Meet The Fosters : Dads

Not the end of the story

TheFosters — Mon, 06 Oct 2008 01:00:00 GMT

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 his morning bath.

But we have come to the realization that we truly are foster parents and it's necessary for us to now behave that way. We have been so caught up in being dads that we too often forgot the foster in front of that title. That's not to say we would do anything different with our son. That will never change--we will always be his dads and he will always be our son foster or not. It is the same this morning as it will be twenty years from now. For now though, we are his foster parents and with that comes a legal and ethical commitment. I think what we are about to go through with him will have to be private and not something that can be shared, both for his sake and for his parents' sake.

I was thinking this morning that some of the amazing pictures that we have accumulated over the last several months, I plan to print and frame and hang from our living room wall as a sort of shrine, or maybe a wall to remember the beautiful son that we were allowed to care for. Our lives have changed amazingly over this last year. I expect that the next twelve months will unveil other changes that we could never imagine. We expect to report back sometime in the future because, well, we haven't really finished the story. We have received so many helpful comments and best wishes throughout this time blogging on Babble. I think that is one of the things I will miss the most. It really helped me along at times when I felt like I was going to be overcome by the sadness. Thank you all.

Everyone should realize that there is hope for us--nothing is certain with our foster son. Also we have begun to talk to an adoption agency and just yesterday we were revisiting once again, the possibility of adopting an older kid. There is always hope because there will always be children. We are hopeful daddies who seem to have love just waiting to land on the next little kid(s) that somewhere, forces beyond our control will bring into our lives.

--J

I'm going to put on a diaper and cry

TheFosters — Sat, 20 Sep 2008 02:00:00 GMT

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?

Somewhere along the way to becoming a daddy, I found that there was no more time for me. I don’t get the same attention from me or from my partner, but that is not a complaint, it is a fact—he has less time for me and I for him. The dreaded universe shift has taken hold. The cosmic forces have not only pushed everything out of alignment, they have fundamentally changed the dominant order. Planets that once were the center with all other celestial bodies in orbit are now the orbiters. And our little moon baby has become the sun.

I can’t be anything but a dad now and that’s what I want. But sometimes isn’t it going to be just about me? Can’t I be the center once in while? Why are there so many things to do? Can I have more than the small slice of free time that I get on the weekends—that precious two hours of Ty’s naptime on Saturday and Sunday to do everything and to take care of myself? How does one take care of oneself and partner and this old house and the dogs in such a small span of time? How do the rest of you do it? How do our friends who have two children under the age of three do it? How do Jon and Kate do it with eight? Whaaaaaaaaaaaa!

Now that Darrow and I are talking about number two, I have begun to fear that I shall never have me time ever again. And by me time I don’t mean being able to do household chores or the myriad of other things pulling on my coattails, nagging me around every corner, whispering in my ear, take care of me, and me, no, me next. Noooooooooooooooo!

No, me time is going to a coffee shop for however long I want with my laptop or drawings; taking a bath without plastic ducks floating by; reading a good book on top of the bed that doesn’t rhyme or have farm animals; going to a matinee with a bucket of popcorn and gummy bears that I don’t have to share. Miiiiiiiiiiine!

I know it’s out there—me time. My wonderful partner has offered to give me a break many times. I suppose I should take him up on it next time around. For now what I’ve discovered is that at night after Ty has gone to bed, when my eyelids start to droop, I can slip downstairs to our bedroom and go to sleep—just a little early. Our son has always loved going to bed. And maybe for now during this really crazy period I get to be a baby and have an early bedtime. Then maybe during the day I won’t be whining so much—just like a big baby.

--J

Boogie Wonderland

TheFosters — Thu, 04 Sep 2008 01:58:00 GMT

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!

We had plans with other families for the Labor Day weekend but they fell through about mid-July. Then we shifted to visiting family, but that too disintegrated. By mid-August after every hotel room anywhere near the beach (our Plan C) was booked, we turned landward again in an effort to give it just one more shot. We have been a little beat-down by the summer in a lot of ways. I think I would have cried if we had all this time off around the holiday and didn't get a chance to escape for a few days. Then someone said something about Dutch Wonderland. Dutch what?

Think back, way back before Six Flags, Busch Gardens or Disney World, when in almost every city there were amusement parks planted right along side the local highway. Most had themes with lots of fiberglass storybook and fairytale characters, small colorful rides, miniature trains, a colorful ferris-wheel that wasn't but fifty feet tall. We aren't talking about the g-force, gut-wrenching high-tech rollercoasters or anything like that. We're talking schmaltz and kitsch and ever-lasting memories of spinning, twirling, rocking rides. Most of them are long gone. I remember Lincoln City, Oregon as a kid. It was as road-side a park as you could get--tiny rollercoaster, carousel with octopus and unicorns, donkey rides and really tall slides--but I imagine it no longer exists. I suspect it was dismantled long ago probably to make way for a condo complex or a shopping mall.

But there is one that still exists--Dutch Wonderland. And as the name suggests it's dripping with kitsch from the fiberglass life-sized but definitely not life-like Pennsylvania Dutch people to the gigantic salted pretzel.

In all seriousness, it was a fantastic place to take Ty that included a ride on a motorized car, a carousel, playing in a water park designed for little kids, and riding a train that circled the park. The great thing about the train was that there were seven or eight railroad crossings along the walking paths throughout the park, complete with lighted warning signs and moving gates. I don't know if Ty was more excited riding the train or watching it pass by as it moved through the park. You might notice from the picture below that Ty has this horrified look while riding the carousel with Darrow. He is actually shouting at the train passing behind me.

Without question the thing Ty would remember most if he could remember anything at all at his age would be the water park. He was a maniac, stomping on the ground where the water spouted up, sticking his head in the squirting fountains, squealing at other children who also splashed about. He even had a lot of fight left in him when I went to take off his suit and dress him. He continued to play and wrestle me during the diaper change. And though the park has been around for decades it clearly has not lost any of its appeal. Ty was sound asleep in the stroller before we even got him back to the car.

And though the park was a lot of fun, the hotel room had its own charms. Take a California King bed, a nice set of sheets and lots of fluffy pillows and you have one great playroom. I guess I was a bad daddy and let him jump on the bed and on me. We played pillow fight--actually I hit him with the pillows and he laughed hysterically. We had waffles in the hotel lobby--it was our own little hotel wonderland.

