Becoming a working mom

After I married my first husband, I learned to not define myself by my job. We moved around a lot those first few years with the Army and I found the only job I could hold was working as a substitute teacher. People automatically just thought I was a teacher.

I finally got a job at a newspaper in Fairbanks, Alaska and I was able to tell people I was a journalist. Which was nice considering I went to school for journalism.

But we moved again when I was pregnant with Veronica, and I just eased into my new job as stay-at-home-mom—I held that job for almost 10 years. Apparently it’s the one job that is recession-proof.

It’s amazing to me the divide between women who decide to stay at home with their kids and women who choose to work. I always felt like women who chose to work looked down on me. I would get the usual “You are just one of those unique people who can be happy with staying at home.” Why don’t you just say “Oh, you’re too stupid to realize the importance of maintaining your own career.”

But women who stay home usually come back with “I can’t imagine letting someone else raise my child.” Which translates to, “Apparently I love my children more than you do.”

 I tried to stay out of it and convince women that we should all stick together.  Sure I was always grateful to my ex husband for enabling me to stay-at-home with Veronica. I can’t even imagine what would have happened with her if she had been in day care all day instead of having me shuttle her from doctor’s visits and physical therapy appointment. To be honest, even if I had a job, I would have lost it due to the amount of medical care she needed.

I struggled for so long about not working. As a young college student, I always thought I would have this amazing career as a writer. But it just didn’t work out that way. I married a man who was gone all the time and we lived over a thousand miles away from family. Then we had a disabled child that needed constant care. A career just wasn’t in the cards for me.

So now I’m beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel with school. This time next year, I should have my MFA in Writing from SCAD (that just gave me chills). And I have to admit a secret—I’m a little scared about getting back into the workforce.

Almost 2 years ago, my ex lost his private contractor job in Iraq when he had to have his leg amputated below the knee. I soon went out to look for work and I was able to find a job at a local daycare center.

I was the lead teacher for a classroom of 2-3 year olds. The pay was terrible, but it was money—the kind of money that pays the bills and buys the food on the table. I was also able to drop the kids off at school in the morning. They rode the bus to the daycare center in the afternoon. They were able to eat snack and do their homework for an hour. I got to leave by 5:00 so I could take them to all of their after-school activities.

It was almost perfect. But then it happened—I could not go to their Christmas parties at school because I had to have parties with my students at the same time. I cried myself to sleep for two nights in a row. I felt like the worst mother ever. I had never missed an event at their school and I believed I was the kind of mother who would never miss a second of their childhood.

About a month later, my boss at the daycare wanted to change my hours. I wouldn’t have got off of work until 6:00. I quit. I wasn’t going to miss any more of my kids’ event for a low-paying hourly wage job. That is when I decided to go back to school and get my master’s degree.

I’m not sure if I’m ready to go back to work. But the kids are older now and sometimes they don’t want me to come to their school anyway. I have also learned that I have an amazing group of friends and neighbors who are more than willing to drive the kids to their activities for me when I am busy.

When I am able to put the guilt aside, I am able realize one thing--I’m ready to have an answer for people who ask me “what do you do?” I want to tell them, “I’m a writer.”

And being a writer may mean that I have to miss a karate practice or art lesson. It may mean that I’m too busy to make chicken noodle soup from scratch or volunteer to set up the Christmas party at school.

 

But I am quickly losing my guilt about becoming a working mom. I know I have done the best I can as Veronica and Jude’s mother. I put their needs before my own and I guess that is all that really matters.

I thought that coming to terms with being a working mom would be the hard part, but after looking at the classified ads I realize that the hardest part is yet to come.

Time for a change

This week has been full of ups and downs—mostly downs. I think life is starting to catch up with me. The most frustrating part is this overwhelming feeling that I’m just treading water.

I hate treading water—I like to keep going at a steady pace. But more importantly, I like to control the speed of my life. I only want to go slow if I feel like it is the best way to go.

