I grew up around cows. I never knew as much about cattle as my dad, but I earned my bruises and got manure on my hands and boots by honest experience.

Birthing season always came at the end of January into February. Some calves were born with ease. We kept an eye on the heifers. Checked on them every day. Then, like magic, there, standing in the pasture, would be a mama cow with her newborn suckling at her udder.

Some births came only with great effort. We had to search for her. She’d be lying in a thicket by herself. The calf’s head just hanging out. We had to brace ourselves against her hind-end and pull the calf into the world. There were several times when the mama cow didn’t make it.

The need, then, was to get another mama cow to accept the calf. He needed to eat. The calf was eager. He understood what that udder was for, but the cow knew instinctively that this calf wasn’t hers.

The calf would approach and get kicked. He got head-butted. The mama would turn away. The calf would stand and bleat.

The trick was to catch her nursing her own calf. While one fed, we’d nudge the orphan up under the other side. The mama would take a few steps. She’d get agitated, but because she wanted to feed her own calf, she’d eventually stand still long enough to accept the other calf.

Life is full of opportunities to accept others who don’t belong to you.

When Marion and I got together, I knew life would change for the both of us. We both have grown kids and grandkids. I must have said a hundred times, “It’s not like we’re the Brady Bunch.” We were not gonna be living under one roof. It’s not like we were going to have a blended family.

But I was wrong. Not about the “under one roof” part. My stars, that would be awkward.

I was wrong about the blended part. Our lives do blend. Our paths cross. Her kids and their families are not strangers to me, nor mine to her.

Still, the idea of “us” has not been easy for our families. Finding acceptance has come with its share of kicking and head-butting. It’s just the way it works. I’m not a natural fit with her family, nor she with mine. She and I have had to give them time to adjust. It’s a work in progress.

For me, one of the holdouts is Reagan. She’s Marion’s three-year-old granddaughter. She has big eyes, wispy bleach blonde hair. Barely enough strands to pull two little pig tails on top of her head. She smiles at everybody.

Except me.

I showed up in her life before she turned two. She has always eyed me from a distance. If I knelt down to talk to her, she’d turn away. If she was laughing and talking up a storm, and I walked into the room, she’d become silent. I often got the look that says, “Stay back. I’ve got my eye on you, buster.”

To her credit, she never head-butted me.

Last summer, I was at Marion’s house. Her kids and grandkids were all there. A serious game of wiffle ball was going on in the front yard. My team came up to bat, and I took a seat on the porch to wait my turn.

Reagan came walking by, not really paying attention. I reached out, picked her up, and sat her on my knee. She was fine. I had never been this close to her.

I was feeling pretty good about it until she turned and saw who was holding her. Her face went blank. Her body got stiff. She didn’t cry, but she got down, walked about ten feet away, and gave me the look.

I smiled at her. She looked right through me.

Apparently, when I’m not around and Moo (Marion’s nickname) goes to see her, she’s always asking, “Where’s Mr. Paul?” She knows I belong, even if she hasn’t really accepted me.

I made a small breakthrough a couple of weeks ago. We were over at Reagan’s house. Her turf. Her territory, where she is most comfortable.

I came in and sat on the ottoman in the living room. Her toys were scattered like the wreckage of a storm had passed.

“Reagan. What are you doing?” I am an engaging stranger.

“I’m cooking supper,” she said.

This was a good sign. She actually talked to me. She brought me a plastic hamburger. I ate voraciously. She brought me a piece of corn on the cob. I gnawed it down like a typewriter carriage. That made her eyes smile. She brought me a plastic slice of pizza.

“I’ll save this for later,” I said, and I stuffed it in my jacket pocket.

She reached in and pulled it out. “No. Eat it now.”

When we got ready to leave, she told Moo that she could leave but that she wanted me to stay and play. I couldn’t believe it.

Marion said, “Well, I guess I know where I stand.”

Reagan was sad and pouty that I had to go.

“Did you see that?” I said to Marion. It was like the earth shifted. The ice was beginning to crack.

A week later, Marion had made some banana bread that she wanted to take over to the kids’ houses. After supper, we headed over to Shannen’s house first. We talked about my last encounter with Reagan.

As we walked up to go into the house through the garage, Marion joked with me. “Don’t get your hopes up, Reagan still loves me more.”

“We’ll see,” I said.

I knew I didn’t have a chance. Moo is the light of her grandkids’ world. To them, there’s no one like Moo and no place like Moo’s house.

We walked up the wooden steps from the garage to the entry door. Marion knocked and pushed the door open at the same time. This is known as the southern hooty-who entrance, often used by family who walk right into the house unannounced.

When she walked around the corner into the living room, I could hear Reagan shout. “Moooooo!” I could hear little feet running across the rug. Marion bent slightly to receive her hug.

I came around the corner right behind her. A little blonde munchkin was cutting a path toward us.

If you’ve ever seen an NFL running back juke a linebacker, then you have a pretty good idea of how the next scene unfolded. Reagan stiff-armed Marion’s knee; side-stepped to her right and plowed into me with her arms up.

Marion’s mouth fell about three feet to the floor. It was priceless. I wish I had a picture of her face. She gave me the Reagan look, like what the heck just happened.

My grandpa instincts took over. I picked her up and swung her up to my side. Her arms went around my neck, her head on my shoulder, and she gave me a big old squeeze.

Acceptance comes slowly sometimes. Not everyone in the family moves at the same speed.

But when it comes, it’s worth the wait.