Author’s note: Ann Landers was always one of my favorite columnists. I loved her no-nonsense advice and her willingness to take on any subject matter. I especially loved her habit of resurrecting old columns when she needed to. Like if she had the flu and could barely sit up at the computer for long enough to type an e-mail to her editors.

Just saying. In that light, here is an oldie but goodie written four years ago when we were awaiting our best friends’ daughter’s arrival. Uproot the family tree -- turn it into firewood and whisk brooms. Those narrow little pedigrees are fine for dogs and cats and other creatures whose lives are built around strutting shows and creating offspring with the highest monetary value. But these charts are no good for people.

They don’t allow for real life. Where is the proper slot for the grandmother and aunt who raised you, the father you never knew, the parents’ best friends’ daughter who was more like a sister than any of the people whose names appear on your chart?

Those trees don’t say anything about our family. We are four people who can count three adoptions among us - four if you expand the circle one generation.

My son and I both know that your ``real’’ father is the one who raises you - the one who puts candles on your birthday cakes and bandages on your scrapes. Maybe that will give us an advantage as our little Buttercup grows up. We can teach her about ``real’’ family.

And we can also understand that, no matter how happy you are with the family who is there, the family who isn’t there is always a part of your thoughts because it’s a part of you.

How do you put that on a little chart?

And where do you put your very best friends in the whole world who are walking on eggshells this week because their second daughter could be born *any minute.* Is there a place to pencil in the way that we all hold our breath every time Lolita shifts in her chair or touches her stomach?

``Is it time?’’

``Should we start the car?’’

``COME ON, baby girl, what are you waiting for?

We want to see you. We want to know what color your hair is and squeal at your teensy fingernails. We have been talking about you for years, and now you are *right there* separated from us by just a thin layer of Lolita. Come on, already. Make your appearance so we can adore you.’’

My family tree should have a place for that little girl’s name somewhere close to mine. And for her parents’ and sister’s names.

But of course, it doesn’t. It has a good number of Elizabeths and Johns, Thomases and Annes, Jameses and Marys, making one wonder if there was a law or something.

There is the branch populated by Axels, Axelinas, Edvards, Wilhelms, Lydias, Annas and Amandas. One branch is just about to break under the weight of all its Mollie Rachels. Another branch has enough names like John+, Anne+, William+, Joseph+ and Mary+ that it becomes clear that God has been the family business for a couple hundred years.

One branch goes nowhere because there are too many James O’Briens and Mary Morgans to know for certain which ones belong to me. Another branch goes nowhere because Austria- Hungary and Yugoslavia may have taken with them all their records - from Angelina to Zvka.

No branch on my side goes farther than a few hundred years.

But look at my husband’s side of the tree, where one pale branch stretches as far as Adam - not THAT one, but close. It’s Adam ``The Elder’’ de Poynings, born in 1100 and married to Beatrice, who was born in 1102.

There’s also Eva la Zouche, who was not a stripper, but the Countess of Berkeley, married at age 8 in 1289 to Lord Maurice ``The Magnanimous’’ de Berkeley.

Feel free to make your own jokes.

His lineage goes back farther, still to a couple of Princess Willas in Tuscany and Burgundy in the 900s; an Italian King (circa 950- 961) named Berenger II; a countess named Ava; a duchess named Edith; and Lothaire I, born in 795, who became, like his father Louis I ``The Pious’’ and his grandfather Charles Charlemagne, Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire. And I thought religion was in ``my’’ family’s business.

It goes back even farther, to the 500s in places, but three-digit years just seem silly.

And yet people will ask my husband if his daughter will ever know anything about her ``real parents.’’

This is why we should ditch the tree, feed it through a chipper and use the pieces to mulch our family gardens. A garden says more, as a metaphor, about families, anyway.

The roots are intertwined and flowers bloom in unexpected places. There are showy plants that require plenty of labor, and hardy groundcover whose beauty is sometimes only recognized up-close.

Just as a tree stands alone, a garden invites you in. It’s a place where Charlemagne can pat his however- many-greats-granddaughter on her head and ask her what JiaXue means in Chinese. And they can both wait for Lolita’s daughter, our collective little sister, and wonder what her name will be.

I wonder if they’ve considered Eva la Zouche.

Elizabeth Trever Buchinger is wishing Quinn Beatrix Emmett a very happy fourth birthday. You can connect with Elizabeth at www.moremindfulfamily. wordpress.com.