Meet the Fosters

 

 

Sometimes after you've poured yourself into a thing and there isn't much left to do or say, it's time to move on.  I wish I could say that that were the case with Babble.  I am sad today because this is our last post.  I feel like I had so much more to say about what is happening in our lives and all that is about to happen to our slightly different family.  I hadn't intended to end this experience even if and when our wonderful foster son leaves us.  There will always be other children in this house of ours--we could never give up on being dads.  I think it is a part of who we are now.  Even now I am listening to the little man squeal in delight as Darrow is giving him a Saturday morning bath. 

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I dug through the box of clothes, looking for something for the little guy to wear to daycare.  The morning was colder than it had been in some time and short-sleeved shirts and shorts weren't going to cut it. The box was full of sweaters and long pants given to us by another gay couple that we have been friends with since last summer.  Their almost-three year old had grown out of them and, after two kids, they felt that maybe there wouldn't be a number three.  Months ago, Juan had washed and packed the clothes up in boxes in anticipation that T would grow into them by the time summer gave way to fall and winter.

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The thing about this weekend is that we didn't have an agenda.  There was no place to go, no where to be, nothing that we really needed to do.  After spending the entire day on Friday working on emergency repairs to our house with the assistance of a plumber (just love those plumbers), we were faced with a Friday night, a Saturday and Sunday all to ourselves.  We relished the weekend's possibilities.  We kept asking each other, "what do you want to do today?"  Of course everything revolves around the little moon boy and his nap schedule.  

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I don't know how to express this without it sounding a little weird, but here goes.  I am needy sometimes.  No, that's not the weird part.  And sometimes I want to be cradled and comforted and catered to.  It's true, I would sometimes just like to put on a diaper and cry about everything that I want and maybe just be a baby for a while. 

 

"No, I don't want to eat my cereal and no I don't want any juice and no there is nothing you can do to get me to stop crying but I want you to continue to try." 

 

I have been through a lot lately and I don't have to be rational, logic or even adult.  I would be happy if someone would just pick me up, put their arms around me and rock me for a while.  Okay, so that is the weird part.  Did I tell you that I have been through a lot lately?

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Where I grew up, being a bookish, non-athletic momma's boy wasn't exactly the key to making friends.  Kids - hell, sometimes adults - saved their own special brand of teasing and torment for guys like me.

Punk

Sissy

Nerd

Fag

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September 12, 2001, Washington, D.C.

 

The planes had stopped crashing to the ground, the buildings had stopped coming down, the emergency, the urgency, the oh my God help us the sky is falling on us, had stopped for the moment.  People began to move about stunned by the events of the day before.  I was at work because we were told that the government would not shut down.  I was in front of a computer screen but really I was somewhere else for most of September 12.  I don't remember what I did all day long.  On the Metro going home it was quiet, not a word, no one dared, no one could bring themselves to break the silence.  I sat at home-just me and Mika.  She provided me comfort until I got stuck to the television screen and didn't know how to unhook from the footage that they kept showing over and over.  I had the sense that day that I was swirling around an open drain and I didn't know how to stop from being sucked down into it. 

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We succumbed to the dreaded end-of-summer family vacation, we tolerated the kitsch of the aging road-side amusement park. 

 

We came, we saw, he conquered!

 

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I have this sense that time is moving quickly, maybe even too quickly.  Forces that seem beyond my control push and pull me through a blend and blur of days.  I wakefeedchangedropoffworkpickupplayfeedchangesleep from one day to the next, feeling little sense of accomplishment but exhausted nonetheless.