Some of the things we took away from Dutch Wonderland:

This place was a blast, close by and we should go back
We don't go away enough and sometimes just a night in a hotel can be fun
Ty is becoming a little boy

-- J

While you sleep

TheFosters — Wed, 20 Aug 2008 02:00:00 GMT

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.

Milo also likes to sleep but demands comfort. Rarely will he stretch out on the bare floor or even the carpet. He requires a doggy bed or pillow when napping or sleeping at night. Seeing what a big brut of a dog he appears to be, it has always been a little endearing to see him whine at us and yawn in our faces to let us know that either the door is closed to our bedroom where his bed is, or worse that someone else has commandeered his pillow. Milo sleeps like we all wish we could: deeply, soundly, peacefully all the time. He is the only dog I know who will get excited when it's time to go to bed. He gets giddy when you cover him up completely in his doggy blankets. He absolutely loves to sleep next to us when we lay on the floor or with Rocky when they will curl up together on one little pillow when the weather gets cold. We will never understand how this wonderful dog ever made it as a stray, wondering the streets of a rural county in Maryland. He was destined to live a comfortable life in our home.

Then there is Rocky. This best friend to Ty and the sweetest and most affectionate of all, sleeps only as needed. He is otherwise on constant alert-someone, some dog, something has passed our house and he must bark. A leaf has fallen from a tree, a paper has rustled down the street, he must run to see what has happened. He is exhausting to watch, perpetually pesky, and loving to a fault. Rocky sleeps anywhere and only out of necessity. He goes and goes and goes until there is nothing left and this spent dog collapses.

When Ty came to us he loved to sleep. In fact he has slept though the night nearly every one of the last 305 nights that he has been under our roof. At first he was going down at all kinds of crazy hours: ten o'clock, midnight, eleven-thirty. After the first week he settled down to an eight o'clock bedtime. Those few times when he would wake in the night because he was sick, I would sit in the chair in our room while everyone else was asleep--Darrow and the dogs softly snoring--and rub his back as he slowly fell back asleep while on my chest. I think it is one of the most peaceful things I have ever experienced. It doesn't happen quite as often now that he is bigger, but when he is really tired he will still begin night-night time with his head down on my shoulder as I am hoisting him up the stairs to his bedroom.

There have been a few times when Darrow and Ty have gone down together for a nap. You can tell that there is some real parent-child bonding going on when they can enjoy one of their favorite pastimes together. And though it doesn't happen often, just every once in a while I am coerced into taking one too.

Temper, Temper

TheFosters — Mon, 11 Aug 2008 10:00:00 GMT

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.

I think we were both a little surprised at first, not really aware of what was actually about to take place. There he was beginning the whole back-arching thing, accompanied by short screaming bursts that were not particularly endearing at that moment. Then he started wailing like he was being tortured. He would not sit, so when I laid him down he would flop to his side and then try to flip over--something we are not allowed to do on the changing table--EVER. When I tried to keep him from turning over it seemed to anger him more. His face was red and he was screaming and writhing. Finally, I looked at Darrow and said, "what should I do?" I did not want to make him think that what he was doing was okay, but I also wasn't sure how to proceed. It was such a strange reaction from him, so over-the-top. I was afraid that he would flip off the changing table. Darrow said to put him on the carpet and let him thrash. So I did, and he did. He tried to roll over and get up but just flipped himself on his back in his continuing rage. He reached for Darrow who was on the floor but his back arched again and he fell with his arms and legs flailing. He couldn't even get any of his words out. It was amazing--a real live temper tantrum.

It was so obvious what was happening. We daddies calmly just watched it all unfold. I didn't reach out to him or try to comfort or console him--that just seemed like a bad message to send. I think it was a good five minutes before he finally began to calm himself. When he did, I began to talk to him in a soothing voice, encouraging him for being able to compose himself. I stroked his head and put him in my lap. I slowly changed him out of his clothes, which were now soaked since he had been crying and sweating while he tantrumed. I gave him his favorite teddy bear and he hugged him and then his eyes closed like he was going to fall asleep in my arms. I lifted him from the floor, we both kissed him good-night and patted him on the head just like we do every night. As we were leaving he stood up in the crib and began to wail again. For a moment I wasn't sure if he needed a little more comforting before being put down, but we decided instead to leave the room. We weren't even half way down the stairs before the crying stopped. When I checked on him a minute later, he had fallen down and instantly went to sleep.

We have had many smaller temper flares but nothing quite like that first one. It is amazing to watch this small creature develop and see his little temper begin to emerge. I feel like we passed another milestone. And it wasn't scary or hard to deal with. In fact I felt so close to him afterwards, like we helped him deal for the very first time with his temper. I know there will be many more opportunities to help him learn and grow and develop emotionally. I think that is what I appreciate the most about being a Dad--how interesting and amazing it is to be a part of all of this.

--J

Baby Stroller as Battering Ram

TheFosters — Thu, 07 Aug 2008 00:43:00 GMT

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.

Unfortunately this being the East Coast there is an expectation of a little unanticipated bumping and thumping of others on public transportation. I still would have expected a word from her. Where I come from, you bump--you say something: ‘scuse me; sorry; oops; wow, is that blood; ohmygawd is there a doctor on the train; does anyone know how to make a tourniquet to stop the bleeding?

So it got me to thinking about our strollers because I suspect like most of you, we have several--a convertible, jogger and compact. Strollers obstruct public space, they tend to take up a good chunk of the sidewalk or the floor of an elevator or the entrance to the mall. There is the actual size of the stroller and then there is the boundary around it which I like to call, "keep your distance from my baby or I will kick your ass space."

When I enter public space with my stroller, I have the sense that the waters should part. After all it is my little one and he is on his rolling throne. If it were just me I could just as well be run over, but when I am with child people are making their best effort to give way, crowds can part, miracles can happen. Then sometimes they don't. I mean not everyone gives a damn about some pablum-pushing, whiny-rag, snot-nosed, f-ing kid.

