2π (≈ 6.28) years later
Once upon a time in a land five miles away, I led a quiet, simple life. I had two close friends, a fulfilling career, and a multitude of hobbies to keep me busy. I was baffled by my twin sister’s joy at building a family with ‘the love of her life.’ Then one summer, everything changed. My friends and I suddenly realized that we wanted more.
To be specific, they wanted Moores.
I still didn’t understand, so I adopted the sweetest, most brilliant pug that ever existed. His love and companionship more than outweighed the destruction of every left shoe and leather accessory he could get his paws on. My friends teased me about the long conversations I had with my dog, but his expressive woofs proved he understood me and enjoyed our little talks as much as I did.
Two weeks later, I locked eyes with the love of my life and, fortuitously, he also felt that instant connection and he loved my dog as much as I did. I pushed him away in an idiotic fit of fear and self-pity but, for some reason, he took me back and we’ve spent the past six years building a life together.
I love Tommy, truly, and I love our family… but it’s times like this that I miss the simplicity of my old life. That life did not involve liberating toys from their diabolical vessels.
“Oh dearest daughters of mine!” I call, in the most persuasive tone I can muster. “Did I mention that these are rare collectibles that ought to remain in mint condition in their original packaging?”
Adaline and Cecilia just snicker and my loving husband says, “I offered to switch jobs with you.”
“We all know that isn’t an option.” Last month, Tommy cut his tongue when he tried to open a toy with his teeth. We will not have a repeat of that incident. He’s much safer making Braille labels for all the fun gifts people showered upon the girls.
“They’re getting antsy waiting. Just give up and use the scissors,” my sister says, but there must be to be a trick to this. She then flings her arm out and catches two giggling, partially-clothed toddlers as they run past. “Aha! Gotcha at last!”
Two of the Moore brothers turn the corner, breathing hard. Logan expresses his gratitude and sweeps his daughter into his arms, while Greg debates letting my sister keep his own rambunctious son.
“I don’t care what you say,” my nephew tells Tommy. “I never acted like that.”
“Everyone’s seen the videos of you handing out nudist propaganda and running around shouting ‘Society!’” my niece crows. “I’m totally showing it to every girlfriend or boyfriend you ever have.”
Of course. That’s what sisters are for. But Sammy stands his ground. “Never happened. Those videos are doctored and you know it!”
They begin bickering and my daughters join in, so I concede defeat and grab the scissors. Something has to keep them busy until dinner is ready, and I’m dying to watch my daughter Cecilia kick everyone’s butts at laser tag. Blind from birth, she is spectacular at locating people based on sounds alone and has uncanny aim when throwing things at her little sister.
We celebrated Thanksgiving with Tommy’s family yesterday while my sister’s family feasted with her in-laws. So today, we’re having a belated celebration with the Moores: two dozen humans, five dogs, and one cat, all crammed into the kitchen and family room of Xander and Julian’s Victorian.
Nearly a year ago, Tommy and I looked into adopting a family of two or three children that were old enough to be reasoned with. On our fourth wedding anniversary we were approved as foster parents and we sat down with the social worker that afternoon. She sat us down with three thick binders of siblings needing homes and we browsed through them while she took a phone call. She opened the filing cabinet with a sigh and added another file to the binder: Adaline and Cecilia Kim, aged 8 and 10 at the time. One glance at them and we knew they were ours.
Both girls are ‘too intelligent for their own good’ and have an ‘interesting sense of humor,’ and Korean was the language they grew up speaking at home. Cecilia is outgoing and makes friends easily, but her visual impairment and age made finding a family more difficult. Adaline is sweet and introverted, but she acted out whenever placed in a home without her older sister. We picked up our furry family members and drove to the group home to meet the pair. Cecilia bonded immediately with Mycroft, the labradoodle rescue I had just begun training to be a guide dog, while Frankie attached himself to Adaline’s side and Izzy hopped from lap to lap in a shameless bid for attention.
“Would you like to come live with us, as a family?” I asked them in Korean, after we had spent a half hour conversing with them in English. Thank goodness I spent years learning the language in an attempt to impress my mother-in-law. Until that day, I had only utilized the skill to trade the most respectful insults known to mankind, and Tommy had learned it to act as referee.
“You are married? To each other?” Cecilia asked. We nodded and Frankie woofed to remind us to say ‘yes’ aloud, which we did. “Adaline would love to live with you.”
“No, I wouldn’t,” her sister said, scowling.
The social worker facilitating our meeting looked concerned by the girl’s abrupt change in mood, so I switched to English. “How about you, Cecilia? We want to foster both of you, together.”
