Just for the record, Greg and I were doing the international adoption long before Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. We're trendsetters that way.

If you want to hear the show and listen to me stumble over the word "existential" you can go here. And if clicking on a link is too much trouble, but you're curious as to what I have to say about adoption, I'll post my story below.

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Three's the Charm

How often do I think about the fact that two of my kids were adopted? About as often as I remember that the third one wasn't. That is to say, not very. Unless they bring it up.
When my husband and I went through the adoption process (FBI and Interpol clearance, psych evaluations, home inspections, social worker interviews etc.) the pros warned us that children who are adopted often have issues -- feelings of not belonging, and curiosities about their birth families. This was particularly stressed right before we flew to Peru to bring home Maria, 16 years ago. "She'll look different than you, " the social worker said, who couldn't have missed the fact there are albinos with better coloring than mine. "You can't sweep it under the rug."

I thought about that when I took baby Maria out in her stroller. Her silky black hair and beautiful caramel-colored skin never failed to elicit compliments from the other moms in the neighborhood. I said nice things about their babies too, even though I secretly thought they all looked like miniature Elmer Fudds.

But the years went on and even though I was prepared, none of my children anguished, or at least not that we noticed. Our oldest, Charlie, was quick to let us know when we compared poorly with other parents, but it seemed to be a Charlie thing, not an adoption thing.

When an issue did crop up, surprisingly enough, it was our younger son Jack who had the difficulty. Always at odds with his older brother, I overheard him say to Charlie, "Oh yeah, well you're not even supposed to be in this family. You're adopted."

I held my breath, waiting for what, I don't know, but Charlie didn't miss a beat. His reply: "Well, I've been in this family a lot longer than you. They picked me; they were stuck with you."
I thought the matter was settled -- score even -- until Jack came to me later in the day. "Mom," he said, "If I wasn't born to you, would you have adopted me?" It was a pretty existential question for a six-year-old. I found myself thinking it through too much: if he wasn't born, he wouldn't exist so how could he be adopted? It was a chicken and egg riddle. Not only that, but the adoption process was so arduous and costly, my husband and I'd agreed the second time would be the last. A third adoption was out of the question. But as I looked at his little earnest face, I realized he just wanted reassurance. "Yes," I said, "I would have adopted you."

The matter didn't come up again until a year later when Maria had a friend sleep over. In the morning, decisions were made: the two girls and Jack decided to watch a video, Prince of Egypt, my husband and I decided to sleep in. Even as I snoozed I was aware of the sound of the movie coming from the living room, but I still wasn't prepared when Jack came into our bedroom to ask a question. "Am I the firstborn?" His voice was distraught. "Maria says I'm the firstborn, so I would be the one the angel of death kills. I said, no Charlie is the oldest, but she said that doesn't count because he was adopted."

My sleep-muddled brain grappled with the multi-layered question. Charlie was born first, but he wasn't technically our firstborn. Still, he had that status in the family. Jack was the first baby born to me, but the third child. What a puzzlement. It all came down to this: What Would the Angel of Death Do? Finally, I awoke enough to make sense of it all. "Jack, it's just a movie and it happened a long time ago. The angel of death isn't coming to our house, and if he does we'll put some blood on the door and he'll pass right over." Relieved, he went off to tell the two girls what I'd said.

So now I'm done, or done for now as the case may be. If this revision gets approved, my part will be finished for the time being. Of course if it's sold, an editor will want more changes. It's always something. Luckily, I'm flexible. Like a gymnast.

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I haven't told a Jack anecdote for a while, so here's something new.

To set it up -- Jack is my younger son. He's in seventh grade, and loves to read. He also has a mother who enjoys getting a rise out of her kids. One day when he was completely engrossed in a Michael Crichton novel, I decided to get him back for all the times he's interuppted me when I was reading.

Me: Jack, put down the book. I was hoping we could have a heart to heart talk.

Jack (not looking up): Later, okay? I'm at a good part.

Me: Come on, we never talk anymore. Let's share -- tell me your hopes and dreams.

Jack: My hopes and dreams?

Me: Yes, I'd like to know your hopes and dreams.

Jack: I'm hoping you'll leave me alone, and I'm dreaming of finishing this book.

(Now that I've reread this piece, it sounds a little mean-spirited. That was not my intent. Pretend it's funny.)
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RELATIVELY SPEAKING
By Karen McQuestion

All across this great nation of ours Americans celebrate the holidays in the same way: they spend too much money, eat too much food, and invite the same relatives over for the holiday meal. I don't mean the exact same relatives of course, but it is amazing how the same types seem to crop up in families of all kinds. I've compiled a list of my own family members, grouping them by their charming quirks. See if any of your relatives fall into the following categories:

· ALWAYS THE GUEST, NEVER THE HOST -- This person will call a few days before the event to ask, "What are we doing for the holiday?" (Translation: what time should I come for dinner?) His reasons for not hosting a meal vary: the place is too small, he doesn't cook etc., but he'll be glad to bring a side dish to your gathering, if he remembers.

· THE SPORTS GUY -- Just show him into the room with the television. He doesn't want to be rude but this is the big game. No need to fuss over him; just let him know when dinner is ready and he'll come get his plate during a commercial. Oh, and where is that remote control?

