Happy 1st Birthday to Alexander & Some Reflections on Adoption

(Wrote this in 2014. Published it today, 2/7/22)

Today is a special day.  Our Alexander turns 1 year old today.

Today marks the anniversary of the day he was born, the day we arrived in Arkansas exhausted from an overnight drive from Colorado, the day we, in a flurry of nerves and excitement, met our 2nd son and his birth family, a group of people who have changed our lives immeasurably and forever.

Today, and all of this month, November, millions of people around the country celebrate adoption: an institution not without faults but overwhelmingly intended for the good and happiness of the millions of adoptees and adoptees-to-be out there, but also of their adoptive families and birth families.

Today my heart is full of gratitude in so many ways; ways that are very similar but also very different from the ways I feel on every one of my biological son's birthdays:  Today I remember how I became a mother for the 2nd time.  Today I remember how Alexander's birth mother became a mother for the 2nd time.  And today I especially remember how those two realities, seemingly conflicting and yet entirely not, will ever be intertwined in a bittersweet reality that has made our family more complete, more fully what it is today and ever shall be.

I've shared our full adoption story with only a few people.  It, of course, involved so much more than just endless paperwork and six days in Arkansas last November.  It started as a tiny hope inside my heart once upon a time and grew into a full-blown determination by the time I was an adult.  It involved persistence, heartache, excitement, disappointment, and reevaluation of my belief system in equal parts.  It changed me.  And it changed my concept of maternal love.  It changed my husband and his concept of fatherhood.  It changed my son - even at four years of age! - and his capacity to accept, love and defend others.  His love for his brother is fierce beyond anything I'd ever hoped and that - seeing that, feeling that - changed all of us.  It showed us a truly ever-expanding capacity in humanity for good, if only given the chance.  Today, without a doubt, the two things I am most proud of are giving birth to my son Roman and adopting Alexander.

But Today, on Alexander's birthday - and next Saturday, November 22nd, the day the adoption was legally finalized, coincidentally also National Adoption Day - it feels appropriate to celebrate him, his adoption, his fortuitous addition to our family, by sharing a few reflections on both adoption and the wondrous Mr. Alexander himself.

*  *  *

Can you imagine what it's like to walk into a maternity unit with the intention of meeting your son for the first time but knowing that taking him home will also involve taking him away from the woman who just gave birth to him forever?

The first time I ever had to do that I was physically sick.  I can be a pretty stoic and determined person when necessary but before I walked into that hospital ward during our first adoption match in March of 2013, I had to run to the bathroom, much to Matt's surprise and horror.  I'd never anticipated the gamut of emotions that would hit me all at once.  The fear, the excitement, the overwhelming nerves.  I also never imagined I'd ever be taking that little boy home.  Or that four days later - all of us already fully in love with him - a social worker would be taking him away from us again, because his birth father - a man who'd never even wanted to meet him - had refused to sign the adoption papers.  I wasn't sick that day.  Not physically, anyway.

When the second adoption match fell through the week before we were to travel to meet the birth family, I was more horrified at the thought of a third match than the one we'd just lost.  It seemed like nothing would ever work out.  A lot of the excitement and anticipation had been sucked from the process.  Family, once bright-eyed and eager to hear how things were progressing, retreated and no longer asked questions - not that we were sharing much at that point anyway.  Those kinds of losses, not unlike the pregnancy losses I'd experienced before, leave you in a state of suspended reality and reluctance.  Better not to share than to have to retract once more.  To this day, I can't shake that tendency.

But, against all odds, less than 2 months later, we found ourselves walking down yet another hospital corridor in Little Rock, Arkansas.  And all those same exact emotions hit me again - just as they had the first time - as we neared the room Alexander slept in, his birth mother quietly at his side, both waiting to meet us for the first time.

There was a little dry erase board on the wall that the nurses used to write basic stats and on it his birth Grandmother had written, "Welcome Matt & Brenda!" and under "Today's Goal" she'd also added, "Meet Matt & Brenda!"  That little board put me at ease in ways they'll never know.  But my hands were still shaking and for one of the first times in my life, I felt deathly afraid to make eye contact with anyone when I was finally allowed to hold the baby for the first time.  I was afraid his birth mother would see how desperately I wanted to fall in love with this child.  I was afraid she'd see the years of hopes and intentions and dreams for him flashing in them.  I was afraid she'd change her mind because she had every right - more right than I ever had then - to want and feel and hope those things for him.

