The first time I saw our beach was 30 years ago. We went every year until I graduated from high school. I went with my boyfriend in college. It feels like home to me.

Last week, I introduced Little Lassie to our beach. The house we rented was filled to the brim with my sisters, their children and my parents. We wore tie-dye shirts for the formal picture on the sand. Tropical Storm Fay tried to ruin our moment, but netflix saved the day.

Plans were made to return next year, maybe even this Christmas. Years back I dreamed of introducing my daughter to our beach. I hoped she would love it.
She did.

Little Lassie is in our family - finally and forever. I wish I could say it didn’t make any difference, that she felt like my child from the beginning, but the paper from our lawyer saying she is ours did make a difference in an odd way. In my head, I kept rolling the phrase around- she’s ours. I don’t think of children as possessions, but thats how we talk isn’t it? This is MY daughter. This is OUR child. I’ve been saying that from the beginning and even gotten an official letter from the court confirming it. It still didn’t sit right especially after receiving the letter. I wasn’t sure why. I kept thinking I was flawed. This was one more indication we were a family put together with band-aids, a fragile bond at best.

Then, it occurred to me. She’s not ours. We are HERS. We are her parents, her caretakers, her teachers and her foundation. We don’t own Little Lassie. Little Lassie owns us. And after figuring that out, it finally felt right.

FlyGuy flew himself home to IL for a meeting yesterday afternoon. The call came at 11:30pm. I stared at the phone, not wanting to know the dreadful news that always seems to accompany an unexpected late night call. I finally picked up and paused a few seconds before gathering the courage to say hello.

FlyGuy spoke.
“We got the letter, Rosie’s your daughter. She’s our daughter. The adoption is final.”

I whispered, “Wow.”

He whispered, “I know.”

Yes, her name is Rosie.