So, I decided to finally do something I should have done a long time ago—drop my married name. I’ve been back and forth on the topic. But it’s been on my mind for a while now and I’m glad I finally came to terms with the fact that this is something I need to do.

I’m finally starting my career and so I feel it’s important to shed my married name now. I also hate my married name—I don’t think hate is an exaggeration either. My kids are okay with this decision too.

But of course nothing these days is ever easy. I found out that in the state of Georgia, I have to petition the court for permission to change my name back. My attorney was supposed to have put the request in the original divorce papers, but he didn’t. I didn’t stress the topic either since I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do about my name at the time.

I just figured I would take my divorce papers to the Social Security office and then bam—I would be Kim Wade again. But not in Georgia—I need permission.

I didn’t need permission to change my name when I go married. I just showed them the marriage license and then it was done. So why can’t I just change it back? I haven’t been able to find that answer yet. My guess is that Georgia is just stuck in the past.

So, I have started the process to change my name legally and I have to admit that it feels great. I feel like I have control over something in my life right now. I feel like I am continuing on my quest to keep moving forward. I feel like I’m not just treading water, but I’m swimming at a steady pace back to my old self again.

And I also realize that there are a few more things that I need to finally take care of, too. After the name change, I plan to finally write about something I have never written about before. I plan to finally tell the truth—I’ll let you know when I’m ready to share that with you.

I cried and I'm not sorry

Wow, I had no idea it had been a week since my last blog post. School is back in session and I have been writing up a storm so I thought I had written at least one blog this past week.

Sometimes I get so busy that I think about stuff in my mind and then I can’t remember if I did those things, dreamed about those things, or wished I did those things. And this was one of those weeks when I thought about what I would blog about but apparently I never did write that blog.

So this is what I have been pondering for the past several days…



The tube goes intot he eardrum to release the fluid



Jude had surgery on Friday. He had tubes put back into both of his ears. If you are not familiar with this procedure then you need me to explain the simplicity of the tubes.

It sounds weird—tubes in ears. But these tubes are tiny and the procedure only takes a few minutes. The child has to “go under” for the procedure but it’s only because the surgeon needs him to be perfectly still so he can insert the small plastic device into his eardrum.

Out of all the surgeries my children have had—this was the easiest by far. Robby offered to take the day off of work and sit with me during the surgery. But I thought it was silly for him to miss an entire day for this.

I asked him, “What if we have another accident and one of the kids has to have major surgery?” He nodded in agreement. “You need to save your time off for emergencies.” He agreed.

But I have to admit—this surgery was hard on me emotionally. When they wheeled Jude away from me, I did my usual, “I love you, sweetie. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

The nurses wheeled him away on the gurney and told me to follow the hallway to the waiting area. “Okay,” I thought to myself. And I picked up my purse and the bag with Jude’s clothes and headed down the hallway to the waiting area.

About half-way down the hall, I began to have a sense of deja vu. I was alone at the hospital again. I walked into the waiting area to see all the families and couples gathered together to comfort each other while their loved ones were being operated on.

I felt like everyone was looking at me when I walked in—carrying Jude’s dirty teddy bear under my arm and looking like I was about to cry.

I sat down and I did cry. This doesn’t happen often. I cried for reasons that no one around me would probably understand. But this time I cried for myself—not my child.

I don’t take pity on myself often, so I was surprised by my emotional outburst. I wished I had let Robby come and sit with me so he could hold me and tell me to “let it out.”

Let it out Dawson...let it out

But a part of me knew I wouldn’t cry if Robby was there—he would be trying to make me laugh and I would have felt guilty for feeling so blue.

My life moves at such an incredible speed that I don’t get a chance to cry. I don’t get a chance to process what is going on around me. I am aware of this and I am beginning to understand that holding in my tears is taking a toll on my body and mind.

