This is something I originally wrote over at The SockKids.com blog, but people seemed to like it, so I wanted to share it over here.

How to Become a Parent in 37 Easy Steps

We celebrated the 7th anniversary of my daughter’s “Gotcha Day” last weekend. That was the day we met–the day we became a family.  The day I became a parent. Most people become parents the old-fashioned way. There are really only two steps . Step 1: Get pregnant. Step  2: Deliver a baby. Yes, there are all sorts of doctors appointments and stuff along the way, but that’s the gist of the process as designed by Mr. Spock. Simple, logical, and straightforward.

The process by which I became a parent was designed Rube Goldberg (or maybe M.C. Escher) . It went kind of like this.

Step 1: Yay, we want to have a family! Attempt traditional step 1.

Step 2: Step 1 does not work. Consider other options.

Step 3: Take a bunch of tests to see why Step 1 does not work.

Steps 4-7: Attempt various medically induced methods of achieving Step 1.

Step 8: Cry a lot.

Step 9: Realize that the love in our hearts does not need to be confined to bio-kids.

Step 10: Decide to adopt.

Step 11: Go to parenting certification classes through county.

Step 12: Complete home study with county social worker, who inspects your house and has to ask some very personal questions.

Step 13: Wait around for county to match you with a child.

Step 14: Get disappointed a few times and wait some more.

Step 15: Switch to a private adoption agency.

Step 16: Make the decision to go with an international adoption.

Step 17: Repeat Step 12.

Step  18: Fill out a gazillion forms.

Step 19: Collect copies of every important document in your and your spouse’s life short of high school transcripts.

Step 20: Mail everything off to the adoption agency in a starry-eyed dream of parenthood.

Step 21: Wait 12.5 months (note that this is one trimester longer than the old-fashioned method but less than half the gestation time of an elephant, so we’ve got that going for us).

Step 22: Receive a photograph from the adoption agency of Your Child. Fly over the moon as many times as necessary.

Step 23: Get visas and other travel documents together.

Step 24: Make arrangements to leave the country for two weeks. (If you don’t have pets, perhaps you can skip this step.)

Step 25:  Pretend to go to work and do all the things you’re supposed to do while surreptitiously looking at photo of Your Child and flipping out.

Step 26: Fly to Beijing, where you spend a nervous few days trying to remember every moment so you can share it with your child later while you acclimate to a time zone 12  hours opposite your own.

Step 27: Fly to the city where you’ll meet your child. Walk into the hotel room in this city and see two beds, a crib, and a stroller and realize This Is Really Happening.

Step 28: Sit nervously in said hotel room in new city for two hours waiting to meet your guide while your husband finds an NFL game from four days ago to occupy his time (and takes a video of you babbling your excitement so your child has future documentation of what a spaz you were before you met her.)

Step 29: Meet the guide and other family who is adopting in the lobby and walk down the street to the provincial civil affairs office.

Step 30: Sit down in chairs across from the door of the waiting room so you can see people walking down the hallway. Wait

Step 31: Other family is adopting an older set of twins. They get there first. Watch this new family take shape before your eyes.

Step 32: Hear the elevator bell ring and know that in two more heartbeats, a stranger will turn the corner and walk down the hallway toward you, carrying the baby who is destined to be Your Child.

Step 33: Wait the longest two heartbeats of your life.

Step 34: Have your breath taken away by the first sight of Your Child.

Step 35: Sit down with your guide/translator and people from the orphanage.

Step 36: Have person from the orphanage hand Your Child to you. Reach out your hands, wondering if you are really prepared for this, if you are totally going to screw up this whole parenting thing, if someone made a terrible mistake somewhere because this can’t possibly finally be happening, if you’ll ever manage to be as good a parent as this little human deserves to have.

Step 37: Hold Your Child in your lap for the first time. Breathe. Feel an unimaginable wave of gratitude wash over you. Repeat as often as necessary.

So Fred Phelps, the founder of the Westboro Church, just died. He was the guy who got his fellow church members to protest at the funerals of servicemen and women and other notable funerals because he had the strange idea that war and other human actions were somehow God’s punishment for homosexuality. So yeah, he had a pretty despicable agenda. Over the last few days, I’ve seen a number of Facebook posts and Tweets and cartoons that were downright happy about his death.

Here’s the thing: Taking joy in the death of another human being, no matter how despicable he or she was, tarnishes our own humanity. You can’t say, “I l love all people. I am for equality and social justice” and still be happy when someone else dies. You can’t. What you can do is fight despicable agendas. We’re all the same species. We all do good things and bad things. Fred Phelps left a legacy built on discrimination and irrational hatred. I don’t know what lies beyond this life. If he is now in eternal sleep, well then, he can’t hurt anybody. If there is an afterlife, now he gets to have a come-to-Jesus chat with, well, Jesus. They can go over the whole “love thy neighbor” stuff together and review how well Fred did on that during his 84 years in his mortal coil.

