Meet The Fosters : gay

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

The Flow

TheFosters — Fri, 12 Sep 2008 01:06:00 GMT

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.

As I sat there, I remembered seeing an e-mail earlier in the day about a vigil in front of the Capitol Building. Though I had never done anything like that before, it seemed like a good idea to be around other people who felt like I did. I packed Mika in the car and we drove down to the National Mall. I could see the soft glow of light at the base of the Capitol as we approached. It was an odd experience standing in the midst of complete strangers, looking into the reflecting pool and across the way at all of the other strangers on the other side. But there was comfort in it. People were weeping and singing and hugging one another. A woman walked up to me and without saying a word she held out a red, white and blue ribbon and pinned it on my T-shirt. It was the smallest gesture but it felt like so much more. She smiled and walked away. I moved around the reflecting pool stopping periodically to listen to the songs-America the Beautiful, Amazing Grace, God Bless America. Sometimes I would sing, or just watch people be sad, consoling one another. And as alone as I was in Washington having just moved there, I felt anything but alone that night.

Mika and I walked over to the side of the reflecting pool and sat down on one of the granite steps. As people came near they reached down and patted her on the head. She remained calm and stoic, looking out over the water and periodically into the faces of those who sought comfort in her touch. It was a poignant moment-the dog that I found cowering in a shelter, so afraid of everything and everyone that she peed all over the floor when I met her, now with grace and serenity, she gave comfort to those who chose to seek it out in the wake of that horrible day.

Slowly people began to move off in a procession that ran along Pennsylvania Avenue and passed in front of the White House. As the crowd thinned, I noticed a man standing not far away from us. I remember seeing his rollerblades as he sat down. Mika who was only a few feet away, began to scoot across the steps towards him. She stretched out her golden paws and then leaned down to lick his hand. It was so uncharacteristic of her, to approach a stranger in that way. Who knew that her overture would be so life-changing-so many things were in those few days. When your dog starts slobbering on someone's hand there isn't much need for introductions. It was easy to talk to him about the fear and hopelessness I was feeling. We were there for hours and I remembered how much better I felt afterwards. I knew it was no coincidence that Darrow and I had met that day.

Over the next few weeks we got to know each other, but we also understood that our lives were headed in completely opposite directions-I had just arrived and he was off to New York in a few weeks. It didn't seem to matter though. We continued to stay in contact, seeing each other periodically. There was never any presumption that there would ever be any future for us. That was fine. I didn't occupy myself with what could be, but what was happening at that moment right in front of me. It was the first time I think I have ever experienced what we now call the flow.

For lack of a better term, it is our way of explaining what happens to the two of us-understanding how, as improbable as it was back in 2001 that we would have met and be now celebrating our seventh year together. I guess the flow is a little mixture of fate, of God's will and happenstance. It is what takes over when there is nothing more that I can do. I had met an amazing person under extraordinary circumstances and yet he was about to move away to start the next adventure of his life. I had no control over anything that had happened or was about to happen.

Over the next two months I watched things change. It seemed like anything that would have prevented us from being together, one by one they each slowly began to fall apart. The deconstruction was amazing to watch-jobs fell through, relationships deteriorated and then ended. It was as if there was design and purpose to it rather than it being random events. The flow brought us together and we are certain it is the reason that Ty came to live with us.

None of what has happened over the last eleven months has been chance-not the timing of our foster care certification or the other foster care placement that fell through. It is no accident that Ty's original case worker handled us with such care and compassion over those first few months when we were new parents. And as painful as it might be if he is to leave us, we absolutely believe that the reason we fit so well together as a family was no coincidence. We are here because he needed us to be-whether that is for a year or a lifetime. He was meant to be our son at this time. It's because of some plan somewhere that said this little boy will be loved desperately by these two grown men because that is what he needs to survive. As new age-y and silly as it may sound, it is because of the flow.

--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

Friday - a Much Needed Break

TheFosters — Mon, 28 Jul 2008 02:00:00 GMT

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!

Monday through Friday mornings are a combination of practiced choreography and pure happenstance. Juan gets up every morning just before 5. If the weather permits and I’m not feeling particularly unmotivated, I get up for a run. That’s my new/reborn effort to stay in shape. While I'm out running - a questionable description of what I actually do - Juan gets himself ready for work and takes care of the three dogs. After years of being a dog-owner, I'm still amazed that they willingly eat so early in the morning. If I were a dog, I'd like to not have to think about food the moment I wake up. Anyways, by 5:30 Juan is ready to leave for his train, which is my signal to wrap up my run. Like relay-team members passing the baton, I arrive - panting and wheezing - as Juan grabs his bag and keys and heads for the front door. That brief moment is often my first good look at him of the day.