But she didn't change her mind.  She didn't change her mind!

Instead, when I finally looked at her, that little boy in my arms, what I saw in her eyes was real love, peace and determination.  Determination that her son would have a better life than she felt she could give him.  Surety that she had chosen the right family to give him that life.  And all I could do was feel humbled; feel in my heart a steadfast determination myself to make all those hopes and good intentions come true for this child.  I swore that I would make this most painful of sacrifices, most unselfish of choices worthwhile for her and for that baby.  That I would never take for granted the immensity of the decision, the choice, the loving placement she was making.  That I would never pretend that she or her family didn't exist.  That Alexander would live secure in the knowledge that he was, is, and will always be loved by both of his families.  That "abandonment," "easy-way-out," "ignorance," "selfishness" - any of those awful adoption cliches - never even came close to being a part of his birth, his adoption, his story.

The morning of the day we were going to be allowed to bring Alexander back to the hotel with us, I was both walking on air and bogged down in a suffocating cloud of fear that is almost unimaginable in its contradiction.  I was famished but felt sick when I ate.  I was bubbling over with happiness to the point that I blurted out that we were adopting and bringing home the baby with us that day to a random hotel maid in the hallway.  She seemed surprised but genuinely happy for me, and when we got home that evening I found she'd actually put a note of congratulations in our room for us along with some baby toiletries.  At the hospital, I made Matt pose for one last picture just-the-two-of-us in the underground parking lot, holding an empty car seat, as if we'd look so different once we had our second child in our arms.  In our eyes the hope is palpable when I look at that picture now.

We took him home that day, against all odds.  We survived the endless check-out procedure at the hospital, hours on end of scrutiny over our British car seat, awkward and melancholy moments with birth aunts and birth great grandmothers.  At a certain point Matt simply went for a walk around the hospital because the tension and anticipation was almost too much.  I couldn't bring myself to leave the room, certain that if I did the whole thing would fall apart, or Alexander would somehow vanish and I'd wake up from the dream.  But we did take him home.  Gut-wrenching hugs goodbye were given, tearful thank yous that felt inadequate were exchanged.  And then there he was: our Alexander - though not really technically ours yet - quietly sleeping in his car seat, on the first part of his journey home. 

Arkansas has a 6 day revocation period during which the birth parents can change their minds.  We were told to drive to a different city where our lawyer's offices were, about 4 hours from Little Rock.  Before leaving, we had a last meeting with Alexander's birth family at a bbq restaurant where much of his birth family came to see us off.  The lunch was filled with jokes and photographs and delicious pulled pork.  Only the goodbye - or the "so long" as his birth grandmother put it - came with tears.

Those days in the hotel went by in a blur.  The jolt of suddenly having a newborn without any of the biological prep for it was harsh.  I thank God my mother and sister kept Roman for us in Dallas as the lack of sleep and the challenge of living in a hotel room was an intense reintroduction to having an infant.  And yet somehow being in that hotel room in North Arkansas, surrounded by beautiful forests and changing foliage, we felt protected and at peace, trying to connect with this new child, making the best of the limbo we were dealt.  We went to a world-class American art museum.  We visited the original Wal-mart nickel and dime and had an ice cream at the soda shop.  We scoped out the court house where we would be finalizing the adoption that Friday with the judge and our lawyer - it all resembled the town from back to the future so eerily.  And we even had a chance to briefly meet the social worker who had helped make this all possible for our family.

When Friday arrived it felt like the minutes were dragging on.  We woke up early and dressed Alexander in his best newborn outfit.  Matt fixed his tie; I attempted to put on make-up and do my hair, frazzled and exhausted as I was.  Alexander didn't make a noise - such an easy, lovely baby.  He was ready too.

The judge was a kind middle-aged man who took pride in his pro-adoption stance.  He liked to make the experience a happy one for people, he told us, rather than interrogating or making people fearful that he may not sign the papers.  Everything was in order.  He asked Matt and I about our respective college experiences and commented on the fact that we live in Colorado, as he liked to ski there whenever possible.  He asked how our son Roman felt about the adoption and how the process had gone for us.  Then we all signed the papers, smiling, shaking hands, and took a few pictures in his chambers before walking to the clerk's office to get documents copied and verified.  And so, in less than an hour from when we'd entered the courthouse, we had a new son.  The legal process had finally caught up to the reality our hearts had accepted and longed for from the very moment we met him.  Our year-long journey was over at last.