So, when I walk into that busy waiting room and I felt the tears, I let them go. I sat down and rested my elbows on my knees and pushed my palms up to my eyes. My head rested on my hands and I released the tears. I felt so good. I’m not even sure what I was crying about.

I cried about Veronica’s surgeries. I cried about my divorce. I cried about the feeling that I let my kids down. I cried because I am finally happy. I cried because I am in love with a wonderful man that I feel I don’t deserve. I cried because I am so tired of being tired. I cried because I want my life to be easy for a change.

Then I realized I was sobbing in public and I rubbed my eyes and raised my head. I can feel people looking at me, but I know that no one will say anything. They probably feel sorry for me. I’m all alone and crying and they probably think my child is having brain surgery. I know if they find out my son is having a simple ear surgery then they will feel jilted for being sorry for me.

I reach into my purse and pull out my sunglasses and put them on. I’m not embarrassed—I know I will never see these people again. I don’t feel sorry for my actions. I feel better. I finally let myself cry…finally.

Full moon, my mom, and a dead baby donkey

So yesterday was a full moon. Normally I don’t take much stock in that stuff—I may notice my kids are a little wound up but that’s usually the worst thing that happens.

My mom always calls to remind me of the full moon. To say that my mom is into the whole “new age” thing is like saying June Cleaver likes to keep a clean house.

I never can keep up with the things I’m supposed to do on the full moon and I never can distinguish the difference between the new moon and the full moon. You would think that living close to the coast would make me more aware of the moon phases but it hasn’t. I just know that we have a moon and that we may or may not have walked on it and that it is definitely not made out of cheese.

I started back to school yesterday. My last class ends around 7:30 p.m., so it is just starting to get dark outside when I leave to go home.

To get from downtown Savannah to Richmond Hill, I have to take I-16 to I-95. Normally, this is an uneventful trip that takes about 20 minutes. But last night, I had a drive home that was a cross between the movie Creepshow and a Mexican circus.

The on-ramp that connects the two interstates is a long sloping curve that loops me almost in the opposite direction, so I have to slow down quite a bit. As I’m crawling along in my minivan, I notice a large dark lump on the side of the road.

There is no one behind me, so I slow down even more so I can see what this weird figure is. It looks like a dead dog but it just doesn’t look right. As I get closer, I notice that the head of the dead animal is quite large compared to the body.

Then I finally get close enough to solve the mystery. It is a dead baby donkey. But that’s not all—it’s wearing a small sombrero and a homemade flower-print dress. I felt like time was standing still for the next few moments.

“What in the hell?” I mumbled to myself. I realized it was time to merge into the fast-paced traffic on I-95. I shook my head and tried to rid my brain of that horrible image.

“Did that poor animal just fall off of the circus truck or what?” I turned down the radio and drove in total silence for the next five minutes. I racked my brain and tried to think of a time when I saw something more bizarre than that dead baby donkey.

I tried to make myself feel better by thinking, “Maybe it was just a miniature and not a baby.” I have no idea how that is any better but it made me feel better for some reason.

Then I started getting upset again. Who leaves an animal in a homemade dress on the side of the road?

I had an image of a sweet old man who runs some sort of low rent circus/petting zoo for children’s birthday parties. He pulls up in his driveway and goes to the back of his truck to let out all of his little animals and realizes that his baby donkey with the small hat is missing. He of course sobs like a baby and retraces his steps back to the on-ramp to retrieve his coveted performer.

This guy gets paid to get rid of dead animals

I reach for my cell phone and call my sister and tell her what has just happened. She starts laughing which makes me start laughing so hard I have tears coming down my face—probably not a safe way to drive home. We always laugh at inappropriate situations—I’m sure my therapist would attribute this behavior to some sort of coping mechanism.

When we finally take a breath, she says, “That reminds me of Daddy’s old white van that he sold.”

“What are you talking about?”

She says, “Remember how he sold that old van to those people who said that were gonna use it to go around and pick up dead animals?”

