s waiting for the rebound, and he’ll jump up to get it. Once he gets it, he’ll shepherd it around the court until he gets bored with it. He’s just like Air Bud, sort of!

On the Tendon, Securely

When I was in the ER a couple of weeks ago, I kept insisting that I couldn’t move my big toe. They assured me I was fine, that the movement would return. As the wound began to heal, I realized that I could not lift my big toe. I could point it, ballet style, and fold my toes under, but I could not bring my big toe up. It was a sad attempt – the other toes would come up nicely, and there would be the sad big toe, not even halfway as high as it should have been.

I babysit for a couple of doctors, so I asked one of them to look at it. As soon as he pointed it out, I kicked myself for not realizing it before. The tendon on my left foot drew a clear, elevated line over the top of my foot when I lifted my toe. There was no such line on my right foot, a clear indication of a severed tendon. No tension, no tendon at work.

He informed me that there are two tendons that cause your toes to come up. I had torn the EHL (extensor hallucis longus) tendon. For non-active older adults, he wouldn’t recommend fixing it, but for someone young and active like myself, there is no need to spent a lifetime without that movement. (I thanked my lucky stars at that moment – I hadn’t been able to put on shoes without having to guide my sad, limp toe into them because it just wouldn’t move.) He made a few calls and surgery was scheduled.

With 6 weeks left of health insurance, and the clock ticking, I went in on Monday. They did a preliminary examination, taking some X-rays and feeling around. I already had a surgery time set aside, so all that was left was the surgery prep. Everyone was fabulous – they all commented on how cold my toes were, which made me laugh. I had a choice between a spinal block or full anesthesia, and since they told me I couldn’t watch the surgery, I chose the full anesthesia. The countdown was quick. The anesthesiologist asked me where I wanted to go, I replied “South Africa,” and was out.

I’m in a giant black boot – they told me to treat it like a cast. I can’t remove it for two weeks. It’s heavy, but I feel secure in it. I’m not to move my big toe yet. After the first follow-up appointment, I’ll be able to manually move my big toe back and forth – with my hands, so as not to engage any of the muscles to prevent any accidental tendon snapping.

Boyfriend took this fantastic picture of me sleeping on the couch my first night home. I’m to keep my foot elevated, so I’ve managed to create a sleeping position that’s semi-comfortable. I assume I have blanket over my face because the light was on and I couldn’t get up to turn it off. Note the hospital socks. Two socks on that foot.

I’m on pain meds. I have my foot elevated most of the time. I was supposed to go back to work today (in the office), but I’m still exhausted. I’m laying on the couch right now, working from home. Getting up to do a few things zaps my energy and increases my discomfort. I can’t drive for a while, so that’s annoying.

Yesterday, I slept most of the day. I had two furry helpers who napped with me. Acorn hung out by my feet, Carlos took advantage of my stomach and chest. I love that they’re starting to tolerate each other a little bit better. They’ll never be best friends, but I love it when they both snuggle with me.

I’ll try to go back to work tomorrow – we’ll see how long I last. Getting up is uncomfortable, so I’ve been avoiding too much movement. I’m ready to have my feet again, but I’m so grateful that it could be fixed.

On the French Toast Attempt, Painfully

I almost named my cat “Murphy” because in many ways, I am the living embodiment of Murphy’s law. If something is weird, it will most likely happen to me. I’m that guy.

That said, I’m also a huge proponent of a life without shoes (or socks or protective footwear whatsoever).

Since I never spent too much time in the kitchen until recently, my ability to attract danger (danger is clearly the wrong word here) and my lack of shoes never became much of an issue, other than the occasional stubbed toe or tripping over something.

Last Friday morning, I was attempting challah French toast. I had been to the store, procured the necessary ingredients (boyfriend told me that if I bought one more carton of eggs, he’d murder me, since I seem to keep buying eggs that no one will ever eat), and returned to begin my breakfast endeavor.

My mom bought us new knives for Christmas and they’re fantastic. (If you click on the link, you can see the orange bread knife…..) I was using the bread knife to slice my challah, and had moved on to preparing the liquid. I had honey in the microwave to soften, and when I went to open the door, I pushed the bread knife off the counter and onto the floor.

Except it didn’t hit the floor.