*  *  *

Of course, in reality, the adoption journey is never over.  Adoption is something we all live with on a daily basis.  In these early years it's very easy because Alexander doesn't ask about it or understand it yet, but I know that in some ways it will get harder as he grows and becomes more aware.  I know that with all the blessings it brought us all, it will also come with difficult realities, difficult questions, and the difficult acknowledgement of a primordial loss for Alexander that I, as a person who grew up with her biological mother, can never fully understand.  But, as a family, we are all determined to make this journey, with its ups, downs, beauty and hurt, together.  We are a part of it and will continue to be present in it for Alexander, learning and understanding from now ever on.

One thing I hadn't anticipated was that Roman wouldn't fully understand the permanence of adoption.  Roman knows now that nobody can ever take Alexander away from us, but it took him an entire year to truly feel sure of it. We met with Alexander's birth family shortly after his first birthday - an arrangement we'd agreed to at his birth - and at that visit Roman, though kind and excited and very friendly with the birth family, admitted that he was afraid we were taking Alexander back to them or that they might try to take him home.  Big brother seemed quietly confident and relieved when we all said our goodbyes after a fun-filled afternoon and made our way home, Alexander happily giggling in his car seat next to him.

Birth families are a reality that, though not present on a daily basis, remain with you in everything you do.  You see their faces in your child's.  You wonder how their personalities and tendencies and interests will shine through your son.  You ask yourself constantly how they're doing, whether you keep in touch enough (how much is too much and how much is too little?), and whether you're doing this "right" so that your son will never feel you kept him from anything that belongs to his story, his heart, his identity.  Maybe it's the process of these thoughts and intentions that is most important - the constant reevaluation, self-critique, so that you intentionally do your best in the most unselfish way possible for your child.  You want to give every angle of his story its due respect, and yet, you want him to be 100% a part of your family, because to us, no matter who gave birth to Alexander, he is 100% our son, forever.  I hope he always, always knows that.

*  *  *

I feel bad that I haven't had the time to write more about Alexander.  I was so good about doing monthly and annual posts for Roman, but the actual reality of being a mother of two has been all-engulfing.  I'm happy to live my life rather than write about it, but I do want him to know that the intention to document his first year in more than photographs, was always there, so here is a brief reflection on Alexander Christopher.

From the day we met him, Alexander was a genuinely happy, laid back, quiet, and observant human being.  His demeanor was so easy and pleasant to deal with over the first year that we almost couldn't believe it.  He hardly ever cried (once we figured out that he had reflux and a bad reaction to the initial formula we gave him), and slept very well during the day and night.  Most striking of all was his smile.  Everyone commented on the constant happiness.  He giggled and laughed and smiled constantly.  He had no problem being held by anyone.  He loved every single one of us and adored and emulated his big brother from the start.  He is happy and willing to go along on all of our adventures as long as he's fed and clean, and hardly ever complains.  He put up with me messing with his lovely newborn curls.  He didn't seem bothered when Matt finally buzzed them off shortly after his1st birthday, either.  He plays cars with Roman and sweeps the floor with me.  He has a love affair with the vacuum cleaner (though one time he did throw it down the stairs - rough day).  He earned the nickname "Screamy" pretty early on. Roman observed that he was "a little bit screamy" on the 2nd day he was home, and it stuck.

Three's not a Crowd.

Three's not a crowd.

 
Writing is such a luxury these days.

There are so many things I want to write about and never enough time to do it.  I am overdue for one of my pictorial appreciation posts about the beauty all around me (and there is plenty), I have a back-log of all the culinary dalliances I've been concocting (no, still have not lost the holiday weight), and let's not forget the recent family vacation we took which provided ample photographic evidence of how fortunate we are to lead such a beautiful, adventure and love filled life.  Then again, the cruise also provided plenty of evidence that life as a parent, while rewarding and exciting and fulfilling in many ways, can be stressful, difficult, and draining.  It's what literally takes up every second of my waking existence - not writing or cooking or daydreaming about the Wasatch mountains.  But that's to be expected, I suppose.

