And then, the flashback blurred away to its rightful place in the past.

There was Jade, standing in that same room, brewing up some tea in her Olivia tea set. “Want to have a tea party with me?” she asks. How could I (or anyone) resist. She insists — for safety, I’m guessing — that I hold my tea cup to steady it while she pours. I nearly made the mistake of taking a drink, when I got a mild scolding: “You must be patient.” Being kindhearted, and not wanting to be too hard on me, she adds, “I understand sometimes it’s hard to be patient. But don’t worry; I’ll help you.”

She then grabs a toy cupcake, which she explains is the cream, and shakes/pours some out over the teacups. Then an old Olay moisturizing cream jar — now equipped with a penny inside to give a decent rattling sound — serves as the sugar container. More shaking/pouring of the sweetener in the cups. Now we’re ready to drink our tea.

This is what this room was made for.

New toys are sure to pop up in her room next week when she turns 4. And in another year, her birthday celebration will take on an extra special dimension, as it will mark the day Jade has been with us longer than she has been anywhere else. I look forward to watching how she continues to make that room, and our home, the place it was always meant to be.

Unfinished laundry slumped in a pile on the floor. Two afternoon appointments were about to get cancelled — in last-minute fashion. And three paramedics were coming to carry me down the stairs of my own home and out to waiting ambulance, as my normally (reasonably) fit body was unable to manage such a simple task.

Ordinarily, any one of these things would bug me. Quite a bit, actually. But on that July 13 afternoon, none of it mattered to me. Put simply, the pain I was feeling in my stomach had reduced me to a man lying on his bathroom floor, waiting for someone with some sort of treatment — anything — to make the pain go away.

Moments earlier, I had been routinely putting the laundry away. Suddenly, a pain started to grow in my stomach. And it grew quickly. Then I started feeling sick. And as the pain continued to grow worse, a new, strange and frightening feeling jumped into the mix: my arms and head started tingling and burning. Yeah, I’m not a doctor, but that just doesn’t seem like a garden variety stomach ache. At this point, the point the pain kept me from doing much more than lying on the floor.

The paramedics would tell me later that my skin was grey. They told my wife that I looked like I was moments away from a massive heart attack. My oxygen level my blood had dropped significantly, so they hooked me up to a tank on the ride over to the hospital. Mercifully, the pain medicine arrived very shortly after I rolled through the ER doors.

And then, the tests began. A CT scan, more blood tests, a transfer to another hospital, an ultrasound, still more blood tests…and nothing. The adventure, or misadventure, had started at 1 p.m., and by midnight I was feeling much more like myself. But no one had a clue as to what had happened. Of course I was very happy to be feeling normal again. But without an answer as to why the pain had come, I was left to wonder when it would come again.

The answer: in less than two weeks.

Monday July 25, the pain came back in mid afternoon, and hung on onto after midnight. Fortunately, it was not quite as severe. And since the hospitals hadn’t really helped solve the mystery, I didn’t want to go back for more non-answers. With fingers crossed on Tuesday for a better, pain-free day, my hopes were squashed by 4 p.m. The pain returned, and it was growing stronger. And I just couldn’t handle another eight straight hours of it again.

So we headed off to the hospital again — but a different one this time.

And luckily, the doctor working that ER found what everyone else had been missing: an obstruction in the gut. And now that obstruction was causing the stomach acid to build up, making the pain all the worse. Getting the acid out meant giving it a new route: a tube, hooked up to a suction machine, that ran up my nose, down my throat and into my stomach. And as much as that tube sucked — literally and figuratively — it was better than the pain.

There was some hope that the tube may be enough to clear the obstruction. So for Tuesday night, Wednesday, and Wednesday night we waited and continued to hope that this plastic tube would work a little miracle. And then, early Thursday morning, my doctor said the risk of waiting any longer was outweighing the risk of solving this problem through surgery.

Eight hours later, I was headed to the operating table. At that point, no one knew exactly why or what the obstruction was. The solution was exploratory surgery, which meant pulling my intestines out of my body onto a surgical table, and hunting down the problem. In my case, the problem is an extremely rare condition known as Meckel’s. The birth defect presents itself in different ways to different people: most often it is discovered by the time a person turns two. For me, the discovery came a few years later. And in my case, it was something like having a second appendix — and a very angry and inflamed one at that — on my small intestine.

The solution was to remove it, along with a section of my small intestine, and then splice the intestine back together again. (And then put everything back inside me and stitch me up.)

This all happened a month ago, and it will probably be another two months more before I’m feeling like I did before all of this started. I am feeling better; and for the past two weeks, I have been enjoying eating like a normal person again. And with a little luck, the 10 percent chance that the scar tissue from the surgery can cause the same problem all over again will never really matter.

I traveled half way around the world last year to celebrate this day. And there was no way I would miss the party this year.

This time around the journey was much, much shorter: just a few miles down the road. It was just the first few hundred feet that posed the challenge. But when I woke up at 5 a.m. on Aug. 2, I knew two things: I was getting out of that hospital, and I was going home to celebrate our Gotcha Day with our daughter Jade.

First step: get out of the depressing hospital gown. Then get a shower. I paged the nurse on duty to wrap up the IV jack still stuck in my arm so I could get in the shower. Of course, even the simplest movements (getting out of bed, laying out the towel for the shower) reminded me of how much fun my body had experienced in the past few days. (Major surgery, lots of tubes and, yes, plenty of “ow.”)

I couldn’t help but notice the large new scar, not to mention the reworked landscape on my body as I showered. Great. But no time to think about that – time to dry off and get dressed in normal clothes again. For the first time in a week.

I refused to get back into that bed once I was dressed. I had spent far too long there, so I planted myself in a chair. That’s where the doctor found me when he came in to say what I wanted to hear: “Go home.”