I felt it hit my foot and didn’t think anything of it, but my friend Shelby turned around and gasped. I looked down. Blood, blood. Everywhere, blood. I grabbed my foot. More of it. Calmly, I examined the wound. More blood. I grabbed some paper towel to put on it. That failed. “I think I need to go to the ER,” I said, as Shelby grabbed me a bath towel.

Boyfriend was downstairs, and he couldn’t hear my cries for help. (I thought he was ignoring me.) When Shelby went to get him, he came running up. At this point, I was hopping around trying to gather my wallet and keys and stuff. He swept me into his arms and carried me to the car, then drove me the six or so blocks to the nearest hospital.

The ER parking lot was full, as was the parking garage. The paper towels were rubber-banded around my foot, and I had it held as high as I could. “Don’t get blood on the dashboard,” he cautioned. I glared at him. Pssh, I wasn’t about to bleed on the dash.

We found parking two blocks from the ER entrance – in hindsight, he could have pulled into the ambulance driveway or something, but you know what they say about hindsight – and then he swept me back into his arms and hauled me the two blocks to the ER. The police/security guy guarding the desk saw us coming and brought out a wheelchair for me.

“We’ve got another one!” the front desk guy yelled. (Another ER visitor or another bread knife accident victim, I will never know.)

They wheeled me to the back, Shelby and boyfriend sat with me. Boyfriend cracked jokes. I stared at my foot, feeling silly. “You did this to avoid cooking French toast, didn’t you?” he asked. I was not amused, mostly because I had been so set on creating a fantastic breakfast based on a top-rated internet recipe. (Ha, those. The refuge of desperate beginner cooks like myself.)

He held my hand when they numbed it. I cried. I’m pretty tough, but I cried. And then laughed because I was so embarrassed about crying. He later told me he hadn’t expected me to have such a strong grip. I told him he was lucky he still had a hand.

I was concerned about tendon problems, as I couldn’t bend my toes. I wiggled them for the doctor and was rewarded with pain I can’t even explain. Luckily, there was no tendon damage. We could see them! That was pretty cool.

Three stitches later, I was all set to go home. Boyfriend went and got the car, then lifted me into the seat. When we got home, he threw me over his shoulder like a caveman (much to his amusement) and brought me back inside.

I finished the French toast. It wasn’t half bad. Needed powdered sugar.

Four days later, I’m still in pain. The wound is healing nicely, but I still can’t bend my foot or lift my big toe (“the front toe” as I kept trying to explain to the doctor — what the hell is a front toe? And why was I so set on calling it that?). Walking is painful. Moving is painful. I’ve been removed from any work involving standing until at least Friday, so that’s good.

But I’m on the mend and feeling silly. My brother stabbed himself accidentally in November, so it’s now a big joke that we’re not allowed to have any knives in the house. Boyfriend teased that we’ll have to check them out from him now, and that they’ll only be able to be used with direct supervision. My mom suggested plastic cutlery.

Moral of the story: shoes in the kitchen from now on!

 

 

On the Puppy, Delightedly

I’m going to need more than one post to discuss the Thanksgiving trip to Mississippi, but I’m going to start with the most important part: the puppy.

Boyfriend loves dogs and has been wanting one for a while. He wanted a chocolate lab. (So does my brother.) I always object. I have nothing against chocolate labs, but why have a chocolate one when you could have a black one? Or a yellow one?

We spent the last week or so at his grandparent’s hunting getaway in Mississippi, which is a few miles outside of a tiny town. One of the neighbors came by one night to ask if we’d lost a black lab puppy, which we hadn’t. I was curious though, and kept saying that we should check on the puppy to see if he’d been claimed. (I was mostly joking, but hey, wishful thinking isn’t the worst thing.)

A couple of days later, we were prepping for a bonfire when a different man came by with the same puppy and said that he’d found him running along the road and wanted to know if we’d like to have him. (He must have had some sense that we were in the market for a puppy. I’ll just assume that he was pulled in by our radiating need for puppy love, like a magnet or a force field.) Boyfriend was the one who talked to him, and then he yelled my name as he carried an armful of black something into the house.