And speaking of expectations, I'm not entirely sure what I expected life to be like with three children.  But I know I didn't expect this.  Words fail a little bit.  Perhaps a picture of the crumbs on my kitchen floor, or the never-fully-organized playroom, or my crazy laundry room would symbolically do?  It's hard to describe exactly what I mean by "this" without painting a picture, but I'll try:

I expected squabbles and noise and mess - even a certain degree of chaos.  I expected my workload to increase by a factor of 1 munchkin.  Less me-time, less-Matt time.  I did not expect this - I did not expect to feel so completely frazzled and overwhelmed by the constant disorder and madness imposed on my otherwise orderly and independent existence that I am literally reeling from it some days.  Nobody tells you that once you have 3, you might as well have 5, because the amount of crazy, dirty and busy is not equal to just adding one more person.

And if I'm honest, maybe I'm also a victim of parenthood-induced selective amnesia.  I forgot what the terrible-twos looked, sounded and smelled like.  I forgot about potty training and the random poop-in-the-jeans-at-walmart moments.  I fervently and happily painted breast-feeding in the deepest shade of rose, only to fall into the depths of blue despair after 4 months of another relentless-every-hour-feeder Ciardiello child.  I simply could not remember the sleep-deprivation, or newborn laundry.  I did not expect to feel like I'd won the lottery when I could hear my child pooping from across the room and get there in time to avoid a blow-out diaper.  I didn't expect to not be able to have time to spend with my quiet angel infant of the blow-out diapers because, well, there's two other creatures waiting for me to look, touch, smell, clean, help, kiss, hug, tickle, or feed them ALL DAY, EVERY DAY.

Since when do 6-year-olds act like teenagers?!  I heard the warnings that chauffeuring to extra-curriculars gets old fast, but I was too dumb (or naive) to listen and am now living in daily regret.  Meanwhile I can barely get it together enough to go to sing-along time at the library once a week and have officially been paying for a gym membership for two months without using it once.  I don't know if two kids was that much easier (well, yes, it was) or if maybe it's the age-differences, or my children being particularly "spirited" boys?  I don't know what it is.  I just know it's unexpectedly hard.  I knew when I "signed up," that three kids would be a challenge.  I saw that far away look in my MIL's eyes when I told her we intended to have three children and she, having been through it herself, said, "Oh Brenda, it's hard.  It's really hard." 

We've all heard that three is a crowd.  What I didn't know was that it's not a crowd.  This is not about not having enough chairs at the dinner table, or having to buy an annoying extra pair of snow boots or one of those stupid tandem strollers (may they be cursed).  It's not about figuring out how you evenly split the last piece of brownie into thirds when halves are so much easier.  Three's not a crowd.  It's equal parts beauty and madness.  It's beyond anything I'd ever hoped or feared.  Really, what it is is absolutely, positively, all-consuming in every possible human way.  It makes me look at my three kids every day and feel both exasperated at my obvious stupidity at wanting three children, and my prescience to go ahead and go for it, because, in truth, I realize I could never choose one to get rid of.  I simply couldn't breathe if one of them were gone.   And our lives would be all the duller, less rich for it, no doubt about it.

In the end, I AM living in - surviving - this crazy moment in time, though.  It's hard because they're all little and dependent and need me and their dad to survive so much that we spend all our waking moments doing annoying but necessary things (like putting tiny socks back on for the 17th time or sweeping up impossible amounts of crumbs under the bar stools in the kitchen five times a day).  But I'm living in it with a real awareness of how fortunate I am to be able to live in it - despite the frustration, the loss of self, the moments I feel like I'm drowning.  And the reason I get it is because sometimes when I come up for air, I get a glimpse - a small, sparkling view of a moment when they're all playing together, sleeping soundly (the way only tired little kids do), eating their dinners in contentment, unknowingly grateful for their happy and bountiful home.  It makes me realize that one day they'll be grown, and if I'm lucky they'll turn out to be beautiful humans on whom I'll too be able to depend for love and company, but most of all for those memories of what it took to make them independent, well-balanced, loving parts of this crazy life and world.

And that will be worth it.  In an absolute, all-consuming kind of way, too. 

*  *  *

Way overdue for an update on the boys.  Here's a quick snapshot of each to-date.

