It’s not exactly a bun in the oven. But for us older ladies who crave a second child, it might have to do.

Assembly member Jimmy Gomez is having an event next week. I plan to attend. I can hardly wait. For there, I will finally get to grow my family. No, it’s not a fostering-a-kid thing, or a donor-egg workshop, or even a puppy rescue fair. After it is done I won’t qualify for congratulatory gifts, such as onesies, or hand-carved rattles, or even cute little dog bones in ribbon-wrapped packages.

A watering can, if anything, will be most appropriate. But I’ve already got three of them.

It’s tree adoption day!

My goodness. I feel so nervous! What if it’s a bad fit? What if it doesn’t like us? Hates its new home? Fails completely to thrive? Will it be able to bond with us? Will I love it? Will my family? Will it loathe Myra-Jean, feel inferior to her? Will they fight?

Will the transplantation, in short, take?

I suppose there are books. On-line forums. Probably support groups. We will go. We will fight this battle together. We will become one family. One unit. One orchard, as it were, in the great green swath that is humanity.

Do I care what kind I get? Not at all–as long as it’s healthy. Sure, I’d prefer something attractive. Fruit-bearing would be a bonus. Uninfested, if at all possible. But if all that’s available is the tiniest ficus, worm-bitten and root bound? We will love it anyway. We will accept it with open limbs. We will wrap our arms around its trunk and tell it it is home.

Imagine the little acorns I may someday get to bounce on my knee. Sob. Must stop writing for the tears.

Ahem.

Does anyone have a pickup truck we can borrow?