Even when we were standing still, it felt like one big rush. Of course, each get-together was an event unto itself. We not only saw Beth's biological mother, Kim, and her three children, but Kim's father, Kim's new boyfriend and his three kids, and Kim's sister, her two girls, and her boyfriend. It was boisterous and friendly, but it was also unsettling and chaotic, leaving no time for heartfelt conversations between biological and adoptive mothers.

And when we weren't moving, we were waiting -- waiting for Kim and company for an hour and a half at the park, waiting for Beth's birthfather, Charlie, and brother, Jacob, to show up at a birthday dinner for Jacob. (They were a no-show.) Waiting for Kim to appear at our hotel on the morning we were leaving. We received a text from her saying she overslept because she was up all night with her sick two-year-old. Understandable? Certainly. Sadly disappointing? Most definitely. Yes, "debacle" seems to sum it up.

However, now that I'm no longer rushing or moving or waiting, just being and breathing and digging in the dirt, there are some different recollections surfacing….

I loved, once again, how smitten Beth was with her older brother, Jacob. She just couldn't get enough of him and her two-year-old brother, as well. I loved how Beth's sister, Mia, unabashedly gave me a great big hug. I loved seeing Kim's face light up as she soaked in Beth's mere presence. Friday night's dinner with Kim, the kids, and Kim's dad was truly wonderful. It was happy chaos indeed.

Another moment for me was at Jacob's birthday dinner, before we didn't know he wasn't going to show and before Beth threw up: Beth was sitting with all the kids as my husband, Tony, performed magic tricks for them. I sat next to Kim as she looked through Beth's artwork and the many photos I gave to her. It was our one stolen moment and I told her that we would definitely plan on seeing her every year.

And, finally, Kim might not have made it to our hotel, but Nana (Charlie's mother) arrived with Mia and Jacob. (Hooray.) We spent three hours together. Nana showed Beth the blanket she was knitting for her (in Beth's favorite colors of blue, yellow, and orange). As the siblings made trips to the breakfast buffet and vending machine, Nana and I talked -- about her, the adoption, about Charlie. We asked her to please tell Charlie that our door is always open to him; that there's no time limit for starting a relationship, whenever he's ready. This is the kind of quiet interaction I envisioned having with Kim.

But I do believe I've figured out how to create more of these authentic moments during our next visit….

By extending our trip by a day (and not picking a birthday weekend).

By renting a house instead of staying in a hotel. Tony and I need a home base, since Kim doesn't have one. This way we can cook together, barbeque, the kids can play, the adults can hang out and catch up. I'm betting it'll be a more relaxed way to make the most of our time together.

By offering to fly Kim to New York for a weekend visit to our home. (Only Kim, at this point, since we don't have the room or the means to host her children or other family members. Plus I'd love for Beth and Kim to have one-on-one time.)

So, live and dig and learn. I'm thankful there will be a next time.

I remember telling a friend what our infertility doctor told us -- that he would select a donor who resembled me. Half-jokingly, she pointed out that we wouldn't even have to tell our child that anyone else was involved. This realization gave me the chills, by no means in a good way.

I'm firmly in the "It's a Basic Human Right and Fundamental Need to Know How You Came into Being" camp. Can you imagine if you didn't have a clue as to who shared your irrepressible laugh, or artistic talent, or that dimple in your chin, or the million other traits that non-adopted people simply know? Well, I wanted a child of mine to have this knowing, too.

Looking back to the beginning of our domestic adoption process, it shocks me just how little my husband and I knew about open adoption.

At that time, a little over four years now, open meant our daughter's biological mother, Kim, would know our last name, phone numbers, and where we lived. Open meant sending pictures and monthly updates. Open meant that, when Beth was five years old, "everyone will evaluate the situation to determine future updates," according to the letter sent by her attorney. We found with each passing year that that definition of open wasn't gonna cut it for us.

Here's what we resolved since then:

That we would see Kim and her family at least once a year.

That we would schedule a regular time to talk. Since the weekly (or even monthly) phone call exchange didn't seem to be panning out, Facebook has been a great alternative. I post photos and status updates a few times a week and my FB friends, Kim and a small circle of her family, are online on a pretty much daily basis.