Soon Kim and I were cruising down I-95, but not for home just yet. My unexpected adventure had delayed an important shopping stop at the toy store, and now we were going to make up for that. We knew what we were looking for, and quickly grabbed some new additions for Jade’s toy chest.

And then, the best part, was stepping through the door, back into home, and having Jade run up to welcome her baba home. Exactly one year earlier, Kim and I met Jade at an orphanage in China and we started our lives together. Then, one year later — after a week’s hiatus at the hospital — we were all together again.

Nothing beats Gotcha Day. Though we could stand for something a little less eventful in the days leading up to next year’s celebration.

On the one hand, there’s the talk about love: God’s love, love for God, love for Jesus, love from Jesus, and (in theory) love for others. And on the other hand, there is the relentless hatred of, contempt for, belittling of and aggressive agenda to undermine people who dare to hold a different set of beliefs.

Yes, these two things seem (to me) to be at odds.

And this isn’t just a case of loud-mouthed, pandering politicians and pundits. No, this kind of hypocritical ugliness is far more widespread.

Sure I, like every other American, have seen examples on TV. But I have also witnessed many examples firsthand. Gays referred to as sick sinners. Gay marriage equated to bestiality. Anyone with any other faith besides Christianity is labeled as practicing a “whackadoo” religion. And liberals, progressives and socialists? Those scum are all Satan’s agents.

Christian love, indeed.

Sure, I try to point out the blind arrogance of this thinking. But, well, blind arrogance is blind.

Luckily, for all of us, this group of hypocrites by no means represents the entire population of Christians. I know many – very many – who genuinely embody the idea of love for others. And I really hope they can instill this quality in everyone carrying the Christian flag (while weeding out the posers).

Until then, for those who are unable to get past the part in the Bible that says “judge not,” consider this: if they have anything to say to me, it should be “thank you.”

Because let’s get real. At the end of the day, when those smug, self righteous types go to bed at night, heathens like me make them feel great. Yes, my progressive, non-Christian — “evil” — life, juxtaposed with theirs, makes them feel downright saintly. Contrasted against me, these people feel all the closer and chummier with their buddy Jesus.

For all the condemning they do of my spirituality and political views, they know that my pagan ways make their own halos shine all the brighter. Bottom line: they can’t be “right” if no one else is “wrong.” And they so desperately need to be right. So I, and others like me, are simply playing the part of “wrong” to fulfill their deranged view of the universe.

So thank me. And then, kindly shut the hell up.

A ride up to the top of the 4000-foot mountain came courtesy of an airtram service that started nearly 70 years ago. Yes, the machinery has been modernized, but the history got me feeling a little nostalgic.

So today’s shots have a bit of an old school look.

*And props to you if you recognized the reference to the tune Already In A Daydream by the Freddy Jones Band.

Jade’s first real hike was in the White Mountains, on an easy trail in the Franconia Notch to the “Basin.” It featured two of her favorite things, rock and water, so it was a hit.

The rushing water scared her a bit initially, but soon she was more interested in jumping off rocks than worrying about the noise.

Trails like this, we hope, will get her hooked and ready to go out again.

It was a couple weeks ago, after Jade and I had been playing in a neighborhood park. And suddenly, without warning, she was bolting toward the street.

My 3-year-old girl, who has no comprehension of danger — let alone traffic hazards — was running right for the street. Worse still, she had managed to get a good head start.

It was the kind of awful that you get in dreams. The kind of thing where it’s so bad, a part of you knows you’re dreaming, because only a dream (nightmare) could feature something this horrible.

And yes, running after her felt like running in a dream. I caught her right at the edge of the street. At that moment, I realized my toe hurt. A lot.

It actually looks much better now than it did, when all the surrounding skin was purple and black.

So Jade was safely in my arms, right at the street’s edge, cars passed by, my heart pounded and my toe throbbed. I felt a very odd mix of fear, anger and relief.

I carried her to the car and buckled her in, unable to speak. Halfway home, I managed to say she would be spending some time in the corner for not coming when I called.

I don’t know how I hurt my toe. And it really doesn’t seem to matter.

Thanks to Scott & Donna for these great photos. Erbphoto.com

Yes, right after Kim and I celebrated our 15th anniversary in style — by throwing the traditional style wedding we never had — we re-adopted Jade, this time for the state of Massachusetts. The international and national portions have been done for a long time now, but the state has its own process. And that is now complete.

Fifteen years ago, ceremonies were a little simpler: Kim and I went to the courthouse, paid for our marriage license, took a short walk down the hall and got married. This time around, we went in style: the dress, the tux, the family, the friends, the reception, the cake (ladybug cupcakes, actually), the chamber music, the open bar, and (the best part!) the flower girl.

In short, it has been an awesome month for our family. And having our friends and relatives around to celebrate with us has made it all the better.

The judge, the fam and Scott & Donna at the final stop of the adoption tour.

Hi, I’d like an everything bagel with fair-traded gluten substitute, farm-raised mayonnaise, dolphin-safe bacon, organic chemical additive flavorings and extra flax. Thank you.

The rules, rhyme and reason make sense only to her.

One begins by her handing me a piece of plastic play food — usually an apple, pepper or pear. Then she takes one for herself. And then we run from one end of the living room to the other. Over and over. Why? Well, why not? I suppose it makes as much sense as Risk.

Another one: hiding in the closet. I’m not sure who we’re hiding from, but it must be working because no one has found us in there yet.

And one of my favorites, even though I am just a spectator. She grabs a helium balloon, gives another to Kim, and the two just walk back and forth across our main floor. Over and over. She loves it, and it is twice as fun to watch because it is easy to see how much Kim loves it, too.

There are more, and I will try to keep writing them down before they fade away and out of memory.