When I finish, Maya applauds. "That was perfect."
"Welcome home, wife."
"Welcome home, husband."
MAYA
The adoption paperwork for Nimmy arrives on a Tuesday that feels like Christmas morning. Two years old, chubby green cheeks, and a laugh that could power the entire building. He transforms our Victorian house from elegant emptiness into chaos incarnate.
"Mama Maya! Papa Ursak!" His vocabulary consists mainly of shouted declarations and the wordmineapplied to everything from Sir Pouncealot to the mailman. Watching Ursak attempt to childproof our home becomes my new favorite entertainment.
"The cabinet locks are designed for human children," I point out as Nimmy effortlessly tears through his third safety latch. "He's got orc strength in toddler packaging."
Ursak crouches beside our kitchen island, defeated by baby-proofing technology. "Perhaps we simply remove anything dangerous."
"That would leave us with an empty house."
Nimmy chooses this moment to demonstrate his climbing abilities, scaling the refrigerator like a tiny green mountaineer. We both lunge forward, but he's already perched on top, grinning triumphantly.
"Down, please," Ursak requests in his most diplomatic tone.
"No! Mine house!"
"Technically, it's our house," I correct. "You're a valued tenant."
This philosophical distinction means nothing to a two-year-old. Nimmy begins jumping on the refrigerator, each bounce accompanied by delighted squeals. The whole appliance shudders.
"New plan," I announce. "We embrace the chaos."
Three months into parenthood,we schedule meetings with adoption agencies about adding a human child to our family. The social workers try to hide their fascination with ourunique family dynamic, but I catch them stealing glances at Ursak during interviews.
"And you feel prepared to parent children from different species?" asks Mrs. Henderson, our case worker, pen poised over her notepad.
"We're prepared to parent children," I reply. "Period."
Ursak nods. "Love translates across all languages and cultures."
Mrs. Henderson scribbles notes. In the background, Nimmy provides a soundtrack of destruction as he reorganizes our living room according to toddler logic.
"He's very energetic," she observes as a cushion flies past the doorway.
"He's two," I say. "Energetic comes with the territory."
"Orc children do mature slightly faster than human children," Ursak adds helpfully. "His physical development is advanced, but emotionally he's exactly where he should be."
A crash from the kitchen punctuates his statement. We all pause.
"I should check on that," I mutter, but Mrs. Henderson waves me back down.
"Please, continue. This is very illuminating."
December arriveswith our first real snow and a stack of rejection letters from adoption agencies. Apparently, ourunconventional householdraises concerns about proper cultural development for human children. They're fine with us raising an orc child, but question our ability to parent a human one.
"Their loss," Ursak declares, reading the latest rejection over morning coffee. "We'll find an agency with more vision."
Nimmy sits in his high chair, systematically deconstructing a banana with scientific precision. Half goes in his mouth, half gets mushed through his fingers for artistic purposes.
"Messy," he announces proudly, showing us his banana-coated hands.