Somehow I had forgotten about that. We come from a large farming and dairy community, so disposing of dead farm animals is big business back home.

People pay money to have someone come out to their dairy or farm to pick up and dispose of dead animals. I have no idea what this service costs, but I would imagine they get paid pretty well.

After I hung up the phone, I thought about our conversation. I realized it was weird that I was so accepting of the fact that our old family vehicle was being used to pick up dead farm animals but I was almost traumatized by the dead donkey.

When I was a teenager, I never thought twice about the times I got stuck on the highway behind the “Used Cow Dealer” guy—the back of his truck was filled with dead cows from local dairies. Sometimes the cows weren’t completely dead. The smell was more than horrible and the reality should have made me a vegetarian.

But I think we are able to accept the reality of the world around us much better when we are younger. I think children are capable of accepting things for what they are and not over-analyzing things too much like adults do.

So, when my mom calls me this morning to check up on me, I tell her I’m fine.

She says, “You know, yesterday was a full moon. Did anything weird happen to you?”

I just sigh and say, “Nope, I just saw a dead baby donkey wearing a sundress on the side of the interstate.”

Mom is distracted and says, “Well that’s good.”

I’m wandering where the conversation is going. Then she asks, “Have you heard anything else about your house?”

Then I realize that I haven’t any thought about the looming foreclosure and money woes associated with my house in a few days. And more importantly, I haven’t thought about my ex or how mad I was with him about the house situation.

“Nope, I haven’t heard anything but I’ll call the bank again today and see what’s going on with the paperwork.”

And then I feel the feeling I have been longing for—indifference. I love this feeling because it means that I’m not using up all my energy on hate. Once again I’m indifferent to my ex and it feels great.

Perhaps there is something to that whole full moon stuff after all. I mean, if I can stop hating my ex-husband and move onto laughing about the insanity of seeing a dead baby donkey on the side of the road, then maybe the tides are changing for me. I just need my mom to remind me when the next new moon is so I can prepare myself for what I may see next.

I remember where I was...

Today is Sept. 11^th. I noticed several friends on Facebook this morning posted status updates about how it’s hard for them to believe it has been only 10 years since the terrorist attacks on our country. I feel the same way except I have a hard time believing it hasn’t been longer than 10 years since the attacks.

The last 10 years have been such a hurried blur of changes and growth that it seems like that day happened to me in another life. I remember that morning very clearly, but I don’t really remember much about that person I used to be.

At the time, I lived in a small town called Steilacoom, WA. It was about an hour south of Seattle and my house was perched on top of a hill overlooking Puget Sound. It was surreally beautiful on a sunny day, but most days the damp fog covered my view of the outside world.

Veronica was about 9 months old and we spent most days secluded in our little world on the hill. My friend Rachel had recently moved to the area—she and I grew up about 10 miles from each other in Texas and we went to college together. We both married Army guys and ended up stationed at Fort Lewis at the same time.

The phone rang about 7:45 that morning. I was still in bed with Veronica—she had been up most of the night and I was trying to let her sleep in. I grabbed the phone beside the bed and I tried to say “hello” without sounding like I was still in bed.

“Kim, are you watching TV?” It was Rachel and she sounded frantic.

“No, I’m still in bed with Veronica. What’s going on?”

“Oh God, Kim, they’ve attacked us,” she started crying. “They’re bombing us!”

My heart dropped. I couldn’t figure out what in the hell she was talking about.

“Rachel, calm down. I don’t know what you are talking about.”

At this point, it was already 10:45 on the East Coast. The towers had just collapsed and the FAA had just reported the downed plane in Somerset County. Another plane was still missing and everyone feared it was headed to the White House.

Rachel said her dad had called her and told her about the planes crashing into the towers and that the Pentagon had been attacked.

Steliacoom, WA

“Oh God, Kim, I’m so scared.” She started crying again. I could hear her TV in the background. “I gotta go. My dad’s calling on the other line.”