While I get ready for work, I creep around the house, trying not to disturb Ty. The dogs, being very un-cat-like, don’t creep . Mika, Milo, and Rocky are a noisy crew. They bark at everything and everyone passing by the house, especially anyone walking another dog. So, invariably, Ty wakes up before I’m ready to deal with him. I try to squeeze in a shower while he’s in the Chatter Phase in his crib. The Chatter Phase phase is the one that comes just before the full-on Crying and Screaming Phase. As of late, when Ty wakes up, he spends the first few moments hanging out in his crib, content to chatter away with himself and his stuffed animals. The Crying and Screaming Phase comes later, when Ty has decided way too much time has passed with no attention from his dads. He's usually up by 6:15 or so. If the Gods smile upon me, Ty sometimes makes it to 7. That usually gives me time to cook a meal for the week ahead or take a stab at a sentence or two for a blog post. I find myself using a lot of morning time and weekends to cook. So far, it has been a great way to get ahead of the game when it comes to having meals ready. Neither one of has time to even think about making dinner after work.

The rest of the morning, before Ty and I make our 7:30 dash to daycare, is a mash-up of getting dressed, making breakfast, packing Ty’s lunch, playing outside, and taking the dogs out for one last opportunity for relief before I head to work. If we’ve got enough time, Ty and I will sit on the front step and hang out for a bit. He's been pleased with his sitting capabilities lately and likes to practice sitting down every time he passes a stair. And usually, any stair will do.

The evenings are more of the same…motion, motion and more motion. I pick Ty up at 5:30. Juan is home by 6:30. From our arrivals until about 8, it’s all about Ty, feeding and walking the dogs, Ty, preparing for and eating dinner, Ty, making lunches for the next day, Ty, getting clothes ready for the next day, Ty and on and on and on...and Ty. And his no-longer-new mobilty has made life even more challenging. How can someone with such stubby legs cover so much ground so quickly? We can't turn our heads for even a second. It seems like much of what we do with him is chase, redirect, and distract.

By 8pm, everyone is exhausted. Ty happily goes to bed, but for Juan and me, it seems like the evening just begins. We try to do whatever it was we couldn’t do when Ty was awake – read mail, return calls, pay bills, walk the dogs, clean, do some laundry, say hello to each other.

Breathe.

This past Friday, Juan, Ty and I took a break from our normal weekday routine – no work and no daycare. We had our own much needed three-day weekend. And that (plus some pictures) is really the point of this post. Friday was great. No schedule. No big list of to-dos. No pressure. Our day went something like this: Wake up, have breakfast, play outside, nap (Ty, not us), go out to eat for lunch, check out a new playground, take Ty to visit some of his buddies, eat leftovers for dinner, play some more, relax, go to sleep.

So that was our Friday - a great start to a nice weekend. I think we've both been under some stress lately, and these three days were definitely needed. Now, if we could just harness this good feeling to take us through to the next day off, we'll be set.

-- D

The Sharing of Waffles

TheFosters — Tue, 08 Jul 2008 02:41:00 GMT

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.

Waffles are, for me, a delicacy. They are a treat to be appreciated and savored. I like to linger over them, taking the time to taste every bite – every drop of syrup and melted butter. I prefer to eat them at a cafe or small restaurant. The atmosphere is more waffle-friendly than big chains, though IHOP (avert your eyes, Juan) will do in a pinch. I can bring my iPod and a book or the newspaper and lose myself in the experience.

And when I say "waffle", I’m not talking about Eggos or Aunt Jemima. Both are good and will serve in a pinch, but they aren’t a replacement for the real deal. The only waffle that really matters is the kind made with a waffle iron. It should be round, take up an entire plate and be full of big, deep squares that hold gobs of butter and syrup.

Until last month, I hadn’t had a waffle since before Ty’s arrival. A couple of weeks ago, one early Saturday morning, I scooped up Ty and headed to a little spot a short drive from home. It was one of those perfect weekend mornings - sunny, cool and quiet. I was looking forward to a moment's rest from our mad mad Saturday mornings, and by the time I got to the cafe's door, my mouth was already watering. I could practically taste the sweet syrup and juicy strawberries.

Once at the counter, I ordered…

“I'd like the waffle with strawberries and maple syrup, please.”

