Ten years ago today, a thoughtfully silent, fat little bundle of boy came to live in our family. I remember sitting outside with him, in the grass by the swing set, and thinking something like, "This is it. This is what it's like. He just comes home and he's here." The adoption process had been a long and drawn-out one with some devastating dead ends. But it was only a matter of days from when we found out Tain would be joining our family to when he actually came, no strings attached. It is probably one of the most surreal and one of the happiest experiences of my life.
Since that day a decade ago, the laughter quotient around our home has increased by massive amounts. I don't know what we laughed at before Tain came along. Even his less, uh, angelic moments provide fodder for amusement -- albeit usually after the adventure has been processed (remind me to tell you sometime about the fire he lit in our under-stairs cupboard). It's terribly cliche, but I really mean it: our lives have not been the same since he joined our family.
So, Tain, here's to you.
Here's to your laughter, your cheekiness, your creativity, your handwritten notes, your thievery of every official-looking piece of paper in the place, your raucous singing, your immaculately-curved eyebrows, your passionate love of books, your inspired and entirely imaginary political campaigns, your violent hugs, and your sparkling blue eyes.
You are my favourite middle-sized person in the whole wide world.