Cecilia’s face lit up and Adaline hugged her sister. Tommy squeezed my hand as they whispered briefly in Korean, and then agreed. The girls packed their bags and came home with us that very night. Two months later, they began to call me Appa and Tommy Dad (because I was more fluent in Korean than my husband), and we absolutely did not bawl like babies when we went to bed that night.
This Thanksgiving, we have more to celebrate than ever — the girls’ adoption finally went through on Monday. Thus the gift-giving and two days of utter chaos. Frankie, smart dog that he is, is sitting in a far corner of the room to observe the insanity from a distance, his feline daughter and his greyhound mate curled up asleep beside him.
I finally free the laser tag set and the kids cheer and run upstairs to shoot each other. As soon as their footsteps fade, the woman in the chair beside me hisses in pain for the fifth time this hour and calls across the room, “Xander! Julian! Your children have decided they’re not waiting until Monday!”
“Are you sure?” Julian asks, though we all know we will act even if it’s false labor. Enid, their surrogate, has been on bedrest for the past month, but she insisted on being present for the party. She somehow convinced the babies to stay put through the thirty-sixth week, and her C-section was scheduled for next Tuesday.
Xander’s sister provided the eggs and Julian the sperm, so the children would carry both of their DNA. The first round of IVF, with two embryos, failed to take. So the second time around, they took a chance and transferred three embryos. After the ultrasound revealed three healthy fetuses, Xander had a mini-meltdown and then got to work building an animal-themed nursery with three sets of the safest, most expensive items he could find. Meanwhile, Julian outfitted the house with cutting-edge parental technology he’d personally augmented — even their boxer Cassius had access to his own baby cams and a canine communication device fashioned from an inexpensive tablet. They also immediately moved Enid into their home, storing all her belongings, so they could help take care of her and her two young children through such a difficult pregnancy. Her tykes were reading in a corner somewhere, a little overwhelmed by the gathering.
“But– but– I’m not ready!” Xander stammers. “I haven’t finished my CD of calming music for you and the bag isn’t–”
“I added a few things to the bag and set it by the door,” I tell him.
“I’ll call Dr. Braxton. He can meet you at the hospital,” Greg Moore adds.
The troops mobilize and within a half hour, we get word that Enid is getting wheeled into surgery accompanied by the fathers-to-be. Julian and Xander’s now-adult children, Marcus and Kendall, and Julian’s parents pace the floor of the family waiting area with Cassius, who is wearing a baby’s bonnet for the occasion. A few years ago, the boxer was certified as a therapy and PTSD service dog. He’s done a lot of good work at the LGBT youth center, and the certification has the side benefit of allowing him to attend his human-pups’ birth.
Meanwhile, the rest of us wait in Xander and Julian’s home. I checked a couple of months ago and concluded that the family lounge in the maternity ward would be a snug fit for two dozen adults and children, and that isn’t taking into account other patients’ anxious families.
“This is the fifth time you’ve looked at your wrist, Greg. It’s a shame you’re not wearing a watch.” Tommy pokes his best friend for emphasis, although he has to stretch because I’m holding him firmly in my lap. He’s putting up with my clinginess because he knows I tend to catastrophize and, although he won’t admit it, he’s a little worried too. It’s a high risk pregnancy, after all.
“I can’t take this anymore!” one of Chance’s brothers shouts and shoots his twin. The laser tag vest makes a satisfying explosive sound and lights up. The toddlers giggle, so he hams it up and falls onto the ground. At nearly twenty, the twins look so much like Chance —especially from a distance— that occasionally we could only tell the three apart by their hairstyles.
“Not here. Go kill each other upstairs,” Logan demands. “We’ll shout for you the moment they call.”
“It’s a C-section. They’ll be calling any minute!” the ‘wounded’ twin argues, but they obediently take off the vests and set the equipment in the corner with the other gifts. I don’t know how Chance and Logan manage to be both brothers and fathers to Jackson and Dean, but I also never knew how Xander and Julian parent two kids even older than the twins. I’m convinced they’re all magical beings from an alternate universe, but they insist it’s just a combination of mutual respect, unconditional love, and patience… which is exactly what magical beings from an alternate universe would say.
Suddenly, my kitty turns into a multicolor whirlwind, racing around the room like her tail’s on fire. Chance’s Luna is the only dog that seems surprised. As energetic as ever, even at fourteen, she yaps and races after Izzy while the babies clap and laugh at their antics. Eventually, Izzy calms down and shows her paw to Frankie, who inspects and licks it.