· THE DOG PERSON -- This one actually brings their dog, and will amaze you with the pup's latest tricks. If you balk at having the dog lick your hand you'll be reminded that a dog's mouth is cleaner than a humans', as if that makes it okay. If by chance the dog isn't with them, they'll bring photos and share cute anecdotes. You've got a kid who's teething? That's nothing! They'll top that with a funny story about the time Chompers was teething and chewed up a pair of leather slippers.

· HATES TO EAT AND RUN -- They hate to eat and run, but they do it anyway. They'd do the family holiday dinner as a drive-through if they could. Not to rush you but could you open those gifts a little faster?

· ALL EYES ON ME -- The only thing to remember about this relative is that they love to be the center of attention and thrive in the spotlight. They're masters at maneuvering the conversation back to themselves. But enough about them, did I ever tell you about the time I….

· THE ONE WHO GETS THE KIDS ALL RILED UP -- This relative has grown-up kids or none at all. What better way to connect with the little ones than to chase them around the Christmas tree and tickle them until they're hysterical? Better yet, give the two-year-old a swig of Mountain Dew right before bedtime. Who believes that fallacy about sugar and caffeine causing hyperactivity anyway?

· THE CHEERLEADER -- The cheerleader doesn't cook but raves about your dinner and everything else. He/she speaks in exclamation points! Certainly these are the best-candied yams ever! Boy, you really outdid yourself with the apple pie this year! Doesn't the house look festive! And my favorite: you look great! Did you lose weight?!

· OFFERS TO HELP AFTER EVERYTHING IS ALREADY DONE -- You know what they say; timing is everything.

· ACHES AND PAINS -- There's really nothing wrong with them, but they've been feeling poorly lately and want to tell you about it in great detail. Apparently no one ever told them that there is only one correct response to the question "How are you?" and that would be, "fine."

· SHOWOFF -- This relative always brings photos from a recent vacation and can tell you about their latest purchases of furniture, jewelry etc. (including how they skillfully dickered with the salesperson and shaved 30% off the price). Depending on the year, they'll drag you outside to see the new car. If you're really lucky, they'll take you for a drive. Your role in all this is to simply admire. If you're not properly enthusiastic, then you're obviously jealous.

· ALWAYS BUSY -- This one has such a hectic life style it's a wonder they even made it to your shindig. They'll regale you with all the details of their fast-paced job, their volunteer work in the adult literacy program, and the gingerbread house they made from scratch. When they stop to catch their breath and ask what you've been up to, the only thing you'll be able to think of is watching the latest episode of The Simpsons.

· LET'S PLAY CARDS -- Who needs conversation? This person brings a deck of cards and recruits players old and young. Nothing like a little gambling to bring a family together. Grandma, did you bring your wallet? What, we can't smoke in here?

But I also believe that my three kids have enhanced my life in a way that's not always quantifiable. As they make their way toward adulthood, I get to experience what they're going through vicariously and let me tell you, there's a lot of joy and pain and wonder in growing up.

Recently my 16-year-old daughter Maria reached a new milestone: she got a job. Yes, my baby girl is now gainfully employed at Panera Bread. She and her friend Shawnee (isn't that the greatest name?) were hired together. The first trial was buying "work clothes" -- polo shirts and Dockers-type pants. Maria is what I diplomatically call "petite" and the Panera people are pretty particular about their pants. Check it out the next time you're there, if you don't believe me. The pants need to be solid -- dark or khaki -- that part was okay, the problem came in that the back pockets had to be slit pockets. Everyone who works there has these pants, so I know they exist, but finding them in Munchkin size was a challenge. Apparently not too many fifth graders need Dockers pants. We did find them eventually, at the eighty-seventh place we tried, Sears.

Maria and Shawnee trained and did a stint at "Planet Bread" to learn about the food offerings. My daughter was very enthused until about three weeks in. That day, as I was driving her to work, (her ponytail sticking out of the back of her baseball hat -- too adorable) she said, "I really don't want to go to work."

And I said, "This may be the first time in your life you've ever said this, but I guarantee it won't be your last."

Since then, she's generally dragging as she goes off to work, but she's pumped by the time she comes home. She has stories -- customers who were difficult, co-workers who are funny, things she's learned. Cleaning the bathrooms at Panera Bread involves a foamy cleaner that Maria found particularly interesting. I said, "So if I bought that cleaner, would you think scrubbing the toilets at home is fun?" She shrugged and said, "Yeah, maybe." If I'd only known it was that easy.

Maria told me that once the last customer is out and the doors are locked, the employees play their music, and it lifts the mood of the place. The other night I got to see this firsthand. I'd arrived early to pick her up, so I parked my car facing Panera and shut off my lights. Inside, the half dozen employees moved back and forth, cleaning up, pulling garbage bags out of the recepticles, wrapping food. As I looked on, a particularly good song must have started, because suddenly they all started dancing: laughing, moving to the music, fists pumped in the air. It happened so quickly, that I was glad I hadn't brought a book to read. I might have missed it. Eventually they stopped, but even as they wiped the tables it was in time to the music I couldn't hear.

Sitting in my car, it all came back to my middle-aged self -- the exhilaration I used to feel after finishing a night of physical work, in the company of co-workers I adored, listening to music that made my spirits soar.

A friend who heard it commented that I read it well. Ha! -- as if. It was only 500 words and they were my words, but still I stumbled and stammered.

Luckily, Mitch Teich, the producer, is a very kind and patient man. Whenever I flubbed, he calmly said, "Take two," (even when it was actually takes three, four and five) and gave me a chance to do it over again. Radio magic. They sew it all together to make one seamless piece. Life should be that way.