So how do you get around or through people when they are either oblivious to the fact that they are occupying public space that needs to be shared or they just don't give a damn? Here in lies the battering ram part of our story. Should one ever use the stroller as a battering ram? And no, I don't advocate bursting through a crowd at the expense of junior's little toes, not to mention the ire that is stirred by those with bumps and bruises, or stirred by your reckless actions while with child. But what do you do when junior's cute face and his preciousness are not enough to part the crowds? It is a quandary that we parents often face-getting our little ones from point A to point B in a crowded city. Sometimes it's like brandishing a disabled sign in a parking lot. "Excuse me, baby coming through." Here, let me shame you into moving out of the way. And oh, by the way, you should also beware of the bumper on the front of this thing-it can leave a nasty bruise. Sometimes you wonder if the weight that the stroller possesses is sometimes wielded into crowds, pressed into crosswalks, carried through occupied public spaces. I expect that at one time or another all parents nearing a crowd have asserted their sense of entitlement to that space and pushed on through-courteously, but pushed nonetheless.

I am also an avid runner/racer. It is my hobby and the thing I try to do for myself. We just picked up a nice second-hand jogging stroller. It has a better ride for Ty, better shocks, more breathable carriage, and just more maneuverable. It complicates things though when sharing public spaces with a baby stroller that is no longer moving slow, but is cutting quite a clip. I have fantasies of giving him an air horn and at the appropriate time, having him pull it out and blasting the people standing in the way. Am I still not entitled to that space? After all it is still my precious little one, he just happens to be a bit of blur moving towards you. This is one of the reasons I tend to run with Ty down long boulevards and walking paths. Unfortunately where we live there aren't many places like that and the ones that are, aren't anywhere near the house. Those places are also occupied by people seeking the same thing as we are--long stretches of peaceful pathways from which to walk, run or stroll. Inevitably you fall into the same trap of navigating the precious little six or eight foot wide thoroughfare that everyone is using. And while it may be frustrating to have to get by me and that damn stroller, I suspect that only a real jerk would give me a hard time about it.

But the assumption in all of this is that us parents with strollers know the rules of the game; can occupy space responsibly; will move through and past others with a modicum of damage; and when stationary are willing to occupy public space in such a way that allows others to pass. That assumption gets lost quickly in places like Washington, D.C. when during the spring and summer strollers are everywhere. Much like the bus-loads of tourists that empty out onto the sidewalks and move in hoards, strollers are strewn across paths and sidewalks, they thoughtlessly occupy space, there are double-wides going down backwards on train station escalators during rush hour as everyone is scrambling to board a train. And they also spin freely around, those bad SUV-Maclarens, ripping into flesh, causing mayhem, befalling commuters onboard subway cars. I hope it doesn't leave a scar.

--J

Christmas in July

TheFosters — Thu, 31 Jul 2008 03:30:00 GMT

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.

The really great thing about Santa Claus is Coming to Town is that there isn't just one villain but two. First there is one of the greatest, scariest characters ever developed--The Winter Warlock. Unlike the Abominable Snowman from Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer, who was a pretty scary figure, Winter Warlock sounded evil and surely did bad things. I could imagine him being accused of torture or some other heinous act. As we all know however, Kris Kringle was able to warm his heart and turn him into just another Santa Claus convert. The second villain, who was not so much scary, as sinister, was the Burgermeister, Meisterburger. He was the mayor-like figure in the small town where Kris Kringle began to do his work-giving away toys.

For some reason he did not particularly like toys. Here are a few of his proclamations:

Toys are hereby declared illegal, immoral, unlawful AND anyone found with a toy in his possession will be placed under arrest and thrown in the dungeon. No kidding!

I hate toys! And toys hate me! Either they are going or I am going and I definitely am not going!

The epic battle begins where Kris, curvy Jessica and all of the little elves try to give the dirty, coal-smudged faced kids in the non-descript Eastern Europe town their toys. The Burgermeister Meisterburger takes them away, Kris covertly brings more toys, they get taken away, etc. This back and forth continues until the Burger Meister's persecution ultimately drives the Kringles into exile at the North Pole.

Okay so it is the middle of summer--Christmas is a good six months away, so why am I diving into the bucket of Christmas nostalgia? Well with the Fosters it always has something to do with fostering. I have lamented in previous posts about our interactions with our local social services agency and have described the difficulties in dealing with our son's case worker as well as our home worker. As incredulous as it may seem, we have been accused of being the Burgermeister Meisterburger.

You see our worker comes once a month to stand around and ask us silly questions:

"Does he have bibs?"

"Well, do you have any long-sleeved shirts for him?"

"Can you put a coat on him?"

"Yellow isn't a good color for him, can you change his shirt?"

Alright, so I made that last one up, but you get the idea. Stupid, a little insulting, but we have put up with her. Darrow sometimes refers to her as Aunt Clara, the bumbling but sweet character from Bewitched. She has always seemed harmless and maybe just a little dim. There didn't seem to be any reason to challenge her with something like, "what the hell does having a bib on him have to do with keeping our foster certification you f@#$ing freak?!" Sorry that just slipped out.

Of course all that has changed. As our relationship with social services continues to evolve (deteriorate) so has the way in which we relate to this worker. I think the stupidity and insulting questions were threatening to push us over the edge.

She arrived for one of her monthly visits, early as usual, hoping to find out something that she wouldn't find out if she were on time. As she often does, she made the remark about whether we had forgotten she was coming. "No Aunt Clara, remember we were meeting you at 5:30 and so now you have to wait at the door because I am upstairs changing Ty's diaper."

After I let her in, it wasn't long before the questions began.

So how is he doing?

What kind of foods does he like?

Where does he sleep?

He's walking, is he?

What kind of formula is he on?

Where are his little shoes?

He's doing fine.

Ho-hos and chicken wings.

In the crate with the dog

Walking-yes.

Formula-we've been trying to wean him from the little Jack Daniel's that we put in his Infamil.

No shoes, just callouses.

Then comes the most bizarre series of questions:

"So what does he like to play with, I mean what kind of toys." I guess she missed the Easter bunny that was sitting on the chair next to her; and the myriad of toys that were encircling him in his pack-n-play; or maybe she had forgotten the many times she had seen his room or our house littered with toys.

Silly me, thinking that she was asking some other question, I began to explain to her that he was in this phase where he was much more interested in playing with Tupperware rather than with his toys. He had discovered the joys of the Tupperware drawer while visiting my family in May. He was now into exploration, where he wanders around the house investigating everything, pulling everything out of drawers, that kind of thing. He would prefer banging plastic lids together rather than playing with his little people bus.

