There’s a story I’ve yet to share — one that explains the whos and the whys and the hows of my family. I’ll get there eventually, but until then, suffice it to say that it’s equally tragic and beautiful, but in the tragedy we’ve discovered a host of blessings we never would have known without it. If not for the tragic parts of our story, some of the pieces that make us beautiful would exist only in someone else’s story… or not at all. Knowing this makes it impossible for me to say that I wish that things had been different, that we would have taken a different path, or made a “better” decision. The choices my husband and I have made up until today have defined us, and have drawn the people into our lives that we love and cherish today. Three of those people are in the picture above, one of them the new Marine. I love them just as deeply as if I’d born and raised them, and even though it’s taken us some time to get here, we are a family, though and through. There are no “steps”, there are no “halves”, there is only love that never needs to be quantified.

5 + 4 = 8

When my husband and I got married, I already had five children and he had four. It gets a little confusing here, so try to hang on for a minute. My oldest is ours together (ahhhh… see? The plot thickens now, doesn’t it?), and his oldest is a bonus daughter from his previous marriage. So, all told, we’ve got eight wonderful (most of the time) children that have come into our lives at various stages, and under various circumstances. To the outside world it probably sounds a bit nuts, but each one of them is a precious addition, regardless of how they ended up stuck with the likes of us. I like to think we’re all pretty damn lucky.

If all of that sounds a bit complicated, I’ve got good news for you. Here’s where it gets easy. Our kids range in age from 11 to 27, there are 6 boys (2 of them have the same name), and 2 girls (with the same birthday), and us (we have the same last name hahaha). We, for the most part, all get along pretty well. We’ve had some hiccups, and some drama, and there were long stretches of time where my husband and I — either together or separately — have been persona non grata… but we have always kept moving forward, taking the next best step over and over and over again. All of those steps have led us here to this place of peace and happiness in one another’s lives, and I wanted to take a minute to share what this means to me.

But first… (There’s always a backstory)

My parents divorced when I was 10 months old, and my Dad remarried when I was very young. His wife, Gail, and her family accepted me as their own, and never once did I feel that I was anything less than family, regardless of who bore me. Gail’s mom became another grandmother to me, and would pick me up sick from school, give me baby aspirin, and let me watch TV all day until my mom got off work. My earliest memory in my whole life is of her sitting next to my hospital crib when I was 18 months old. She was in a wooden rocking chair reading “The Monster at the End of This Book”, which coincidentally is my favorite children’s book of ALL TIME — shortly followed by “Where the Wild Things Are”. So now you see… We are a family.

When I was a teenager and moved in with my Dad and Gail, our relationship changed a little because she now had to parent me, but it was seldom contentious (…ok, I’ll admit I had my moments. I was a teenager after all.) I grew up in that house, and my brother and sister, who were equal parts adorable and irritating to the surly side of my teenager persona, provided me with endless fodder for my creative soul. Boring summer day? I set up an obstacle course in the one-acre back yard and raced the two of them over hills and around garbage cans and through raspberry bushes (yes, I know I was an asshole, too) at TOP SPEED! As a mother, looking back, I can’t imagine why nobody stopped me. I have very clear memories of two little bodies topped with two very blonde, very squeal-y heads bouncing around like rag dolls in the (mostly) center of the wheelbarrow, catapulted forward by a maniacally cackling teen. I mean, in retrospect, it was probably pretty unsafe… but I know we all remember it and I think it’s a good memory for everyone so we’ll just leave it there.

It never mattered to me that they have a different mother, or my brother at my mom’s had a different father (a wonderful man whom I’ll dive into in another post). They’re my siblings. I never thought of “blood” as anything that connected me to my family. My mother was adopted as an adult by two wonderful humans who, when I was born, instantly became two more grandparents for me. We were just as much part of the family as the people they shared a DNA connection with. We spent Christmas and pretty much every other holiday over there throughout my entire life. So now you see…

But I digress. Now that I’m a legal adult (I’m getting there, but mentally I’m still a 12-year-old) and my burning desire to collect last names has resulted in an even better collection — bonus kids!

Maybe you didn’t already know this, but I f*cking love kids. I love taking care of them, I love playing with them, I love reading to them, I love watching them develop and grow. It doesn’t matter to me who bore them, I love them. How lucky for me that each last name I collected brought me additional kids (and adults) to love! Maybe this seems a little over the top to you, but you’ll have to discuss that with my therapist. At any rate, it’s time to get back to the original point.

5 + 4 = 8 (again)

I do love to ramble, don’t I? Ok, so here we are:

“Our kids range in age from 11 to 27, there are 6 boys (2 of them have the same name), and 2 girls (with the same birthday), and us (we have the same last name hahaha)“

Last year around this time, one of these bonus kids went off and did the bravest thing any young man can do. He enlisted in the Marines! It was so bold and so different from what his dad’s plan was for his young adulthood, but he was being true to himself. He followed his heart and mind and took a step onto his own path.

The day he left was so emotional. His departure was completely unexpected and his dad was traveling for work. Between mama drama and my heart quietly breaking because I was going to miss him so much I could barely believe it, the swearing in ceremony was over and he boarded a bus to the airport (where he did eventually get to say goodbye to his dad who switched flights and flew back to try and catch him). I will admit I did a little crying on the way home.

It was a long 13 weeks for sure. That night we waited for the first phone call, and the phone never rang. In the morning we discovered a voicemail from him which was equally heartbreaking and price inducing. He was on his way and we would hear from him in two to three weeks. Those weeks were long as we waited for a letter. When it did arrive, my hands were shaking as I carried it to the house. I probably was crying. Who knows. I had to wait to open it, but that envelope was such a welcome sight, even sitting on the counter all day.

The weeks passed slowly, but pass they did and before we knew it, we were planning our trip to San Diego! The two kids still living at home were just as excited to finally see our new Marine, and we anxiously awaited Family Day where we’d finally be able to do just that. Our oldest and her husband flew out, and we flew one in from college to watch his brother graduate from boot camp. We had gathered as many as we could for this event, and we were ready!

The picture above is of us on Family Day. It’s one of my favorite photos for so many reasons, but mostly because it’s a moment that captures the manifestation of my family’s legacy. What they’ve all handed down to me in terms of love and acceptance and inclusion — gifts so valuable they become tangible in such high quantities — are so easily handed down again. I love each of these people with my whole heart.

I often wonder if they can see me, the family who’ve passed. The ones who made me me. I wonder if they see the parts of themselves that are in me now — not passed through blood but acceptance and inclusion and love.

I hope they’re proud.