I opened the door and there was the black something, tail wagging and sniffing around. My heart stopped for a second – a puppy! We leapt into action and lured him into the bathtub with a piece of deer steak and then boyfriend held him while I began the soaping process – yuck. So much dirt! Poor puppy just rested his head on the edge of the tub and gave us sad eyes while the water went from clear to muddy brown. Boyfriend joked that he was doing the “Carlos submission” because when the cat gets a shower he just sits there and waits it out with the most pathetic look possible.

The puppy stayed the night in our room on a blanket folded by the side of the bed. He’s house-trained and very well-behaved, minus his chewing problem. He left the room in the middle of the night and returned with my hiking boot. When I took that away from him, he returned with a slipper, so boyfriend put all shoes outside the door and closed it. Throughout the next few days, he’d run into the grandparents room to steal slippers and bring them back to his place in our room to munch on them.

I couldn’t stop smiling. He’s the sweetest thing. Boyfriend wasn’t about to let himself get so excited so soon; he wanted to wait until we figured out if we were going to keep him. (I knew we were. Boyfriend’s eyes did that shiny-gleaming-love-at-first-sight look when he watched the puppy and I knew there was no way we’d be leaving him.)

After the first night, we knew we were going to keep him. We had some work to do with the land his grandpa owns for hunting, so we took the puppy with us. He followed us around constantly, running back and forth between us, sleeping on a pile of coats in the car when we were traveling. We bought him some puppy chow and a toy, plus a leash and collar so he’ll look like a proper dog with a family.

We decided to name him Acorn (pronounced “A-kern”). We took him to the vet as soon as we got back to Denver for his puppy shots and a general wellness check. He’s about four months old and he weighs almost 37 pounds. He’s got the biggest puppy feet I’ve ever seen. The vet looked at him and said, “My, you’ve got a long way to grow!”

I’m in love.

The cat hates him, but is possibly realizing that since he’s not going to attack him, the puppy might be all right after all. Fingers crossed. We’ve been closing my bedroom door at night to separate them, but there haven’t been any daytime attacks yet, so I’m feeling optimistic. I don’t think Acorn’s ever seen a cat before, so that helps.

I’m also absolutely exhausted from the drive back and am running on very little sleep – this puppy mothering business is rough. If it’s not chewing on shoes, it’s toilet paper, or mail, or clothes, or…..

So now it’s off to work for me. I’ll post more Mississippi stories soon!

On Thanksgiving, Excitedly

This year will be the first year in a long time I’m not in Denver for Thanksgiving. (Not counting 2010, when Mike and I were in Africa.) Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays. It’s not as stressful as other holidays; there aren’t any gifts; it’s more about food than it is anything else. Since I’m not one who eagerly anticipates the shopping season, I have nothing to do that day and the next except lounge around and eat leftovers.

Thanksgiving leftovers are the best leftovers. (Cranberries! Stuffing! Gravy!)

This year is a big year. I’m going to Mississippi with boyfriend. I’m going to meet part of his family and go hunting. Oh god. Me hunting deer? I’m most excited about a road trip. I drive. He sleeps. Clears the mind.

I think I’m most nervous about deer hunting. What if I’m bored? Sitting still isn’t my strong suit. Sitting still and being quiet definitely aren’t things at which I excel. What if I actually kill one? Not likely. I told him I’d most likely either cry or be super into it.

I met his grandfather last week. We went to a hockey game and then had dinner the next night. I’m a huge fan – I love families and his grandpa had some great stories. I’m less nervous about the family liking me now that I’ve met him.

Still, I’ve never been to the South. I’ve already made the silent promise to myself not to say anything until after we’ve left. I want to take it all in and experience as much as possible. It’s going to be a very new adventure, but it’s also going to be a very necessary week off of work for me, which I’m looking very forward to.

In other news: I’m now the assistant manager at my store (officially, since I’ve been the assistant manager in all but name for quite some time now). I’ll be assisting with the revamping of the store as well as the training of the three new kids we hired. But more exciting than that is the prospect of some marketing and office work. The owner and I have yet to sit down and actually hash out all of the specific duties, but I’m thrilled about the opportunity to do more of what the marketing and administrative stuff while still being able to keep up my cake decorating and customer service.

Things are looking up, which is good. Finally a nice break for me and the chance for more positive opportunities and career growth, which are things that I’m looking forward to taking advantage of.