I put the phone back into the cradle and scooped up Veronica and took her into the living room and turned on the television. I sat on my coffee table, eyes glued to the screen, trying to make sense of what I was seeing.

I saw people running down the street and a huge black cloud chasing them into shops and alley ways. I just couldn’t wrap my brain around what was going on.

I needed to go change Veronica’s diaper but I didn’t want to walk away from the TV. I ran to her room and grabbed several diapers and a box of wipes and set up a base camp on the living room floor in front of the television. I stayed there for the next 8 hours.

The day my ex left for 1st deployment to Iraq

The most daunting thought at the time was the fact that my ex was in the 2^nd Ranger Battalion at the time. The Rangers have 3 different battalions and each unit takes a four month rotation as first responders. My ex's unit was on first response that month.

He had a bag packed at work. If they were chosen to respond to the attacks, then he would immediately board a plane and leave. I would not get a phone call or instructions. I would not know where he was going or when he would be back.

I knew they were already on lockdown since he had not tried to call me yet. I knew I could not call him either, so I didn’t even try. I just sat in my isolated house on the hill, holding my baby, and praying my husband would be able to come home.

About 3:00 that afternoon, my ex-husband called me. “Hello,” I said, trying not to sound scared. I knew not to ask questions because Big Brother was listening and he wouldn’t be able to tell me anything.

His first words were, “Hey, are you watching the TV?”

“Yes.”

“Are you okay?’

“Yes.”

“Is the baby okay?”

“Yes.”

Then it was quiet for a few minutes. I knew he couldn’t tell me what was going on in his office but I wanted to know if he could come home. I tried to be creative and find a harmless question I could ask that would give me some insight.

“So, do you think you would be hungry for chicken tonight? I’m going to cook dinner in a little bit.”

“I could probably eat some chicken, but I’m just not sure yet.”

“I understand.”

I put the phone down and decided not to make dinner. I grabbed a bag of chips and went back to watching television.

My ex-husband did come home that evening. He didn’t know much more than I did about what happened that day. He knew they would get called up at some point and he was afraid he would not be on the first plane out—he was afraid he would miss the entire battle.

It would be almost 5 years later before my ex would step foot into battle for the first time. He hated being left behind—he hated not having the combat patch on his uniform. Neither of us had any idea what this war would do to him—or to us.

Suicide bomber hits Iraq city

I heard an interview with an old war veteran one time. He said that there is nothing romantic or glorious about war—it’s pure hell. I had no idea what he meant by that. 10 years ago, I was a little excited for my ex-husband--to know that he would have the chance to fight in a real war. He wanted to go. It was the reason he had joined the Army.

But just like we had no idea the terrorists were capable of flying those loaded planes into the towers, I had no idea what war can do to your soul. 10 years ago, I had no idea that the looming war was chasing after us like that black cloud of rubble on the streets of New York.

I’m not mad that we went to war in Afghanistan an Iraq. I honestly don’t know what the right decision would have been. None of us will ever know what would have happened if we didn’t go to war. But I do know we couldn’t ignore what happened to this country.

This war has exposed me to the realities and horror of battle. It also exposed the realities of my marriage and the life I was living.

Fighting exposes your weak spots but it also helps you focus on your strengths. I learned I was a lot stronger than I ever believed and I might not have had the chance to discover those strengths if it hadn’t been for 9-11.

The Foo Fighters are my co-pilot

A few days ago, the kids and I were taking Robby home. I was driving my beloved “soccer mom” minivan. The children know the rules of the van—no throwing stuff, no screaming, no milk products, and no talking while I’m listening to the Foo Fighters.

After we hit the road, I turned on the radio and “All My Life” was about half-way through. Veronica lives to listen to her pop music in the car. I’m fine with that, but if my song is on then don’t even think about asking me to change the station.

Veronica immediately starts screaming from the back seat, “Please change the station to Kiss FM!”