It’s tempting to hate back and to make jokes at the expense of the Fred Phelps of the world. Instead of that, let’s just try to be really awesome human beings. Let’s be the type of person who helps push a stranger’s car when it’s stuck in the snow, even if that car has a Westboro Church bumper sticker. Hold the door open for another person. Volunteer. And then let that person know, “Oh by the way, the people who just helped you are gay/lesbian/allies. ” Be the kindness you want to see in other people. My mother always said that the best way to deal with difficult people was to kill them with kindness. I don’t want to repay hate with hate, that doesn’t get us anywhere. If we really believe in equality, then we need to be equally kind.

On my way to work this morning, I stopped in at this great little bakery to pick up a scone for lunch and a loaf of their fabulous cinnamon raisin bread for Christmas Eve day and Christmas Day breakfast. They usually aren’t open on Mondays, but it being Christmas week, they were. Typically there might be one or two people in line ahead of you and half a dozen people hanging out with a cup of coffee and a croissant or a sticky bun, lingering and talking. Not today. Nobody was sitting, and the line reached almost out the door. Just when I thought I’d have a long boring wait ahead of me, a woman and a little boy who looked around 7 or 8 walked into and got in line behind me. As they walked in, I could hear the mom saying to the son something like “Well, ‘blah blah blah’ aren’t really the words, but I can’t remember the real words.”  The tall guy in front of me and I both glanced back at the mother and child at the same time, and she looked at us and asked, “Do you know the words to “Twas the Night before Christmas?”

Oh,such a question to pose to an English major who likes to show off.

“Actually, it’s called “A Visit from Saint Nicholas,” I said, “And I do know it.”

“Could you recite it?”

I looked at the line and figured, hell, we’re going to be here awhile. Why not? So I said “Sure” and I started reciting. When I was a kid,we had a copy of Tasha Tudor’s Take Joy, which has Christmas carols, legends, stories, recipes, everything, including Clement Moore’s classic poem. I used to read “A Visit from Saint Nicholas” all the time. I will admit that I was not word perfect and couldn’t remember every line. For instance, when I got to the “With a little old driver so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be Saint Nick,” I couldn’t remember how the heck Santa gets from the speaker’s front yard to the chimney. I said as much, and the another guy, who looked like he wanted into get in on the action, turned around and said, “And one if by land and two if by sea.”

“And the password is ‘swordfish,'” I replied.

He nodded. The tall guy good-naturedly told him not to cause trouble. I dove back into my recitation. The goofy guy chimed in “Into the valley of death rode the Six Hundred.”

I said “Forward charged the Light Brigade” and kept going.

The tall guy said, “This is why we have smart phones.”

I defended the oral tradition and kept going.

The tall guy pulled out his phone anyway and looked up the poem (after confirming the correct title). I got about 75-80% of it from memory, and pulled out a few more lines of bits I had missed when he read a couple of words as a prompt. When I was done, we high-fived each other. “English majors for the win,” I said.

It’s strange what poems lurk in our memory banks, and sad that more poems don’t. I have a cell phone. Technically it’s a smart phone that’s been rendered mute. I don’t text, and I don’t see the need to pay $30 a month for a data package just so I can surf the Internet at the drop of a hat. If I’m waiting around somewhere, I’d rather watch what’s going on around me instead of numbly staring at a tiny little screen. If I did, I wouldn’t have had nearly as much fun waiting in line for my bread.

When I was 16, I was briefly friends with this super-cool punk girl who went to my high school for a semester. I don’t even remember her name, just that she had the pop punk look down and was immediately popular among all the punk and alternative kids. I kind of hung out with those kids and kind of hung out by myself, but for some reason, she deemed me cool enough to be buddies with. One time we were sitting in the courtyard at Heights High School, talking about clothes and how people dress and she said to me: “You dress like you don’t care.”

I wasn’t brave enough to ask whether that meant I dressed like I didn’t care what I wore, what other people thought or me, or something else. I still dress like I did then–jeans and sneakers and T-shirts and a sweater or sweatshirt if it’s cold. Sometimes it’s a band T-shirt or it has something ironic or revolutionary printed on it, but mostly they’re just plain old clothes. I guess I still dress like I don’t care.

My child has told me that I dress “boring.” Granted, she’s a kid and favors bright colors (we let her pick the paint and her room has two walls in Crack Whore Flamingo Pink and two in Bordello Purple). but yes, I tend to wear blues, dark greens, blacks, and purples. What one friend called the “bruise palette.” It seems to be a look favored by Humanities majors.

This evening, I took my daughter to dinner at the local Indian restaurant because we were both hungry and my husband wasn’t. We went on the spur of the moment, throwing on shoes and coats and fleeing the house in eager anticipation of some serious spice. We had a great dinner. She told me about the day-long Girl Scouts event she attended today. Near the end of the dinner, we both went into the bathroom–two stalls, no waiting. It wasn’t until I sat down on the toilet that I noticed I was wearing two different shoes.