Yet still…it isn't enough. Maybe because Beth is four and sometimes she brings up the fact that she has a brother and sometimes she says she doesn't have a brother. Sometimes I say she has two brothers and a sister and sometimes I say she's an only child. Yes, both are true, yet… I'd like for her and us and everyone related to Beth by birth and adoption to simply know we are all family. To know hey, this is how our family works.

How to do this? I've come to realize that our open adoption starts with me and Tony. So it starts with us letting Kim know that we are open as open can be: That we want her and her kids to visit with us so they can see where Beth goes to school and where she plays. We want her to meet our neighbors and friends and extended family.

We want Kim to feel without question that she is and always will be a part of our lives. We want to have an honest conversation about how she and the kids are emotionally handling the adoption so far.

We want to know about Kim's hopes and dreams for herself and her kids. We want her to know that we are invested in the well-being of her children, Beth's sister and brothers.

I've got some ideas that I'm not sure are appropriate, such as suggesting to Kim that we go to the bank to open up a saving account for each of her kids. I read that a kid who has a savings account is six times more likely to go on to college. Or find out if she ever talks to them about "when they go to college," as I'm fond of doing with Beth when the moment arises. (She says she's going to preschool college.)

I don't want to overstep my bounds here. But I don't want to stand on ceremony when it comes to family either. I look at it this way -- I'd like to think of her kids as I would my nieces and nephews. That feels appropriate to me.

It's nearly that time again to visit with our "Indiana family," as I've taken to calling them. I realize this is a long "want list" for a long weekend and I certainly don't want to make anyone's head explode, including mine. However, I do want to be mindful about creating a deeper relationship this time around. Sharing more of ourselves, finding more ways to be connected the way families are -- as we do our best to make the leap from birth family to Indiana family to plain ol' family.

Do you consider your child's birth family as simply family? How have you deepened your relationship? I would love to know.

We were running late and needed to move it. Now. But Beth decided she didn't want to move. So, she didn't. No problem, I thought, I'll just scoop her up and throw her (used only as an expression) in the car. As I struggled to get her off the floor and us out the door, I realized I simply couldn't lift up and move my daughter at will anymore. My will, that is. Not when she's exercising a will of her own. Not when she weighs close to 40 pounds and goes boneless on me. That's when it hit me -- gone was the toddler and before me sat, quite stubbornly I might add, a bonafide little kid.

The signs were all there, creeping up on me with each passing month -- a big girl bed here, wearing pull-ups only at night there. Then there was a new desire to wear nail polish, bracelets, and necklaces. Soon after that came the declaration that she didn't want to wear whatever adorable outfit I picked out (and it was adorable, I assure you). Lately she's been acting like some mad fashionista, creating ensembles -- a bikini top layered over a tank top layered over a thermal shirt -- behind closed doors. My only hope now is that she emerges wearing something on her lower half, as well.

For the last few months, Beth has also been having very vivid dreams. Problem is, she doesn't quite get that they aren't real. She's a big fan of The Wizard of Oz and recently awoke extremely upset. "Where are they?!" she screamed. "She said she was going to share!"

"Who? What?" I asked, trying to calm her down.

"That girl with the shoes," Beth cried, shaking me off, scooting to the foot of her bed. "She said she would leave them RIGHT HERE!"

Needless to say, dreams do come true, as I purchased a pair of ruby red slippers for her that very day. I mean, really, who knew Dorothy could be so selfish?

But maybe the biggest little-kid changes are….

Her growing self-assurance. The kid's got swagger, let me tell you. It slays me how she states very knowingly, "I'm a girl. I have a vagina. When I'm a boy, I'll have a penis."

Those flashes of deeper perceptions about her world. When she told one of her schoolmates that she has a brother, he said, "No, you don't." To which she replied, in sing-song, I might add, "Oh, yes I do. He lives in Indiana."

And those authentic moments of pure thoughtfulness. Beth and Daddy were snuggled up at bedtime when she gently held his face and told him she was sorry she yelled at him that morning: "It was because I really missed you when you go to work." Or when she says, out of the blue, "I love you, Mom," and then a second later she's fast asleep.