"Well, so let me ask you...can I ask you a personal question? Um, so do you believe that it's right for children to play with toys?"

Silence.

"Um, what?"

"You know does he have toys that you let him play with?"

I think Darrow and I might have looked at each other like, what did she just ask? For a moment I thought to answer her, but it was such a freakish question that I wasn't sure what to say. What, are we in some kind of cult, where children are deprived of the joys of playing with toys. It's the cult of the Burgermeister Meisterburger. Toys, I hate toys. There'll be no more toys throughout the land!

At that moment I couldn't respond to the question. Instead I motioned to her to come up stairs. I showed her the pile of toys in his room. Then we walked into the sun porch where a lot of his stand-up or push toys are located. Eventually we made it back to his pack-n-play full of toys. She didn't seem embarrassed after taking the "Ty's wonderful world of toys tour." In fact I think she went on to talk about some other inane thing that popped into her mind. I wondered at that point how she ever made it through the day. We managed to shove her out the door a few minutes later. It all seemed just a little too crazy even for Aunt Clara and it didn't make any sense but it seems like everything these days with these people--none of it makes sense.

Unfortunately these are the people who have a say in our future, so we are careful in how we handle them. We put up with their crap and then we get to joke about it in our blog posts. And although Christmas is a long ways off, I am so looking forward to it this year. I think this time around, Ty will be much more aware of what is happening. He might even be willing to sit in Santa's lap. And for me, there is really only one thing I want this year. I want to have my son for just one more Christmas.

--J

Food Freak

TheFosters — Fri, 11 Jul 2008 18:15:00 GMT

Um, yes, those would be the remants of carrots and apples on the tray

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.

I remember being home with him for the first four weeks. I felt like I was in the I Love Lucy episode in the chocolate factory trying to box the candy as it flew by on the conveyor belt. Mix the formula, pour the bottles, warm the bottles, feed the baby. Play with him; put him down for his nap; not too long though 'cause he needs to eat; okay, get him up, then start all over again. No, no don't give him carrots and peas--not enough calories. Give him the bananas with mixed fruit--there is more than 26 calories in each ounce!

Every time he ate we recorded it in his book: what did he eat, how much, how many calories. Though he always seemed to have quite an appetite, there were days when it seemed like he just didn't want his daddy stuffing his face all day long. Each night we would total up the days gorging. It always worried me when I/he fell short of his daily caloric goal. It became my own little neurosis.

Well, we have come a long way from those days of autumn. After he climbed his way into the weight percentiles and his pediatrician was comfortable with his growth, we stopped logging his calories. I felt like we could finally begin to relax. I don't miss those days of angst about his eating.

So with that background you have the pretext for the little bit of angst about his current eating issues. As our baby has become a toddler it turns out he is mostly a meat and potatoes kind of guy. (And by the way waffles falls into that meat and potatoes category.) He's shown little interest in vegetables and almost no interest in fruit. We've had to "slip" him everything: veggies minced and cooked into meatballs; fruit blended into milk; sandwiches--well, you can always stuff something unexpected in between two slices of bread. Since he continues to grow, I am less concerned about this than his other Daddy. It seems that Darrow has now taken ownership of the eating neurosis.

It isn't like we haven't read up on all this kind of stuff. We've heard the rules: try a type of food at least fifteen times, or is it eighteen times, or just keep trying ad nauseam. I had long since given up on apples since Ty chews them up into small pieces and spits them back out all over himself. Then he takes his hand and scrapes the remaining bits off of his tongue and onto his lap. After the 32^nd time of trying to get him to eat bananas, I started shaking my head at Darrow. Maybe it doesn't make any sense that a kid would not like bananas, but you've gotta give it up man!

So how was it that last night while Ty was waiting for dinner in his highchair that Daddy Darrow was able to start feeding him some orange slices? Oranges slices--really? But that's a fruit! As the orange quickly disappeared, I decided to give him a slice of watermelon. Four or five slices later, I moved to blueberries and then apples. As we put dinner on the table he started motioning and grunting towards our plates. Darrow gave him a carrot slice, then another. He ate a few more, then after being given his own little pile of steamed carrots, he started two fisting them. Then it was on to the couscous, some chicken and more carrots. It was a startling moment. After all of the attempts to get him to eat his vegetables, and fruit for that matter, here he was eating everything and anything we put in front of him. I could feel the vitamins and minerals already beginning to course through his little body. It seemed like he would have eaten an artichoke had we given it to him. I wondered if it was an aberration--he was toying with us and would be back to meat and potatoes again tomorrow. If it is true, that after these last several months of eating regular food he has finally broadened his palate, then I guess the experts were right. There is hope for the picky eating children of the world and the desperate parents who will try anything to get junior to eat something other than rice and meat.

--J

The Trip Home - Part II

TheFosters — Fri, 13 Jun 2008 13:45:00 GMT

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."

In an effort to have a repeat of our trip out, we tried to get young Ty to sleep as much as possible on the flight. We had kept him up late the night before and allowed him only limited napping in the morning. In the beginning he spent a short time fidgeting in the seats before the familiar fingers in the mouth trick which signaled it was time for nitey-nite.

It was nice to have him go down so easy. The problem though for us was how to stretch his two hour nap time over a four and a half hour flight. With a little more than 2 hours left in the flight, the little guy woke up hungry and fussy. We began with a bottle and some crackers. That bought us 15 minutes. Then he had some of the cookies that the flight attendant gave us and he played with some of his toys. After a diaper change and a few intermittent screeches we had killed another 30 minutes. That left us 1 ¼ hours left to fill. For a while Ty would focus on things in the seat, the moveable arm-rests, the tray tables, seat-belts. The screeches continued--just a few but they were more frequent and generally involved wanting or not wanting to do something. As we quickly ran out of occupying activities we resorted to the last resort--books. I realized at the time that even if I could maintain his interest in story-time, I certainly did not have enough reading material to last an hour. And I didn't think that I could read Spot's Big Adventure the necessary 17 ½ times in order to fill the 57 minutes left in the flight.