On my left foot, I had the brown loafers I wore all winter, and on my right foot I had the brown docksiders I generally wear all summer. Mix them together, and I guess you have  a spring ensemble.  This is what you get when you dress like you don’t care.

Sometimes I think I ought to look more like other women, like other moms. You know, maybe color out the gray hairs that are starting to spring up, wear a bit more makeup, wear something other than men’s jeans (which are like eight dollars cheaper than women’s jeans), find some shirts that don’t, you know, hide my light under a bushel. I actually do have clothes like that, I just don’t wear them very often. In the never-ending battle between function and form, function will always have the upper hand. I do care, but I also like to be comfortable. I like to do things–run, jump, cook, bake, garden, hike. It seems that you’re more free to do things and do them with abandon in clothes are functional. I suspect that when I am an old woman, I’ll still be tramping around in my hiking boots and men’s jeans and hoodies and  minimal makeup. But yes, I will check that my shoes match before I leave the house.

We are fortunate to have a good-sized mud room. It’s large enough to hold coats, hats, gloves, three bicycles, two cabinets (one w/ toys/sporting equipment and one with paper), a printing press (long story), and a small table. There’s also room for two wet and/or muddy dogs to hang out and dry off. I think I’ve finally figured out what the dogs talk about when they’re hanging out in the mud room. Just to give you a visual:

This is Juno

And this is Mason

Mason: Why do we have to stay out here?

Juno: You have to stay out here because you’re a slob who can’t stay out of puddles. I’m being punished simply because we’re the same species.

Mason: Do you think she’ll give us a treat?

Juno: Perhaps. If you don’t chew on anybody’s boots.

Mason: Mmm.. boots. They smell like our people.

Juno: Get That Out Of Your Mouth.

Mason: I love our people.

Juno: Me too. It’s awfully quiet in there. I hope she’s okay.

Mason: Maybe she’ll give us a treat when we come in.

Juno: Not if you don’t get that out of your mouth. Have some dignity.

Mason: I really love things that smell like our people.

Juno: What’s that noise? It sounds like somebody’s screaming. Is she okay?

Mason: I think that’s the tea kettle. The whistle hurts my ears.

Juno: If I were in there, I could help her. I could herd that motherfucking tea kettle into next week if she’d only let me.

Mason: Have they ever given us tea? I’m pretty sure I’d like it.

Juno: Would you be quiet? I’m trying to listen. Dammit, how can I keep an eye on the house when I’m stuck in here with you?

Mason: Sorry.

Juno: And stop that incessant licking.

[The door opens.]

Me: Okay puppies, I think you’re dry. Come on.

Juno: Oh thank Dog.

Mason: Do you think she’s gonna give us a treat?

Tom Hanks: Hi, I don’t know if you remember me or not. We both used to work at Great Lakes Theater Festival. Okay, not at the same time, but we met when you came back to do your first benefit at GLTF. I introduced myself saying that I might be the only person in the room who’d spent as much time as you in Municipal Stadium (I spent a summer there hawking beer and dogs).  As a long-time Cleveland Indians fan, you know the problems the team has. However, you’re one of the few Tribe fans in the position to make things better. What I’m driving at is this: You should buy the Cleveland Indians, if not outright, then at least a significant share. It would help the team compete in the free agent market and, come on, how cool would it be to own your favorite baseball team?

Emma Thompson: You really need to record audio books of all Jane Austen’s works. You did that marvelous (dare I say quintessential?) adaptation of Sense & Sensibility. I understand that making films is a long and arduous process, so I can’t really fault you for not doing film adaptations of all Austen’s works. (Which is not to say that it wouldn’t be lovely if you did, because we still lack a decent film version of Emma, and where’s the love for Northanger Abbey?) But you could pop off an audio book recording of an Austen novel in a long weekend.  Book lovers everywhere would be in your debt.

Justin Beiber: I’ll confess, I’m not a fan. However, congratulations on essentially creating your own career out of the Interwebs. You clearly understand the power of virality better than most. Here’s the thing–you’re stuck in this netherworld between teen pop star and young male singer.  What you need to do is star in a Broadway revival of Bye, Bye Birdie.  Yes, I know it’s a teen pop star role. But it would also give you a chance to show off a few acting chops. Broadway has a way of legitimizing young stars or helping them bridge the teen to adult gap. It worked for that one Jonas brother and it worked for Daniel Radcliffe. It’ll work for you. Plus, teenage girls and their parents still have lots more money that you haven’t collected yet.

Daniel Craig: You’ve reinvented and reinvigorated the James Bond franchise. Just to keep the critics on their toes, why not go the other way with your next project? Do a  romantic comedy. I’m thinking something along the lines of famous-actor-falls-in-love-with-a-normal-person scenario. Kind of a reverse of Julia Roberts in Notting Hill. But instead of falling in love with a bookstore owner, your character could fall in love with a struggling writer with a cynical streak. If you want to take some time preparing for the role by hanging out with a struggling writer with a cynical streak, I’m available. (I can help you run lines, too.)