 

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There is almost always someone sleeping in our house.  Although there is a rambunctious pre-toddler who waddles everywhere sometimes pulling his wagon or pushing his mower or playschool bus, there is some heavy snoozing going on.  Amongst the three dogs the oldest, Mika is typically asleep more than awake.  She sleeps a little harder these days, and seems to be less aware of the commotion.  But she tends to put herself in the middle of everything so she gets kicked more often than any of the dogs.  We have been teaching Ty about doggie feet, that they aren't to be run over, stepped on or otherwise met with any kind of blunt force or trauma.  For the first time yesterday, I saw him approaching Mika who was characteristically stretched out in the doorway to the kitchen, and maneuver his little wagon completely around her.  Given her location I was impressed that he was so adept at avoiding her given that he didn't have much clearance to get through the doorway.

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Ty likes to go to bed--always has.  He also is usually very clear about this one thing.  Besides the typical cues like yawning and eye rubbing, when it's time for bed there are always a few telltale signs: fingers in the mouth; short little screams of frustration about everything; and lots of stumbling and falling.  So the other night he is doing his little teeter-totter walk, falling a little too often and one of his balancing arms is now out of service since he has his fingers stuck in his mouth.  So we daddies were ready for him to go down, having had one exhausting week ourselves.  I picked him up, told him we were going night-night and put him on the changing table to put his pajamas on.  But when I put him down he began what turned out to be his very first tantrum. 

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She hit me with it.  Standing there in a metro car, all of the sudden she wanted to maneuver and my shin was there and well, oh well.  There was the sleeping three or four year old sitting on one side of the Maclaren and an infant on the other side.  It was one of those twin strollers, wide but with only one wheel in the front, looking something like a stroller destined for the back country.  Everyone seems to have them these days.  I wondered if it gives parents the same sense of security that driving an SUV does. 

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I am a product of the cartoon and claymation era of Christmas classics including The Grinch Who Stole Christmas, Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer, and Frosty the Snowman.  I think one of my favorites would have to be Santa Claus is Coming to Town.  It is sufficiently corny, has plenty of holiday cheer and this strange sexual energy between Jessica (the future Mrs. Claus) and Kris Kringle.  I believe that the claymation master in charge of the Jessica character was a bit of a freak.  She's got just a little too much curve going on for children's programming, but I digress. 

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Yesterday, a coworker caught me in the stairwell and asked me how things were going with Ty.  My voice, usually on the deeper end of the scale, went up a couple of octaves (a sure sign that I'm not being particularly honest)  as I said "Things are going very well!".  We chatted for a moment, my face ready to crack under the pressure of my false smile.  We (she) joked about toddlers and their tendency to screech in public places, and she reminded me that "potty training is coming soon!"  Luckily, before my jaws disintegrated and my face melted away, showing the grimace underneath, we were interrupted by another coworker.  I said my goodbyes and made a quick exit.

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 There are times when I feel like we are in constant motion.  From sun-up until sun-down, we are either doing or on our way to doing. Weekdays are when I feel this way the most.  Saturdays and Sundays are their own special brand of Do Do Do!...Go Go Go!

 

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 We The Fosters declare - as of July 4th, 2008 – our independence from Ty The Waffle Eater.  No longer will we toss and turn under the tyranny of his mid-night demands for food, attention, or space in our bed.  We look forward to restful nights and Saturday morning sleep-ins until 7.  While we are sure we will miss Ty, we will remind ourselves that he will be just across the hall…in his own room.

The Fosters

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There are times when I'd really like to write a post about something.  But if it doesn't happen to be what's happening in our son's life right now, then that means I have to either dredge up an old photo or stage one.  I'm not particularly fond of staging them because: a) they often look just that-s-t-a-g-e-d; b) it's hard enough to get an 18 month old to hold still, let alone stage a picture with him; c) my record is clean so far.  So one morning while Ty was waddling down the sidewalk, squawking and giddy he stopped in front of a sign that is displayed in one of our flower beds........

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Yes, surprise, that's right, I am going to eat these blueberries.

 

Okay, so I have been a bit of a freak when it comes to our son and eating.  But it's really not my fault.  You see Ty came to us underweight and with few instructions, but for the charge that he was to ingest an exorbitant amount of calories everyday.  Imagine it--two first-time daddies having a baby dropped at their doorstep.  "And you expect us to get him to eat how much everyday--are you crazy?"  From the first night we were plotting how to get as many bottles and containers of baby food into him as possible. 