Unfortunately it was worse than that. Ty just was not in a quiet mood and not really into sitting listening to stories. He was a little attention-challenged and kept grabbing the pages and trying to close the book and becoming frustrated. Each time I took the book back from him in order to continue the story, he would screech. Then I began to notice the darting eyes-to the front, to the side, to the back. We were quickly becoming one of those horror story flights. You know, when the weary travelers lament about the screaming kid who wouldn't shut up during the flight. I realized that all he actually wanted to do was wander through the airplane--something he obviously couldn't do. His other preference was to wrestle the moveable arm rest and scream when he could not get it to move. At one point he began writhing in his seat and belting out some good long ones.

What's worse, there were other kids on the flight but they weren't being very loud, or perhaps they were but Ty was drowning them out. Not only were we loud, we seemed highly visible on the flight, because well, here are two grown men trying to handle this pre-toddler and I would imagine to most we were not doing a very good job.

I would like to believe that the giant Middle Eastern man in front of me and the scary looking long-haired woman behind us were really nice people under different circumstances. The few times I walked down through the plane with Ty, scary lady was standing behind our seats glaring down at us over her reading glasses. Besides the periodic glances over the back of his seat, the giant kept sighing and as we pulled into the gate he had a loud cell phone conversation intended for us to overhear, indicating to the person on the other end that this was indeed the worst flight of his entire life.

Are we to be banished from commercial flights? Should we be punished for trying to travel with a 1 ½ year old? And where were the flight attendants? Don't they have little airplane toys and wing pins and isn't that part of their job to distract little ones when their parents have exhausted all other options? I guess like everything else in the airline industry, they have cut out that service. Frankly, they seemed a little annoyed with us also--go figure.

By the time the wheels hit the ground, it was all starting to get under my skin even though I tried not to let it. The last 15 minutes were probably the worst since Ty had to be held tightly in our lap as part of our preparation for landing. There was a lot more back-arching and a fairly steady tirade of screams. I wasn't sure what was worse: his screaming or the hostility coming now from all around us. In the end though, we gave them all a really good story--in fact the best story. For the giant, it would rank up there with the worst ever traveling horror stories and he would live to tell it over and over and over.

It was our little bit of traveling drama. Not only does the giant and the scary lady have a story to tell, but so do I. So the next question is when is our next trip? Well, I hear that those crazy Californians are letting same-sex couples get married. What do you think--here we come Disneyland?!

The Trip Out

TheFosters — Fri, 23 May 2008 12:20:00 GMT

So I don't have any horror stories yet to tell but we are only through day two of a seven day trip. I was so wound up by the time we were ready to leave for the airport that I wasn't sure I could handle screaming baby / evil passenger drama.

Ty and I had been to a doctor's appointment that seemed to drag on forever. First you check-in, then you wait, then you see the medical assistant, then you see the intern or resident, and finally the doctor appears a little over an hour after the appointment began. So I am already geared up by the length of time I have to entertain a 16 month old, coupled with the bad news that his specialist wants to do yet another test. I think she enjoys torturing my son. We both left there agitated and exhausted.

We sped home so we could pack up the dogs and cart them off to their doggie vacation. Try taking a baby and three, big, excited, fearful dogs into a dog kennel while serenaded by a chorus of the current canine residents. I was already feeling bad because I can't stand to leave the ol'lady of the house, Mika when we go on vacation. I have a fear that something might happen to her and I would not be able to be there with her. And to top it off she started giving me the shivering, quivering, daddy don't leave me at this awful place, bit. I had to scoop up the little one and leave without looking back. Also weighing heavily on my mind was the rescheduled hearing regarding our son's case that was just about to begin. We were not going to be able to stand outside the courtroom this time because this train was about to leave for the airport for one well deserved and needed vacation.

When we got home it was time to go through the list. Surely we weren't ready, would forget something, would regret not taking more time to pack. Darrow had beaten us home from work, had changed and was already doing the final packing and checking to make sure we were ready. I was beginning to realize that I could relax a little, not much, just a little. As our departure deadline approached, we began to load the car and were on the road just as we had planned.

Once we had parked the car and were on the shuttle bus to the airport it seemed like it was time to relax some more. Ty seemed a little perplexed by the whole thing. I don't think he had ever been on a bus before and I was certain he had never seen the inside of an airport. Security was a breeze, surprisingly. I guess they had figured out the whole liquids and baby bottle thing. They didn't even make Ty take off his shoes. We were also confused by the fact that no one questioned our authority to take this child on a plane for interstate travel. I had brought documents showing that Ty was our foster son and we had authority to take him out of state. Nobody cares--who knew. I suppose biological parents don't have to bring birth cerificates to prove "ownership" of their traveling children.

So we are off to the gate where there are wide open carpeted spaces. You could see Ty's little mind working, wanting to get out there and crawl around everywhere. A few times I had to retrieve a stray bag that had gotten away from us. For dinner we had luke-warm pasta that everyone seemed to enjoy, mainly because we were hungry. As we got near the gate, the agent began to announce, "those passengers who need a little extra time for boarding...." I always wanted to be one of those special people who got to board the plane first. Of course, just as they made the announcement, the little one started to smell. So I whisked him off to change the dirty diaper and while I was still wiping away his little behind, Darrow calls me on my cell phone to say the gate agent is giving him grief because they are ready to close the door. Hey, who can plan these things and it's not like I was taking my time or anything. So I get the little guy fresh again and we race in the stroller back to the gate.

All aboard. All aboard? All aboard the empty plane! It seems that because this is one of their maiden flights on this new route that the plane is less than half full. In fact all of the families with kids began packing up and migrating to the back of the plane to get away from the non-child carrying passengers and to spread out in their very own row. Besides the really nice people sitting behind us who played peek-a-boo with Ty, there wasn't anyone within a few rows of us. How great is this! Even if our son gets the screaming me-mes, its just us parents and kids and we are all in the back of the plane. Ty played and goofed around and screamed just once or twice and then he went to sleep in the seat between us. And there he stayed until the landing gear came down. It was a beautiful thing.

My dad was there waiting for us at baggage claim. It was good to see him, he is a great guy and I was happy to have our son finally meet him. At first Ty played shy, by turning away a little and putting his head in the nape of my neck. But it wasn't long before he was sitting in "Poppa's" lap. My father does not respond to grandpa. All of his grandchildren call him Poppa. We made the trek to his house and we set everything up in our room. By midnight (3AM EST) all three of us were safely in bed, snoozing away. It was a happy beginning to our little adventure.

