Three years ago today, we flew to Chicago to meet Ruby. The delayed flight certainly added to our anticipation and also, the agony of our wait. Out of the (mere) 7 months that our adoption process took before our match, it was this last 36 hours before we held our daughter that were the most wrenching. Knowing she was a she—that she was no longer a hypothetical it, but an actual daughter , out there waiting—was excruciating. It was exhausting. It was thrilling. We couldn’t get to her fast enough.

Being a parent, as I said in an email to a friend yesterday, is like being perpetually suspended in the first stages of romantic love. I wrote, “You’re awed by every utterance, can’t wait to find out more about that person, think they may perhaps be the most perfect person to walk the planet, you want to kiss up on ‘em constantly, stare at ‘em for hours on end—even when they’re sleepin’ and you miss ‘em terribly when you’re not in their presence.”

Adopting Ruby was—and I believe I can safely speak for Sam, here—the best thing we’ve ever done. Without question.

And someone tell me, please: What would a photo of our first morning with our baby be if we didn’t have a perfect pair of breasts watching over us from above?