Roman

Age 6 1/2 years

Nicknames: Romijn, Romidgen, Rome, Buddy, Buck-o

Roman is currently in 1st grade at a Spanish Immersion program.  He seems to love Spanish but is quite stingy with the knowledge he shares.  He recently looked up at Linus and declared "Linus, tu eres un ogro de peluche!" much to everyone's shock and delight.  He is an incredible reader.  He will complain and whine incessantly about having to read but the second he gets hooked into his book he shuts the entire world off.  He's creative and imaginative and an "outside the box" thinker who can think of solutions to things I'd never come up with on my own.  He loves to play Mario-Maker on the Wii.  He wants to help me whenever he can.  He's a caring and thoughtful big brother.  He's loud, messy, and never seems to listen (except he's absolutely always listening and just chooses to ignore anything he doesn't want to deal with).  His favorite movies are the old Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, The Sound of Music (he does a mean rendition of Julie Andrews' "Do - A Deer"), Elf, Toy Story.  His favorite books are the Magic Treehouse Books.  His love of antiquity continues in his curiosity about ancient ruins and maps.  He also seems to have a particular love of science, experiments, electricity and constructive games.  His favorite foods are tortellini with pesto, pizza, salmon sushi, sunny-side-up eggs, and clementines.  He hates taking a shower (and usually leaves shampoo in his hair), refuses to wear pajamas (he just dons his underwear and fleece robe), and wakes up earlier than anyone in the house to watch cartoons.

*  *  *

Alexander

Age 2 1/4 years

Nicknames: Baboo, Al, Al-Zander, Babs, Pigmy-Midget, Aloysius Dinkle Doo

Alexander is still not in preschool because Utah doesn't do that and he's very attached to me anyway so I'm loathe to sign him up for daycare.  He is a happy, boundingly-full-of-energy little man who is extremely agile for his age.  He has the eagerness of a puppy.  He wants to be just like Roman (and may very well be stronger than him, or very nearly so).  He has the loudest cry of all the kids, but is the quietest otherwise.  He loves cars, trucks (anything with sirens) and ride-on toys.  He has used all the bikes and tricycles more than Roman ever did in the 5 years before him and is especially good on the plasma car and balance bike.  He listened and followed directions splendidly until he turned two.  Now he still listens and follows directions but only after throwing himself on the floor writhing, crying, and screaming for 1-2 minutes first.  He was potty-trained at 2 years old, but still occasionally has accidents which may very well be the cause of an awkward eye-twitch I've developed.  He loves to read books with me - some of our favorites are "The Snowy Day," the Curious George books, "Brown Bear, Brown Bear," "The Best Mouse Cookie," and all the Helen Oxenbury baby books.  He once fell asleep while I read him "Lost and Found."  Just once. :)

We call Alex a dangerous snuggle bug because if you lay down and fall asleep with him, you'll never want to get up again. He likes to burrow under his covers and is quite possessive of his blanket.  His favorite tv shows are Peppa Pig, Go DIego Go!, Ben & Holly's Little Kingdom, and Plaza Sesamo.  He's my Spanish-loving man and the most bilingual of all the kids so far.  He loves to wash his hands, brush his teeth, help put lotion on and put his boots on (even if it's usually on the wrong foot.)  He's the reason we take walks - even in the snow.  He HATES naps and usually falls asleep and wakes up crying.  Just how he rolls.  Two minutes and his coffee (warm milk) later, he's laughing.  His favorite foods are apple sauce, yoghurt, cereal, mac n cheese, and anything Matt and I are eating.  He'll eat olives with me and for that I'm eternally grateful.

*  *  *

Linus

Age Nearly 8 Months

Nicknames: Yinus, Yenai, Yen-Yen, Gumball, Leenosh, Gorrinus, The Golden Ginus

Linus just started sitting up really well and is starting to move around a lot.  You can tell he'll be crawling very soon.  He's the typical last child: the little darling, very patient with this older brothers - the apple of everyone's eye.  He has a quiet but happy personality.  He has started sleeping in his own room now, though he still comes into our bed after midnight.  He is still nursing and quite resistant to bottles though he will occasionally take one grudgingly.  He has just discovered the joys of real solid food (not purees).  His favorite foods these days are puffs, cereals of any sort, soft pears, chocolate (oh yes), apple sauce, and grapefruit segments.  He likes grabbing the book pages more than reading them. He loves dumping out buckets of toys, sucking on everything, and enjoys being wrestled with or allowing his brothers to drag him around the house.  He puts himself to sleep pretty easily in his crib at his bedtime of 6pm.  He takes 3 naps a day, rendering everyone home-bound until further notice, but his smile and babbling makes the inconvenience well worth it.  He has started taking baths with Alex and loves the water.  It is both satisfying and melancholy when he grows out of something.  The most recent things to go the way of the Dodo are the playmat, bouncy seat, and, while I'm still not willing to admit it, the burp cloths I've used with all three boys.  He has reddish, brownish, blondish hair like Roman did, but looks more like Matt in the facial features.  Sometimes Matt looks at him and says, "How did you end up being named Linus?"  I'm not sure either.  But it suits him well. :)

On The Unexpected Contentment of Parenthood. And Living the Good Life.