Parents of Screaming Child are Choked by Angry Passengers...Details at 11

TheFosters — Wed, 21 May 2008 15:55:00 GMT

Somehow I have this fear and dread about our trip. Did we mention that we're going out of town? Finally, we have decided no matter what Ty's future is with us, that we are going to make this little guy officially a part of our family. He will be introduced to our extended families, thus the non-stop flight to the West Coast. Later this summer we are planning an up-state New York trip to hit Darrow's family.

Okay, so sometimes I can be the voice of gloom and doom, though not always, just sometimes, okay oftentimes. Up until a few years ago, I traveled a lot for work. Each and every time there was an undercurrent of stress that I carried with me up until the time I put my butt into the seat of the plane, then I could start to relax. My fear now though, is that we as new dads will forget something, or since this is the first time traveling by plane with a kid in tow that we will inevitably make mistakes and everyone on that plane will hate us. Here is the problem:

Ty is officially a toddler, mobile, active and does not sit still.
Ty is able when he is unhappy or hungry to let out the most blood-curdling scream that has ever emanated from any child, anywhere, ever in the history of children.
Ty is a very good sleeper if he is placed in his crib with room to flip and thrash. When in smaller spaces he tends to wake more frequently (please see item no. 2 above).

Wish us well. We will be reporting back periodically on our travels. Oh, did I mention we are on a night flight so most other passengers will be sleeping....make that trying to sleep.

--J

Cry Baby

TheFosters — Fri, 09 May 2008 10:00:00 GMT

Crying.

I hate to cry.

Hate.

My son cries at the drop of a hat. Periodically I notice tears on his face and remember that just 30 seconds ago he was trying to tell me something, some unfortunate thing I had done or failed to do for him: need food Da-da, need sleep, need diaper changing, need you to pick me up, don't need anything just felt like crying, Da-da.

I unfortunately have been acting more like my son these days. And actually I think I have him to blame. I don't think I have wept so openly and in so many public places in my entire life. And there is nothing that pains me more, regardless of whether they are tears of joy or sorrow. I don't have problems with other people's tears or my son's for that matter. In fact his little cry is so endearing that sometimes both us daddies have to chuckle--well that is if he isn't in real pain or distress.

Luckily for me it is easy to mask my tears during the winter months with Kleenex and a faux cold. I found out today that it is pretty easy to shed tears without being discovered while you are running. I mean tears, sweat--who's going to know the difference. And of course I just remembered why I was tearing up during my run at lunch today--something about his mother and the sadness I feel for him and for her (definitely another post). And now I am on the frigging train. Here I am writing this and trying to keep my composure as a few tears start to flow. How painful it would be for someone to lean over and to ask me if I was okay.

I don't know why the disdain for my own tears. It might be vanity--not particularly manly, dignified, or strong of me to cry in public. Okay, so why is a gay man worried about being manly you ask. I am not quite sure. I think maybe it is that men in general are not given permission to shed tears. I know that it has to do with my background. There wasn't a lot of open weeping from the men in my family. I think that has changed as we have gone through difficult experiences together. Still, I remember standing at the foot of my younger brother's grave the day of his funeral. There we all were, my big family struggling with the pain of losing someone close--suddenly, unexpectedly. And there is my great uncle, this little ancient gray-haired man from the old country. He comes up to me and grabs my arm and says, "You need to be strong for the family." What are we Mafioso now? In other words stop your crying you big cry baby. I was annoyed with him but I understood: it is their way on that side of the family.

Well the composure that I might have had back then has all but disappeared in the last six months. Since Ty came to us, my heart seems to not only be on my sleeve, but my lapel, my cuff, my pant-leg, even my shoe laces. What is that all about? Is this some kind of strange hormonal response? I don't remember testosterone acting like that. There have been a couple of times, okay, several times when Darrow and I have been hovering over his crib while he was sleeping and one or both of us just ended up in tears. Is it like this for everyone? I have the feeling that more fathers than would care to admit have similar experiences. So I am trying to embrace this new emotional reality, but I am also hoping that it subsides a little the longer I am a Dad. I know that there is nothing wrong with me or shedding tears in public. I think I prefer a mushy dad to the stoic unemotional dad any day. I just don't think I will ever get used to it--being a cry baby.

--J

The Tic-Toc-Tic-Toc

TheFosters — Wed, 07 May 2008 10:00:00 GMT

I don't like it when my son is afraid. What parent does? I remember the few times that I inadvertently frightened him and made him cry. I am kind of a softy so it was a little mortifying. But I quickly learned that I could turn his fear on its ear.

In our kitchen is a clock with large numerals and a really big face. It sits high above the door as you pass from the kitchen into the dining room. Well, Ty has always been fascinated by faces. We go to restaurants and his eyes bug over all of the people and their faces. I remember the night that he arrived at our house, as we were sitting in the living room I picked him up out of his car seat and placed him in my lap. As I spoke to him he looked up at me and seemed mesmerized. Every time he had a bottle his eyes were fixed upon my face. Sometimes I wondered what he thought when he looked up at this bearded faced stranger. How long before he began to see me as someone who loved him and would protect him from everything. At what point did he begin to look up and see me as dad, new dad, foster dad?

As he began to become more familiar with our house, I noticed that he would sometimes look up at the clock. I was never sure what it was about it that drew his attention. Then I began to recognize the shape was like a big face, the face of a clock, okay, duh. One day we stopped in front of it when I noticed he was looking up, maybe a little suspiciously. I put my hands under his arms and lifted him up over my head to get a closer look. He instantly began to flail and his face got this horrified look across it. I had never seen him frightened, so at first I didn't get it until he began to scream. I quickly lowered him and caressed his back and apologized. Ohmygawd, here I am supposed to be protecting the little tike and look what I've gone and done. He is scarred, scarred for life I tell you. In preschool the teacher will pull out a big cardboard clock so the kids can learn to tell time and my son will run screaming out of the classroom.

It occurred to me then that I can't let that happen, that maybe there was a way to make this big-faced clock not so scary. After he had calmed I began to tell him in my mommy voice (I will get to that in another post)

"Look at the tic-toc-tic-toc!"

Then I made the sound of an alarm clock, "rrrrriiiiing."

Then I asked him, "what time is it? It's 7:30!"