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Back on October 17^th, when Juan got the call from a social services worker about Ty – when Juan then called me at work to get my take– when I said yes and committed to being a father for the duration, I didn’t really know what I was getting myself into.  Sure, I knew that my life was about to change but only in a general I’m-going-to-be-a-dad sort of way.  I was willing, and as ready as I could be, to share my life with a child  In fact, I expected that there was going to be lots of sharing, and I was ok with that.

Really.  I was.

That is…until it was time for waffles.

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It's a little ironic that on one of my more sour and exhausted days, I write about wanting to add another child to the mix. 

Since Ty discovered that the two little stubs below his waist actually took him places much faster if he stood on them, he has been relentlessly curious, determined, and stubborn.  He examines, tugs on, topples and deconstructs pretty much anything within his reach and line of sight.  This morning, I watched him careen around the living room, one compact bundle of energy and drool, stopping periodically to screech out something that could have been (if I didnt' know better) "don't you do that!", but it came out more like "dondooodooodat!"  He then moved on, full of purpose.  In a span of maybe two minutes, he had managed to investigate an outlet cover, the dog crate, a cabinet full of CDs, the doorknob to the sunroom, his activity table, and Mika's nose. I finally scooped him up and put him in his playpen.  All that motion might not tired him out, but I get beat just watching him.

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I am a runner and a racer.  Normally by this time in the season I would have competed in at least five or six races and might have even won a trophy.  I'd be in full-bore training mode--that is if I hadn't had my wonderful son last October.  It has taken some doing, but in the last two weeks I have finally figured out how to carve out some time for myself.  This post is about what happened when I tried to resuscitate the running season that I have tried so hard to start this year. 

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How do you stretch a three hour nap over a four and a half hour flight...you don't

 

 

 

It has taken some time to get this down on paper.  I think in reflection it is easier to find some humor in it.  My predictions of an ill-fated plane ride home though dramatic, were pretty much on the mark.  But really, what's a vacation without a little traveling drama?  It makes the story a little more interesting for everyone.  I would much rather hear about the crazy taxi driver who almost killed everyone, or the sudden thunderstorm that threatened to wash our beach hut into the bay, then "we had a wonderful, relaxing time." 

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Wishing my son could grow-up around my family

On the last day, I think we were all ready to head back home.  It was a good trip--the first time in recent memory that I had ever thought of moving back home.  In those seven days I got much more than I expected out of being with family, not that I had low expectations.  I felt their warmth in a different way than I ever had before.  After forty some-odd years of being their son, brother, uncle, friend, I was now a dad.  I don't know how that made me different or how it may have made them different towards me.  In any case there was so much good in what I and my little family felt from them. 

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There is no time in my life other than this one as Ty's foster dad when I have been so acutely aware of strangers and their potential impact on our lives.  Juan and I have encountered what seems like an army of people, many who claim to have his and our interests in mind.  We've met others who, on the surface, seem to have the best of intentions and give us no reason to believe otherwise.  But who are these people?  What roles do they play?  What power do they have to shape our lives?

Friend or foe?

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I admit it. This is the lazy blogger's post.  It's my turn to write something, but it's late and all this thinking is making my head hurt. I'm trying to focus on writing but find myself getting distracted by one thought..."Should I pack chicken nuggets or peanut butter and jelly for Ty's lunch tomorrow?"

So while I pull it together, here's some pictures from the west coast trip of Ty and The Animals.

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 The first two days of our trip saw Ty in rare form. Like some curly-haired, stubby Energizer Bunny, he just kept on going and going and going. On his first full day, he woke up early and hit the ground running.  Words that come to mind to describe what we saw – frenetic, giddy, zany, loopy…drunk. 

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