Robby assumed I would change the station to suit her, so he was surprised when I said, “no” as my free hand cranked up the volume a little louder.

I looked at her in the rearview mirror and said, “Who is singing right now?”

Ladies and gentlemen, the Foo Fighters

I hear Jude’s little voice say, “Foo Fighters.”

Veronica was mad. She wanted her way so she began to scream, “Please change the station!”

In order to drown out her plea for pop, I turned the music up even louder. She got louder, too. So I turned the knob again and then started singing along. For those of you who have heard me sing, you realize that this is the worst punishment I could ever inflict on my children.

Later that night, Robby laughed about the entire scene. He seemed surprised by my reaction. I really hadn’t put much thought into the whole episode—it happens often and I always react the same.

I am generally pretty lax with my children and they know that. But music is a big deal to me and I refuse to let anyone ruin that for me. The “Foo Fighters rule” in the car is one of those unbreakable laws. It’s one of the few times when I draw a line in the sand and establish my boundaries with the children.

Music has always been a big deal to me. My sister and I inherited my mom’s old record player/stereo when I was about 9 years old. I would sit in our room for hours every day and listen to records and the radio. When I got older—maybe 11 or 12—I started putting together one of the most awesome cassette tape collections in town.

My sister and I would scour the flea markets in the summer looking for cheap bootlegs. I loved everything from Metallica to Milli Vanilli (gasp), but I never cared much for country. As the years progressed, my collection expanded. I had my stereo running all the time—even at night. I couldn’t sleep without music. I couldn’t focus without music. I couldn’t ride in the car without music.

When I was 16, I saved up my money and bought my first CD player from Radio Shack. The first CD I bought was The Cure’s Disintegration.  “Pictures of You” never sounded so amazing.

My brother Luke, who is a brilliant musician, once told me that I was one of the biggest musical influences in his life—I was the first person he knew who owned a CD player and I always gave him my extra CDs when I needed to make room on my shelf for new ones.

I gave him Collective Soul, Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Green Day, and Stone Temple Pilots—he loved them as much as I did.

I loved good musicians and I loved terrible ones. I had a life-sized poster of Sebastian Bach from Skid Row on my closet door for about 8 months when I was a freshman in high school. I wanted to marry both of the Nelson twins when I was 15—I didn't think I could "Live Without Their Love and Affection."

I’ve been known to do a chest bump to Milli Vanilli and did a few fist pumps to Metallica—I now hate both groups and rightfully so—they disappoint me on a personal level. I spent the entire summer before my freshman year in college watching “Pure Country” and listening to George Strait—he almost turned me on to country (almost is the key word here).

But I’m also quick to point out that I am no music expert. I know this and I gladly accept it. Music snobs bother me. They act like you are stupid for liking pop music. I enjoy pop music—and yes, I can hear you chuckling.

There are many times in my day when I need to turn on the music and lose myself for a while. Sometimes I need music that doesn’t make me think. But sometimes I need music that makes me feel something.

Foo Fighters carry me through my 6 mile run on the treadmill. Red Hot Chili Peppers cheer me up on the long rainy drive to school in the morning. The Beastie Boys keep me company during my lunch break in the library. The Black Eyed Peas make the kids jump around in the living room which makes me smile at the end of a long day. And Robby’s classical music soothes me to sleep when we get the chance to spend the night together.

So if you pass me on the road and you see me singing while the kids look distressed, then you will know what is up—the Foo Fighters are on and I don’t feel like putting up with anyone’s crap today. And no, I will not turn it down.

Romance by chance, family by choice



My Daddy and me when
 I was about 4 years old.



I learned a long time ago that blood does not make you family. I was not raised by my biological father. My mom and bio-dad split when I was only a few months old and she was remarried to my father before I turned a year old.

He is the only dad I have ever known, and I would have never known that he wasn’t my bio-dad if everyone had decided to keep it secret. I have never doubted that I was his little girl. I know we have a special bond because we had the unique chance to choose to be family.