The woman behind the counter, who didn’t look crazy a few seconds before, suddenly seemed more than a little off her rocker.

“And what will your little guy be having? Some of your waffle?”

Umm. Having? Waffle? MY waffle? Surely, she’s kidding. I do not share waffles.

“He’ll be having a blueberry muffin.”

I mean c'mon. A couple of days before The Waffle Trip, Ty shoved grits up his nose and then happily stuck his fingers in his mouth. His palate is not even close to waffle-ready.

I sat down and marveled at the lovely creation, almost afraid to put a knife to it. But, I was hungry and a had to move quickly, before Ty realized that his blueberry muffin and my waffle were not one and the same. Lately, he's been a lot more aware of specific foods and knows when he is not getting exactly the same thing as us. Of course, there are times when he simply doesn't want what we have, at least not totally. Grapes are a perfect example. Ty will suck on and chew a grape until all that's left is the skin, which he promptly lets slip out of his mouth and onto his shirt. I couldn't even stomach the idea that he might mash up a perfectly good piece of waffle and spit it out...or drop it on the floor...or worse yet, get it tangled in his hair. What a waste that would be.

So, intent on enjoying my experience, I strategically positioned the plate away from Ty and kept pieces of blueberry muffin flowing in his direction. I'm learning that redirection and distraction are key to managing a toddler. I'm also learning that toddler's cannot be ignored. As I start to dice up the second quarter of the waffle, I heard Ty grunt something like "mmm...mmmgggg...mmmm". I knew what that mean, but I tried to ignore it.

"More blueberry? Can you say more?

"mmm! mmmmgggggg!!"

"Juice? You want some juicy?"

I knew better. The little booger was after my waffle. My waffle. I tried the blueberry/juice distraction again, but only half-heartedly. I was starting to feel a little self-conscious (and creepy) as I sat hunched over the remaining syrup-soaked bits of waffle. And really, creepy and selfish is not a good look for me...or anyone for that matter.

So I gave in, maybe out of guilt and maybe for appearances sake.

w

I know I've got some learning and living to do when it comes to sharing. I'm thinking if I can get to the point of sharing my waffle, then the sky is the limit.

Chocolate cake is where I draw the line though. He'll have to get his own piece.

--D

Thinking of Baby Number 2

TheFosters — Tue, 01 Jul 2008 01:27:00 GMT

It's more than 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 tire him out, but I get beat just watching him.

He's a crafty little guy too, in a cute sort of way. Yesterday while Juan was downstairs getting dinner ready, I watched Ty try to squeeze himself under one of the baby gates in an attempt to escape to the first floor. After he realized his head was hopelessly too large for the narrow opening, he pulled at the gate, let out a sad whine and turned to me with a look that said "Don't you love me any more? Free meeeeeeee!!"

So today, despite being exhausted by Ty's toddler-ness, #2 is on my mind again. This isn't really a new thing. Before we embarked on this journey a little more than a year ago, Juan and I had already decided that we wouldn't stop at just one kid. And now that Ty is a part of our lives, it's hard to imagine him as an only child. He plays well by himself, but he really comes to life when there are other kids around.

We have a lot to consider before we get serious about #2. We've got the usual worries that come with the territory of growing a family. Money is tight, time is short, and closet space is nearly non-existent. Money has been on my mind a lot lately. I changed careers a couple of years ago and now get a paycheck that looks disturbingly similar to the paychecks I received back in 1993. In fact, I made more money in 1992 then I will this year or next. I've been wondering lately if I was a little premature in deciding to change careers before starting a family. Technology wasn't always fun, but it definitely paid the bills.

I have a love-hate relationship with our house. At times, its purple and green cottage-like nature is very comforting. At other times, the to-do list seems formidable. Is this the right house to raise a family in?   Its old with small bedrooms and ridiculously tiny closets. The basement hasn't seen a remodel since the early 90s, and there's no decent space for kids to play inside. I'm not a fan of the ubiquitous brick-front suburban homes, but they do have a certain made-for-families appeal.

So all that aside, the most pressing issue is our situation with Ty. He's not our kid - biologically or legally - which means he could very well return to the life he had before October 19, 2007.   When? We don't know. It could happen this fall or next spring. We've been told this process takes on average 15 to 18 months from the day of placement. And the key phrase is "on average". He could be two years old or closer to three before anything becomes final.

What do we do in the meantime?  Take the chance that Ty is kid #1 and get started on #2? What if we do adopt another child and Ty goes back? How would we handle the loss? How would Ty's return affect his adopted sibling? Should we wait until the outcome with Ty is more clear?

