It's All About The Laces

I cannot put on a pair of tennis shoes (aka sneakers or trainers depending on where you reside) without thinking of my dad. This has always been the case, even before he died. The man had a thing for athletic shoes.

My dad loved shopping - his kind of shopping that is. His style was not the wandering aimlessly through stores searching for that elusive must-have-new-thing, he relished the purposeful hunt for a particular item. And that mission usually involved new tennis shoes. 

He was the absolute best when it came to back-to-school shoe shopping. I always had the latest ‘in’ shoe to propel my walk into a new grade in the fall. And when those wore out, another new pair seamlessly backed up my shoe game. I can’t tell you how many times I exaggerated a ‘hole’ or flaw in my shoes to score a new set. Dad always played along...although I now think he knew better and just indulged me.

Back to that fresh pair of kicks.

Once the in store approval was met and funded, the second half of our story takes place. You brought the shoes home and took them out of the box…normal, right? But in our house, the next step involved taking all the shoelaces out. Every single bit, so the shoe was completely laceless. Then you lovingly replaced the laces so each side laid perfectly flat against the tongue of the sneaker and hugged the grommets exactly right. 

It was a process for sure, involving patience and dexterity, manipulating those laces across the shoe and rotating ‘just so’ as you thread and repeat. I loved every minute of it. I still do.

It will forever remind me of dad.

As I tied up my Stan Smiths this morning to take my daughter on an adventure in our new town, I thought of him as I made sure the laces were flat and the tie was even.

Almost four months Dad, and I still want to call you every day to talk about stuff like this.

Family Day

Yesterday was the 11 year anniversary of our Gotcha Day - the day we became a family of three. Large or small, created by blood or circumstance, every family has a story of how they came to be and all are worthy of celebrating.

When she was younger, at least once a week Ella would ask me to recite the story of the day we met. It begins, "Daddy and I woke up very early and drove to the airport..." At this point, she can tell the story as well as I but she enjoys hearing me recount my version and I'm good with that.

The date we were given to appear at the embassy in Guatemala City was April 11th - my godson's birthday. A few years prior in North Carolina, he and his twin arrived several weeks premature and I got to be with their mama Jenny to feed, hold, and love them while they were in NICU. Jake made his mark on my heart - I wear the necklace I was given at his baptism every day.

Our story becomes unique as we did not see one another on the day of Ella's birth, as many mothers and daughters do. Instead, I got to see a picture of her tiny face at 10 days old and knew in my heart she was mine. We finally met in person, a few months later, in a hotel lobby in Guatemala City on April 10, 2008. It was every bit as exciting and scary as being introduced on the day Ella came into the world.

I dreamt of Ella for years and to us, the circumstances of becoming a family are no less spectacular than had I carried her for 9 months and labored to deliver her. It was thrilling to discover some aspects of parenthood are universal, regardless of the path traveled to get there. The instant I first saw her face, the moment she was handed to me, the second I realized she was really, truly mine - they are all branded indelibly on my soul.

Like any other mother, I re-tell Ella's story to her willingly, joyously even, because it is a love story...hers and mine. It's not a recounting of basic facts or statistical data like birth weight or time of day born but the glorious tale of how we found each other and I will always love telling the story that made me a Mama.

Happy Family Day, sweet girl, we are lucky to have you!