Though he smiled that first time he was a little hesitant to look up at it. Over time I continued to make a point of stopping in front of the clock, so much so that sometimes he would look up and begin to smile without me having to say a word. We still play the game when I point up overhead and ask him what time it is. He smiles and looks up. I have on occasion lifted him again to look into its face--maybe just to give him the opportunity to look into the face of his fears. Of course I don't lift him quite so quickly as the last time and I certainly don't put him quite as close. I don't know what he sees now but he doesn't cry. He just looks up and then looks down at me like okay, I get it, now get me the hell down from here.

--J

When My Son Speaks

TheFosters — Fri, 02 May 2008 13:32:00 GMT

I am not really worried about our son's speech development, even if I am reminded by physicians that statistically speaking, he's behind. I live with the little guy everyday. If his vocalizations were not growing more frequent and more complex over time, then I might be concerned, but it just isn't the case. The latest demand of him is to acquire at least a ten word vocabulary by June. What if he only has eight, or five or.....two.

"My son, the world is collapsing all around you without these ten words. You will never amount to anything if you don't pipe up. And no, I'm sorry but ‘gukum blik grlikm' does not count as three words." Now that it is May, I am beginning to feel his pressure--just 30 more days and counting. Ohmygawd, maybe I can bribe him with candy or massage his brain; practice verbal calisthenics; tell him that daddy will spank if he doesn't start spouting off a few choice phrases!

Really, I am just excited to hear his first little words. After being sick for several weeks with a variety of ailments, Ty has finally reached a state of wellness. He has been a chatterbox in the last few days. His vocal range continues to widen. I know he is saying things to us (and probably about us) but he has not yet crossed that great divide where he can be clear about his wants and needs so that we can stop being dumb daddies.

While he may be a little behind, he has a wide range of sounds that are more complex and varied everyday. Lately he's been on this low range, baritone kick--sort of a cross between Louis Armstrong and Fat Albert. Sometimes he is commanding us to give him more food and other times he's just yelling at a passing car on the ride home from day care. Then he started doing this wonderful little aria thing, but rather than it being like Maria Callas belting out something from Carmen, it is all screeches--only they are happy screeches. So rather than correcting him, we just screech back. Talk about enabling children with bad habits! Sometimes the little urchin explores the upper reaches of his vocal chords, and climbs one octave too high just outside of his little boy range. His mouth opens but nothing comes out, as if only dogs could hear his falsetto.

I am so excited to be able to actually communicate with my son. I mean what an amazing moment to witness--the very first time he thinks about something, then in his mind he formulates, then with his mouth he articulates. What a beautiful sound that will be. We know he knows how to call out to us, but I am looking for something a little more definitive than Da-da. On our personal blog after covering a different aspect of this same subject I received a couple of really great comments that got me to thinking.

The first:

Language develops at such a variable rate. One moment a parent is concerned about delayed speech and the next he/she is lamenting about the child's non-stop chatter! The wonderful thing is that since he is in a loving home with parents that create a language-rich environment, he will undoubtedly make astounding progress. Enjoy it Dada(s) the language milestones are truly the most astounding and fun...and I am not just saying that because I am an SLP.

Marissa

A rich language environment--I never thought of our home in those terms. Reading to him has always been more about it being fun and him being a little book worm rather than a concerted effort on our part. I know this sounds sort of brain dead, but it didn't occur to me that we could contribute towards his language acquisition in that way. So the more books we read, the more stimulated he is, the more articulate he will become. And the best part is that everyone really enjoys it--well, as long as we don't have to read "How Big is Baby Elmo" more than twice in one sitting.

And the second:

It's a miracle they learn to talk at all, I think. Your son probably knows dozens of words already and he just has to work out how to make his tongue and mouth get them out.

Psychmum

There are times when we both just sit there and listen to the things our son says. It is fascinating sometimes. You have to wonder if babbling is really the right word for what is happening. In addition to just exploring his vocal range, out of him comes strange, complicated, multiple-syllabic runs that are on the one hand incomprehensible but on the other totally unique. Sometimes it almost sounds like some other language. When he turns to the set of car keys that he's playing with and says "gukum blik grlikm", does it have some meaning to him? As alert and aware about so many things as our son is, do we wrongly assume because he is young and because we can't interpret what he is saying, that he is babbling? What if it all had meaning and there is lots of stuff swimming around in his head. What if Pyschmum is right and he already has dozens of words, even hundreds of words but just doesn't have the means to make us understand. I suppose a child psychologist might think I was being silly, but what a great thought--that there is more to the inner life of my child than I or anyone else will ever know.

--J

A Week in the Life: Days 6 & 7 (The End...Kindof)

TheFosters — Mon, 28 Apr 2008 12:02:00 GMT

The weekend was great. I don't think I could have asked for anything more, except maybe for a slightly warmer Sunday.

We packed up the car early Saturday (Day 6) morning and headed to the Rainbow Families Annual 2008 Parenting Conference. We were a little concerned about keeping Ty up and out all day, but he did really well. He got cranky later in the morning, so he and I went to the quiet room (a room for parents and their 2 1/2 years-or-younger kids) and took a nap. Actually, I laid on the floor on my back, and he took a nap on me.

Ty played...

and ate...

......practically all day. His appetite is back with a vengeance. At one point during the conference, Juan and I felt a little nauseous as we watched Ty stuff more and more food into his mouth, his stomach growing like some living, breathing balloon. With our fears of an explosion getting the best of us, we ended up hiding food. That wasn't easy. Anytime he spotted anything that looked edible, he'd let out a loud grunt or cry of protest.

After a full day of attending workshops (one at which we presented), meeting other families, and chasing after Ty, we were all pretty whipped.

The experience at this year's conference was a good one though - different from last year's but still good. We hope to write about that either here or at our other blog soon.

Day 7/Sunday was our usual - shopping, cooking, yard work, ironing, diaper bag packing, dog walking, visiting with friends. I think we both feel that our Sundays can be just a little too busy, but we haven't figured out yet how to make them less so.

The week ended like all should - with two big pieces of chocolate cake and a kid in bed by 8 pm.

The week ahead looks quiet and uneventful. Our biggest decisions are 1) what kind of digital SLR camera to before our approaching trip to the west coast and 2) what to cook for a potluck picnic on Sunday.