“It serves her right.” Greg’s wife, Dani, doesn’t even look up from the various craft projects she, her BFF Chance, and my sister have been doing with the kids. “She stepped all over Ellie and Davy’s pictures, trying to get our attention. Don’t worry, the glitter glue’s nontoxic and water soluble, it’ll lick off eventually. No, no, Ellie! Don’t lick the paper!”
See? This is why we adopted older kids. Babies try to eat everything they come into contact with. Yes, yes, it’s fascinating to watch them explore the world with all five senses, but it’s also insane and unsanitary.
“Appa, if you feel like you’re missing out…” Adaline says, as if she read my mind, and then reaches out, removes a blob from her sister’s clay creation, and pops it into her mouth.
“Hey! That was going to be the head!”
“Sorry,” she says with an utter lack of contrition. I watch in horror as she chews and swallows and she laughs. “It’s modeling chocolate, from Uncle Logan.”
Tommy schools his face into a disapproving scowl, “Well, don’t eat any more. You’ll ruin your dinner.”
“Which I’ll put on the table as soon as we get our phone call,” our family chef, Logan, growls.
Coincidentally, the television’s Skype app comes on screen, playing its trademark bloopy tune. We mere humans scramble to find a remote to ‘answer’ the call, but my brilliant dog Frankie hits the giant red button Julian designed for his boxer and Cassius’ face appears on the eighty-inch screen. He woofs and the dogs bark back. Well, all except for Mycroft who, as my daughter’s guide dog, has too much dignity. In fact, Chance’s little Luna hops up and down yipping in excitement. Must be good news.
“Can I talk to them now, Cass?” Julian asks his dog before reangling his tablet and appearing on the television, grinning like a loon and displaying jazz hands. “Thirty chubby fingers and thirty tiny toes!”
We all cheer and congratulate him and he assures us they’re all fully developed and healthy and Enid is resting comfortably in recovery. He walks down a hall, tablet in hand, while running through a barrage of reassuring statistics:
- 5lb 3oz, 5lb 6oz, and 5lb 7oz
- 40cm, 41cm, and 45cm
- 5-minute Apgar scores of 8 for all three babies
Finally, he turns the tablet and shows Xander staring besottedly at three babies in little lucite bassinettes, wearing the orange, yellow, and green dog-eared hats I’d sewn for them.
“Introducing Avery, Lane, and Parker Griffith-Moore!”
I sigh inwardly. I finally learned the names of the three dozen human and furry members of my extended family —which likely took the mental storage space of something equally important— and now I need to remember three more names.
“Did he tell you the stats?!” Xander has a manically excited glint in his eyes and nobody has the heart to tell him that his husband spilled the beans. Xander, after all, was the numbers geek. As he runs through them again, everyone gasps and claps at all the appropriate points.
We all coo over the babies and tell them how perfect they are. In truth, they look as though they could use more time cooking. They resemble sunburnt Shar Peis, with their red, scrunched faces and wiggling limbs, yet there is something incredibly endearing about the tiny creatures. And yes, I can see them easily enough. I’ll need cataract surgery in a year or two, but the diabetic retinopathy has barely progressed and the glaucoma has been well managed using eye drops. I have also managed to keep my blood sugar relatively under control.
After a few more pleasantries, we say our goodbyes.
Greg sighs and says to his wife, “Kind of makes me want to have another.”
“Thank goodness, because I’m pregnant!” Dani squeals as he wraps his arms around the tiny woman and swings her through the air.
“You know… it takes a year or more to go through the adoption process,” Logan muses.
“Well, maybe we should get started,” Chance replies. “I’m sure Ellie would love to have a little brother or sister close to her age.”
Logan grins widely and wraps Chance in his arms, capturing his mouth in a long, sweet kiss.
Even Frankie is nuzzling Roger lovingly. I’d worry but we’re all responsible pet-parents and both my pug and Chance’s greyhound are fixed, so no litters of greyh-ugs are in their future.
“I don’t know if we can make a baby on our own,” Tommy murmurs just quietly enough that only I can hear him. “But I’ll definitely enjoy trying.”
“Oh, we can practice,” I agree, hugging my husband more tightly. “But our family is more perfect than I could ever imagine.”
“Plus, we barely survived raising a kitten,” he adds.
Adaline catches my eye and mischievously pops another piece of her sister’s sculpture into her mouth, while Cecilia sits in the corner using a wet wipe to clean the glue off Izzy’s paw.
I kiss one of my husband’s adorable dimples and hum my agreement. “Yes, that too. But if you melt over everyone’s babies–”
“Then you have my permission to threaten me with the ginormous faerie dragon dildo.”