There is one thing Juan and I know with certainty. We've had enough of DSS and foster-to-adopt. It's time to give domestic private adoption a try. For now, we cannot imagine having to deal with the same problem-ridden, broken system again to adopt a young child. It's a shame that we've had to come to that decision, but we've learned a lot in the past few months and have a much better understanding of what we'll tolerate and risk.

-- D

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?!

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

A Week In The Life: Day 1 (The Rabbit Killing)

TheFosters — Mon, 21 Apr 2008 20:00:00 GMT

I should set the stage and say that A Week In The Life (AWITL from now on) starts off with T not feeling so hot. He spent the weekend alternating between deep sleep (and lots of it) and a strange, almost giddy behavior.

Despite his relatively happy disposition this weekend, it was clear that he wasn't feeling well. Friday night was the worst. We went out to eat with some friends. T was sick at the restaurant and then two more times on the way to the car. Saturday (above) he fared better and managed to hold down some fluids. And Sunday, he seemed to be on the mend. T held down some french toast for breakfast, a couple of bottles, and some dry cereal. Late Sunday afternoon, he seemed to be getting worse, but then he perked up when one of our neighbors, who happens to be a physician's assistant, came by to check things out. We put him to bed Sunday night around 8pm and hoped that he was through the worst of whatever he was experiencing. If not, one of us would need to take off work and get him to the doctor the next day.

So that brings me to this morning...

I got up this morning at about 5:30 AM. T woke up as well. He has been on a get-up-early kick lately. I assume he's trying to maximize the opportunties for our undivided attention. His strategy seems to be working. We have not yet become adept at ignoring a crying, whining, sometimes screaming child even when we are trying desperately to get ready for work. Maybe that's a skill we'll develop soon. So, while I love the little man, I would also love for him to sleep until about 6:15 or so.

I gave T a bottle at 6 AM. By about 6:03 AM, everything he drank came back up...on his clothes, the highchair, the floor, and my shoes. I think - ok, I know - I said F&*!CK!!! under my breath. I called Juan and we talked about what to do. The choices were 1) keep him home and go to the emergency room or call the doctor when the office opens; 2) take him to daycare, call the doctor's office, pray they have an opening today, leave work early, pick him up from daycare and get him to the doctor. We opted for #2. T didn't have a fever, did not seem at all uncomfortable, and had a fairly good Sunday.

By 7:15 AM, T and I were on the road for our 13 mile/30 minute ride to daycare. I dropped him off and started the second leg of my morning journey. I made it to work eleven miles and 20 minutes later.

I talked to Juan around 10:15 AM. He got us in at the pediatrician for 1:15 PM. I tried to tie up some loose ends at work and headed to daycare at 12:35 PM. I picked T up and made it to the doctor's office at 1:20 PM. Late. Stressed. Hungry.

In the exam room, T squirmed, screamed, moaned and writhed as if his life counted on it. Since he did none of that until we got in the room, I'm guessing he thought he was getting a shot. We were out of there by 2:15 PM. After a trip to the pharmacy, we were home by 3:00 PM.

I'm guessing the rabbit was dead by about 3:15 PM.

As soon as we got home, I let the dogs out into the yard. Ten minutes later, I went to bring them back in and found them all looking a bit surprised and guilty. About 15 feet away from me was a rabbit, still alive but struggling to remain so. For a brief second I thought that maybe I should pick him up and put him in one of the dogs' old, no-longer-used crates. That thought didn't last too long. I let out a few more F&*!CK!!!F&*!CK!!!F&*!CK!!! (I was in no mood for Dead Rabbit Drama) and rushed the dogs back into the house.

T and I headed upstairs around 3:45 PM to play some music. I think we both needed some stress relief.

The rest of the day was uneventful. Juan was home by about 6:15 PM, more than twelve hours after he headed out in the morning. He took care of the rabbit. I cooked some spaghetti and meatballs while Juan played with T upstairs. The meatballs are our attempt to get T to eat some veggies. I make them with ground turkey and lots of chopped mushrooms and spinach. T loves them.

We put T to bed at 8:00 PM. Hopefully, he'll make it past 5:30 AM tomorrow.

Tomorrow we head, uninvited, to a 2:00 PM hearing about T's status. More on that tomorrow.

So here I am at 10:24 PM, finishing a post. The goal tonight was bedtime by 10:30. I don't think I'm going to make it.

--D

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