Hurry up, mo-ma, the baseball game starting.
Hurry. Baseball game starting.
Running to the stadium from the car:
Baseball! Scooch! Clapping! Pop!Corn!
Jorgie daddy do that. Jorgie daddy practice and do that. Play catch. At home in the yard play catch Jorgie Daddy. Just like the big guys. Then we can play down there, too. Katie mommy watch us.
It's hard to believe a year ago we were handing him back to the foster family yet again. Wondering if we'd be back in a few days, a few weeks, a few months. If he'd ever actually be home. If he'd ever adjust, if he'd struggle to learn the language, if he'd struggle to feel secure in our family and if we'd struggle to attach to this little boy we barely knew.
So many times this summer we've commented something like "oh, this is Jorge's first 4th of July" and everyone stops and says "No. No, he was home last year, right? Wasn't he here?" We forget there was a time in his life before us, less than a year ago still, when every week dragged by waiting for news and every family holiday or special adventure was touched by wishing he was there with us. No, he wasn't home last summer. Which is why it's so strange that I tend to forget as often as anyone. Wasn't he home last year for Labor Day? No? Well, he is now, and as hard as it was to believe a year ago, it turns out that's all that matters.
Also hard to believe that it was only a year ago that we then headed off for a romantic day-tour of Antigua, relaxing in a hot tub, and then vomiting my brains out in the hotel room of another adoptive family we had just met.
Wait, was that last part too much sharing?