I have a vague recollection of the day my sister and I went to the courthouse with my parents to seal the deal and become his legal children--I was in kindergarten at the time. As much as I fault my parents for being disconnected from us as children, I know from personal experience that it takes a lot of time and effort to go to court and makes things “legal.”

Becoming a genuine member of the Wade clan was one of the best gifts my father ever gave me and I’m glad mom had the wisdom and the strength to follow through with the adoption.

I know that it’s hard to know if the choices you make as a mother are the “right” choices for your children. But like my sister and I, my children are learning that sometimes you get the opportunity choose your family and that those bonds are just as strong as blood.



Fort McAllister marina near my home...
one of my favorite "thinking" spots



I love living near Savannah, GA. I love driving over the Ogeechee River on my way to town and seeing the low hanging Spanish moss reflect off the water and the egrets rest in the marsh. I love stopping off to buy fresh peaches and tomatoes from the old farmer on the side of the road and hear him say, “What can I do for you today, darling?” in his slow Savannah accent.

There are times when I step outside in the morning and feel a cool ocean breeze on my face and I smell the faint salty scent of Tybee Island. Those are the days I realize that I was meant to live here.

The only downside to living here has been the fact that we don’t have any family nearby. My sister lives about 5 hours away in North Carolina, but we only see each other several times during the year.

The path from the dock to Robby's mom's place

I have been blessed with a wonderful group of friends and neighbors here who have become our family, but it’s just not the same. The children hunger for cousins to play with and grandparents to spend the day with—they hunger for a family of their own.

Yesterday we spent the day at Robby’s mom’s place in Savannah. She lives in the old family home near the river—complete with private dock and several acres of marsh land. The children have gotten to know Robby’s mom over the past several months and needless to say, they adore her—especially Veronica.

Since he is not confined to a wheelchair like his sister, Jude has had the pleasure to run around outside and explore Robby’s mom’s place. He insists on being the “tour guide” out to the dock and he could walk around the home exploring and looking at old photographs for hours and never get bored.

Tour guide Jude ready to lead the way

Since Robby’s sister Mary is in town this weekend, we decided to take the children down to the dock for some crabbing and fishing. Mary and Robby spent their childhood on this land. Having the chance to create new memories on the dock with Veronica and Jude was something they had been looking forward to for weeks.

We loaded Veronica up in the wagon and Jude led the way down the long path to the dock. I spent most of the morning running around trying to keep fresh bait on the kids’ poles, removing their small catches, and taking photos.



Veronica and I share a special moment on the dock



I had a brief moment of silence during all the chaos when I sat next to Robby and looked around. Robby’s mom had made her way down to the dock, too. I realized that all of us were sitting on the dock—probably recreating a scene similar to something from Robby and Mary’s youth.



Mary shows Jude the dock, water squirters, and barnacles



And I realized that we have a new family. Once again, I feel adopted and loved by people who are not my blood, but there is no doubt that they are my family. I looked over at Robby and squeezed his hand in mine and gave me a wink. I wanted to remember this moment forever.

As the tide rolled in, we packed up and headed back to the house for shrimp and oysters. We all sat around the table sunburned, tired, and laughing about the day.



Mary, Jude, and Robby check the crab net



After the meal, Jude crawled up on my lap and looked up at me and said, “Mom, what family are we?”

I was a little thrown by the question. “What do you mean, sweetie?”

He whispered in my ear, “Are we Wades?”

“Yes,” I answered. It was beginning to dawn on me that he was feeling the same thing I felt.

“Can I be a Richardson like Robby?”

I smiled and asked him, “Do you want to?”

He nodded his little head and said, “I really like being a part of this family.”

I looked around the table and saw Veronica and Mary laughing and Robby watching them with a smile on his face.

I leaned down and whispered in Jude’s ear, “I like being a part of this family, too.”