Yup, some really big stuff. So, here's to you, my darling girl -- wishing you every joy big and small on your fourth birthday. Swagger on!

As a longtime animal lover and avid ASPCA giver over the years, it floored me just how quickly my motherly thoughts turned from "my widdle baby girl" to "oh, she's a cat." You see, over the 11 years since I found Scarlet under a park bench in Brooklyn, I've bestowed her with only the best and brightest of human qualities and abilities.

However, once newborn Beth entered the scene, and every other aspect of my life, I no longer found Scarlet's sharp-witted (and clawed) antics -- such as attacking my toes to rouse me from slumber -- funny. Eccentric personality traits once deemed a sign of gifted genius, like licking plastic bags, now just seemed strange and unsanitary. Batting a catnip mouse with her back paw then feinting surprise as if she didn't know she was doing it herself, once labeled "sheer brilliance," now made me think, "brilliant for a cat, maybe."

Please don't get me wrong, I love the not-so-little fur ball, the bunny bear -- the beast -- and anticipated that Scarlet might be, uh…pushed aside. So, before the human baby came home I did my best to let the feline one know what was coming round the bend. Purring and paw-dancing in my lap as I lavished her with caresses, Scarlet seemed to understand that my life, her life, was about to forever change. It seemed to me she was truly valuing our time together. (Now I see she wanted to make sure I could better reach under her chin.) Oh, well. She certainly gets it now.

These days Scarlet can frequently be seen sporting what I call her "sour face" -- ears back, eyes ablaze, glancing warily at the child, uncertain where and when Beth will pounce on her for a full-body hug. I am constantly awed by Scarlet's restraint from eating Beth whole and spitting her out. In fact, I have never seen Scarlet gentler and more tolerant than she is with my nearly-four-year-old child. (I mean, this is a cat that still spits and hisses at my mother, who offers nothing but love and cat treats.)

So, it's fair to say that I've come full circle with Scarlet -- from "my baby" to "the nuisance" back to "baby girl." As I peer at her little puss face, fast asleep and snoring as loudly as my husband, I know that she is, without a doubt, an important member of our family…even if she does poop outside the litter box every so often (which I take as a sign of brilliance).

When the power came back on, I am beyond happy to report that our "Kim Connection" had also been restored – you might even say it's been super-charged.

During that pre-Halloween-hurricane phone conversation with Kim, I found myself speaking rather quickly. I wanted to make sure I said everything I wanted to say since I wasn't so sure I was going to speak to Kim again soon.

Now this is where you came in, dear reader. Because of all of you who shared your insights on my recent post "Who Needs Her," I had a plan, of sorts, in the form of a few scattered thoughts scribbled down on scraps of paper, shoved with care into my appointment book for safe keeping. (Impressive, I know.) It was your stories of lost and found birthmother connections that readied me for this phone call. And when the opportunity presented itself, I sprang into action, crumpled scraps in hand.

In rapid-fire succession I told Kim that Beth is the one who often initiates conversations about her and her kids. That Beth asks when she can talk to them or see them again. I told Kim how important I think it is, especially as Beth gets older (she turns four in February), that Beth have a strong connection with her and her siblings.

I asked Kim if we could set up a regular time to speak, whatever she was comfortable with. I asked her if she checks her Yahoo account or if there was a better way to keep in touch. I asked her for her new address and why her phone number keeps changing. I believe I asked everything I had jotted down and, what's more, got answers.

Kim sounded happy and touched that Beth was so curious about her and her birth siblings. Kim told me she would love to speak once a week. She also wants to have a lasting relationship with Beth; "That's why I wanted an open adoption," she said. She asked if I could set up a Facebook account, which I did. She explained that her number changed whenever she didn't have enough money to buy phone cards. I said I would send her some cards, which I did.

It was a good conversation. It was good to catch up and hear about some of the goings on in her life. It was good to have her back. It was good to be prepared.

Supermodels feel entitled to rough up their staff, powerful men feel entitled to cheat, or, from personal experience, to speak loudly on their cell phones while riding the train, deeming themselves more important than the masses. But perhaps entitlement, meaning right, privilege, claim, has never been more fraught with negative emotion than when it's used in the adoption community.

