I remember the day well. I was 7 years old. My dad and I drove to the airport to pick up my mom, who had been in Romania for a very long three weeks.

She came through the gate, beaming. She walked up to us and introduced me to my new little brother– a tiny, red faced, smooshy thing, who proceeded to make the most horrendous noises I’d ever heard on the car ride home.

I was in love.

I’d always wanted a little brother. (Well actually I wanted a sister or a dog, but I’d decided that a brother would work. ;)

I thought it was so cool that he was adopted. It made him special. It made our family special. I never once thought that there was anything weird about it.

My parents did a good job of that in general: teaching me to be proud of the things that make me different, like my multipotentiality, and like being a sensitive person. (It was the rest of the world that later made me feel bad about these things… But that’s a different story.)

It’s funny, I sat down and was planning on writing about how I’m driving to Astoria, Oregon to meet my new puppy today. But this is what came out.

I guess thinking about adoption got me thinking about…adoption.

I know it’s not even remotely the same thing, adopting a brother and adopting a dog. But there are similarities (possibly more than a few. Heh.) In both cases, you’re getting a new family member. It doesn’t matter if they come from another country, or if they’re another species entirely. Either way, they’re family.

It’s still going to be another six weeks before Grendel comes home to live with me (a compromise I struck with my landlady who was hesitant about having a young puppy in the house). But I’ll be meeting him for the first time today.

I’m excited beyond words.

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Do you have any adoption/new family member stories that you’d like to share?