-- D

A Week In The Life: Day 5 (Dumb Daddies)

TheFosters — Fri, 25 Apr 2008 19:54:00 GMT

Ty woke up around 1:30 AM. I swear, if he wakes up much earlier, he'll have succeeded in traveling backwards through time. He must be stopped before he disrupts the space time continuum...and before we go stark raving crazy.

The previous night, Juan gave the time traveler some juice and that seemed to work, so juice it was again. We didn't bother trying milk. Ty had been having trouble all week keeping it down, and we didn't expect things to be any different this time.

With the bottle finished, we put him between us and hoped that sleep would return for all. Instead, we got the usual bad manners - kicking, flopping around, whimpering, crying and smacking in the face.

And then the battle began.

I put Ty back in the crib. He had other ideas and immediately made his way to the end of the crib, stood up, and started wailing in our direction. I got out of the bed and laid him back down. He again made his way to the end of the crib, wailing all the way.

I got up and put him down. He got up and wailed. We did this over and over and over again.

I could tell I was wearing The Beast out though. Each time I put him down, he lingered just a little bit longer before getting up again. Success was near!

Juan congratulated me on my perseverance and we agreed...Super Nanny would be proud. There was no way we were going to have one of those noisy, whiny, no-boundary-respecting brats on our hands.

Ty's a smart little guy though. Suddenly, after weeks of us longing for something more articulate than "gukum blik grlikm", Ty found his voice. "Daaadaaaaaaaa!", he cried with his arms stretched towards Juan.

We weren't falling for that though. I persisted. Ty persisted. Juan stayed put in the bed.

"Daaaaadaaaaa!" "Daaadeeeeee!!"

My determination flagged and Juan took over. The end was near though. Ty seemed to be wearing down.

Down. Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down. Up.

After about 40 minutes of this, we figured we'd try a second bottle. We didn't expect that to work . He had finished his last bottle before our epic battle began and we felt like we were pushing our luck by giving him any more fluids. The whole vomiting-after-drinking thing had grown old fast. While Juan was downstairs getting a bottle ready, the battle waged on upstairs, though only half heartedly. At one point, when Ty went down, I heard this weird crinkle, like he was pulling on his diaper. I switched on the bedroom light and saw that Ty was clutching a bag of crackers. How those got in there I'm not sure. Juan thinks they fell in from a ledge above the crib. What the hell...I popped open the bag and gave him one. Ty practically enhaled it, so I gave him another. And another. And another. Juan arrived with the bottle and Ty sucked that down too. And no vomiting.

The little booger was hungry!

Our plans to post a "Daddies Win the Battle" post were quickly scrapped. We wondered if we should even admit that we might have succeeded in scarring the boy for life. Honesty is best though. There could be some dad reading this right now who might find himself in the midst of a battle in the coming evenings.

Our advice...try food. It seems to work.

My Moon, My (Little) Man

TheFosters — Sun, 20 Apr 2008 12:25:00 GMT

I was one of those kids with the Vienna Choirboys kind of voice. I loved to sing. In my little elementary school every teacher had me perform for their class. At the pinnacle of my fame, I was the target of ridicule from classmates but more so from my siblings who were mortified by the fact that their little brother was "performing" in our school. Then I hit puberty and not only did my voice change, but I didn't even get so much as a baritone or tenor voice out of the deal. It basically went nasal, lacking completely in depth and struggled to remain on key. Even as an adult I can remember a friend of mine (that I haven't spoken to in more than a decade) who after happening to hear me sing, proceeded to ask me what I had done with the money that my mother had given me for singing lessons. So between the loss of my voice and taunting from others I pretty much put a cap on the old singing thing.

Well having a son has in essence brought my singing voice out of the closet. You see he doesn't mind that my voice isn't very good. In fact one of the things we have really enjoyed together is sitting down in front of my laptop and having a sing-along with one of our favorite videos. Here are a couple of our favorites in reverse order:

3. Love Song by Sarah Bareilles

Though it isn't the happiest of songs at least lyrically, the melody is ironically joyous and the video is really fun. The artist sits inside of this juke box and plays the piano for anyone who will come along and drop a dime in the slot. The song is really good for hand clapping and swaying together to the melody.

2. 1-2-3-4 by Feist

This song made popular by the Apple commercial seems to have become a hit with the diaper wearing crowd. The video and lyrics are kind of kooky with everyone dressed in crazy colors dancing around. But of course the best part is when she counts to ten, well sort of (she leaves out 7 and 8, and I am sure that the coffee-house crowd will ding me for failing to see the significance of that, but I just don't get it.). In any case this one is great for counting on fingers and toes while singing.

1. My Moon, My Man by Feist

This was the very first video that I played for my son. The lyrics are a little odd but the video is really fun because everyone is in motion, dancing on one of those airport moving walkways. I remember sitting at the dining room table, singing, swaying and clapping to the music with him in my lap grinning and babbling. It was at a time shortly after he had arrived when he was still struggling a bit, as was I. Those times always seemed to make us feel better even when one or both of us was having a hard day.

My son has given me so much in these last months. He has given me my voice back. He allows me to be silly and stupid and off-key. I can be anything I want to be without feeling self-conscious about it. It is something I don't think I ever could have done without him.

--J

Who are we?

TheFosters — Tue, 15 Apr 2008 01:12:00 GMT

We are Darrow, Juan and T. We are two Dads and a pre-toddler. We are an interracial couple with a bi-racial baby and three hodge-podge breed big dogs. We are as close to married as the law allows. We are diaper changing, baby food flinging, bottle juggling newbie dads who sometimes trip up one another in our effort to care for our son. We are a family like every family, but just a little different. And yes, we are foster parents, sort of unwittingly, but fosters nonetheless.

We are fun and games dads of the silliest kind. We have no problem making strange faces and odds noises in public in an effort to entertain our son. We revel in his beautiful smile and his hearty, infectious laugh. We cannot imagine our life without this amazing little boy. That is why we also periodically turn to one another in tears, because as fosters we find ourselves from time-to-time in a fragile state, knowing that his future with us is uncertain. So we live in the yin and the yang, the one side making the other side that much sweeter and poignant. And if we write about happy, silliness one day and sound like we are drowning in our fears the next, we hope that if you choose to read our posts, you will forgive us for sounding a little crazy. Sometimes that is the reality of the Fosters--welcome to our world.

--D, J & T