On Adoption Camp, Happily

This past weekend, I volunteered at Domestic Adoption Camp, which is exactly what it sounds like: a camp for families who have adopted children inside the United States.

I was one of three counselors helping with the pre-kindergarten/kindergarten group. We had five little girls in our group, which was fantastic. The smaller group size allowed us to do a lot more one-on-one activities, which is important with kids that small.

As domestic adoptees and (arguably) adults, my brother Mike and I were invited to speak on an adult adoptee panel in front of adopted parents. I was nervous and excited. Adoption is a non-issue for me; it’s always been a part of my life and I’ve never really thought of it as being a huge deal. It’s not anything that sets me apart; it’s just a fact.

As I get older, I find that adoption is more important to me. It’s something I’m proud of. It’s something I respect and for which I am eternally grateful. It’s something that does set me apart, to a certain extent. It is a curious thing, the way that I now have so many different mothers: I have my birth mom, my mom, my brother’s birth mom, my dad’s girlfriend. I love each and every one of them.

The panel focused on issues related to adoption and how we as adoptees handled certain things like self-esteem, open adoptions, searching for parents, and transparency. I explained that Mike and I have very different relationships with our birth mothers; I told them how envious I was when Mike got to meet his birth father (Mike jumped in to say that it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be); I told them that even though I’ll never get to meet mine, the curiosity about what he looks like only grows stronger.

It’s a magical thing, to be surrounded by families like these. I’ve learned a lot about family over the years, as one tends to do when confronted with the inescapable reality that family is non-negotiable and therefore something you’ll have to adapt to. I’ve learned that family is what you make it. I have friends who are family. I have family who is family. I have family that I don’t consider family.

I have been fortunate enough to find so many different relationships, and when I went to my birth mom’s wedding in South Dakota, my family got a little bit bigger. (I’ve been playing a word game on the phone with my biological aunt. It’s been fantastic – she’s a seriously worthy adversary.)

I have been incredibly blessed to build the kind of strong support system that everyone should have. Through my participation in these adoption camps, I have been able to see the strength of family. The powerful and overwhelming amount of love there is something that gives me chills, in the best way.

Speaking on the panel, I told the adults that transparency was important. And unconditional love. I told them that when I started therapy, I told my mom that I might be angry with her sometimes, and in her graceful way, she told me that she knew that and that she supported me. I told them that if I were to be arrested tomorrow, the first phone call would be to my mother. I told them even though she doesn’t always like what I’m saying, she’s always there to listen. And for me, that’s huge.

When I told her my birth mom was getting married, she wanted to go. I was a little nervous, but I think she was more excited. I was grateful that she was there so that we could all share the experience, both of my moms and me. My family.

I watched a documentary called “Closure” about one woman’s search for her family. She had been adopted by a family in Washington when she was an infant, and as she grew older, she struggled with the not-knowing. (It’s a serious pull.) She began the search and was ultimately successful. It was a moving story, but a poignant reminder that family is forever.

In the documentary, they showed a clip of an old home video in which a stranger was questioning the dad about the kids (eight of them, I believe, all different colors and kinds). “How’d you get so many kids?” the man asks. The dad responds, “They stick to us like magnets. Better question: how do you get rid of them?” Laughter.

My favorite part is the laughter. At the last camp, I remember a girl telling the story of how her parents came to find her. They were in Africa, she was in an orphanage. She beamed as she recounted how they picked her up for the first time, and she smiled at each one of them, and they knew that she was their daughter. She radiated joy as she told the story, and my heart ached with happiness. I could tell that the parents had told her that story over and over, and I could feel the pride she felt.

My mom, Mike, and I have our things. We call each other the “worst guy” and we regularly quote The Sandlot. You’re the worst guy if you are doing something annoying, like when my mom senses that the stop light ahead might – just might – change, so she slows down while it’s still green. You can hear the chorus of groans and “Ugh, you’re the worst guy!” coming from both of us. My mom and I dissolve into a fit of laughter-induced tears when we tell the story of Mike falling off the treadmill. (No one, including Mike, thinks it’s funny.)

Family may be what you make it, but for some of us, we’re lucky enough to have more opportunities for family than most people.