Recently, I read an online posting from a prospective adoptive mother in which she shared her disappointment about the expectant mother's decision to parent. In the thread below there was a comment that read, "That smacks of entitlement," the phrase implying that the prospective parent was only concerned about herself and her own desires.

As a mom by way of domestic adoption, I believe entitlement was at play. But not in the way you might think.

I was surprised to discover that entitlement plays a very important role when it comes to adopting a child, according to Judy M. Miller, Adoptive Parent Educator and Support Specialist. She says it means "fully embracing that you have the right to parent your child. This belief comes from claiming your child wholly, developing a sense that she 'belongs,' even though you didn't give birth to her."

Judy goes on to say that entitlement is a process that happens over time. And I suspect that, for many adoptive parents, it starts well before our babies are legally our babies. I know it did for me. I look back over my gratitude journal entries leading up to the birth of my daughter, Beth, and see that I've written many a claiming statement, including:

I am grateful to know our healthy, beautiful baby is on her way to us.

And

I am grateful for the upcoming "We're a Family" chapter of my life.

It's definitely a fine line of emotion to walk. To feel hopeful that I would be a mother, yet at the same time detach from the final outcome. To honor and be respectful of Kim as a person and expectant mother, yet at the same time feel the quiet excitement of parenthood nearly within my reach. It's hard stuff, and it's just one of the many complexities in the adoption journey.

To me, entitlement means being a mother in the complete sense of the word -- I am the nurturer, defender, storyteller, boo-boo healer, incessant-question answerer, nail polisher, and all the other types of "-ers" you can think of when it comes to raising a child.

Entitlement means creating a home where our daughter feels safe, secure, and loved, even when she's raising hell on her way to a time out. It means establishing an ease and openness when it comes to talking about Beth's adoption story. Entitlement also means nurturing our ever evolving open relationship with her biological mother and family.

I relish the title of Mom, wholeheartedly, and, especially, gratefully. It's not a position to be taken lightly; it can't be done in a half-assed way. It's something that must be embraced fully, fearlessly, right from the start -- and even a little before.

Tony has been building this loving, meaningful bond from the moment he first held a screaming, red-faced Beth in the Indiana hospital just a few hours after she was born. When she was an infant, he actively, if somewhat nervously, participated in her bathing, feeding, and changing. He also jumped in to cuddle, play, and read to her any chance he got.

Now that Beth is three, daddy-daughter time is an everyday, yet far from ordinary, experience for everyone involved. After all, where there's Daddy, there's excitement. Tony getting home from work and taking over is an especially thrilling time for Beth -- and Mommy. (Can you hear my long exhale of liberation from here?) They tell each other about their days, then might dig for worms (and take a bath) or make a tent in the living room. Regardless of the adventure, the evening always ends with the pair going into Beth's room, where Tony reads Beth book and regales her, yet again, with the story of how he missed the school bus when he was a little boy.

The daddy skill that amazes me most is Tony's knack for turning the most challenging moments with Beth into a magical time. Like when Beth has to do her breathing treatment for her asthma. With Daddy, the struggle to secure the "Bubbles the Fish" mask on Beth's face suddenly disappears. Presto! It's snuggle time as father and daughter watch the (same) television episode of The Fresh Beat Band (you know the one, where Kiki's violin goes missing?).

I think back to when Tony and I first began talking about domestic adoption. At the time, we were coming from a surreal place of pain and loss, and Tony wasn't sure adoption was something he wanted to do. However, the more he examined it, the more he came to believe that adoption was just another loving way to create a family. Someone could not care for her baby, we could. Loving a child to pieces -- what could be more natural than that?

As I listen to Tony charm Beth into spitting out her big-girl fluoride toothpaste instead of swallowing it, I know that for Tony, and me, our pain is long gone. I hear Tony say, in his best British accent, "Good show!" to which Beth responds, in her best British accent (which tends to have a Southern drawl), "Thank you, poo poo Daddy!" and I'm grateful that I get to bear witness to their miraculous relationship every day.

To the magic man in both of our lives -- Happy Father's Day, Tony!

Let's hear it for the dad or father-figure in your child's life!