Roman and Alex: chocolate-chippity-apple-pancake-style

 
I have one week to rearrange my daily life's paradigm.  One week to accept that my life right now is probably the easiest it will ever be.  In one week, a new person enters the world and enters our family and we embark on yet another, unique adventure in parenthood.  10 months ago I could not have told you this would be happening, but I can't remember ever feeling more sure that something was meant to be.  With this baby, this miraculous little person who nobody thought could be, cosmic divinity and fate has intervened in my perfectly planned life in a way that could not be more unexpected or more welcome.  And such is the pleasant but precariously balanced reality of parenthood, a delicate dance between serendipity, hope and determination.  I have rarely in my life experienced such contentment in the moment and such excitement for the future.

Everyone's entrance into the world is different, every pregnancy or adoption its own bubble of a world.  Roman's birth was unique in that it was our first, and he larger than life in both character and size.  Alexander's birth and entrance into our lives through adoption was in many ways the opposite of Roman's - we had two weeks' notice, total, for example - but no less filled with excitement and love.  Peace is a word that defines both his character and the feeling I had when I met him for the first time.  And now this third baby - the one true surprise I've ever had in my entire life (not kidding) - has brought a depth of appreciation for how blessed (and you know I never use that somewhat cliched word) we are beyond anything I could have guessed.  At this point in my pregnancy with Roman I was swollen, miserable and impatient.  I think by the time I was told I'd be having an emergency c-section I was almost relieved.  When we were matched with Alexander's birth mother I pretty much refused to believe it would work out until he was in my arms.  But with this baby I feel content, warm, fulfilled - and kind of in awe of how smoothly everything is going despite the fact that we've had a very stressful past two months.

The one thing all three of these welcomings into the world have in common is the unexpected.  They were all different, in the end, than we thought they would be.  And, actually, all of them were all the better for it. 

It's probably obvious and inevitable that I have been reflecting on motherhood and parenthood in general a lot lately - especially to anyone whose had a chance to talk to me.  In this last week, there's such a large element of wondering just how having a third child will change our family dynamic: wondering whether the brothers will all get along, what new level of madness the third dimension will unleash in the house, and what new depth of love and awe he will surely inspire.  There's no more concern for me about "how can I love him as much as the others" because I know now that there's limitless space to love your children in your heart as a parent, whether you have one or twenty.  In fact, the incredible reality that your heart simply grows with your family, and that you just can't help that, is perhaps the first real "unexpected" of parenthood.

There are other unexpected realities.  One such is the way that you are happy and willing to throw life into utter upheaval for the sake of a creature who screams when he's hungry and shows little appreciation for the world revolving around him.  You gleefully rearrange all the routine, predictability and calmness you've worked so hard to establish with your current children in order to welcome this little angel of a tyrant and never look back.

But I think the most unexpected thing is the level of contentment I feel right now at the hectic, crazy, wonderful and all-engulfing role as a mother.  I yell, I get cranky, I curse the gods, but at the end of the day - I feel damn good about choosing to be a mom, and about doing it with Matt.  I've never experienced anything even close to as rewarding or challenging.  And sometimes that gets lost in the quotidian complaints or the funny articles about the mind-numbing daily chores involved in raising miniature human beings who don't always "get it."  But it's never lost completely.  And it resurfaces relentlessly in all the unforgettable small things - like Alexander learning to twirl with his arms out in the kitchen with his brother and dad, like Roman laying in bed with us asking questions about our colleges and what it's like to live away from home, like watching the two go down the slide together and then smile at each other conspiratorially (not unlike Matt and I probably do on a daily basis).

The greatest happiness is living the life of your dreams.  Maybe 10 years ago people could not have guessed this life would be it for me - as wrapped up as I was in my jobs, my education, my self.  But looking back right now I can see no other road more worth the trip.  And I am so thankful for that.

His name is Alexander.

Born November 16th at 13:25 - 7lbs 7oz, 19 1/2 inches;
forever-and-ever-ours as of November 22nd 2013.

And he's just perfect. :)