Today is my oldest baby's birthday. He is a very fabulous fifteen.
We are "those people"--the ones who got pregnant when we were in the process of adopting. If you can arrange such a thing, I highly recommend it. It's the kind of amazing, instant family that makes the woman who interviewed the nannies and swore she'd never take more than a six-week maternity leave quit her job.

As you may know, my husband is of South Asian descent. I am a mutt of various European nationalities. Our son is African American. He has always been the kind of kid that people gravitate to--exceptionally cute, ridiculously outgoing. I took him along to one of my doctor's appointments when he was two, and the doctor fell in love with him. "He just shines," she said. And she was right.

But the best thing anyone ever said to us came later, while we were out shopping. An elderly woman approached and talked to him for a bit, and then turned to my husband and me and said, "He's so beautiful. He's the perfect combination of the two of you."

I could have kissed her.

When we were at the very beginning of the adoption process, the agency called my office and said that I could come pick up a photo of the boy who would become our son, "if I wanted." I rushed to tell my boss and my paralegal. They both said, "Go!"

And I did. And this was the first song on the radio when I started my car.




Exactly.