Before we left to go home, we looked into his crib and said about a million times, “We love you.”
I am not sure what he thought when he looked up at us. He was more serious during these moments than earlier in the night. His gaze alternated between a hard stare and a furrowed brow. He was taking the greater risk here. He risked not only his heart but also his survival. Maybe he even thought, Could these two smiling geeks pull it together and do right by me?
Sherry allowed us to take Thorin a week before we had planned. She had been through this routine thirty-seven times before with other children. She knew the signs.
“I can see it. He’s getting confused where he should be. He doesn’t know if he is here with me or with you two. That’s always a sign. Better get him home.”
Two days later, we did. Sherry had made arrangements for Jacob to stay with a neighbor when Thorin left the house. They had said their goodbyes earlier in the day. None of us—Sherry, Ward, or myself—said anything as we moved from the house to the driveway with Thorin’s belongings. Ward carried a box with his clothes and some toys. Sherry held his Playskool Sit ‘n Spin.
Now it was time to leave. I held Thorin in my arms. We stood in a half circle next to the car, and it was difficult to know what to say. We had all prepared him as best we could, letting him know he was coming to live with us. But, this wasn’t the time to remind him where he was going or to tell him his new bedroom had freshly painted yellow walls, a braided rug, and a lamp with the shadow of a sleeping cowboy. This night was about leaving Sherry.
The three of us had tears in our eyes. Thorin’s eyes were dry, and he was silent. I saw a look, a brief flash that he knew his life with Sherry was ending. Ward moved to the front seat to drive, and I sat in the back next to Thorin. We made it to the end of the driveway and then Thorin . . . let go.
His sobs were painful and angry. It was unbearable. He raised his arms above his head and brought them crashing down on the arm rests of the car seat. He repeated this gesture until he slumped into his seat. Ward and I looked at each other in the rearview mirror. I tried to comfort Thorin by putting my arm around him, but he shook me off. I moved my hand to the seat between us.
I quickly realized you can’t say to someone whose life you have just upended, “You can trust us,” and expect their agony to subside.
So, instead, I said over and over, “It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.”
His crying became like a scream. I had a knot in my stomach. I could see Ward’s shoulders were stiff and tight.
“Should I pull over?” he asked.
Pull over to where? To where it wouldn’t hurt anymore?
I told Ward, “Keep moving.”
I started looking frantically through my purse for something. Anything. I saw one of my business cards, pulled it out, and turned to Thorin.
“It was so great to meet you. I hope we can keep in touch after the conference. Please take my business card.”
I handed the card to him. Still sobbing, Thorin took it.
From the front seat, Ward said, “I don’t mean to be critical . . . but that seems, maybe, not right.”
I kept up the chatter, “Oh, it’s just been great getting to hear your ideas. I hope we keep in touch.”
Thorin eventually stopped crying and handed the card back to me, making little talking sounds. I didn’t question it. I just kept it going. For that long hour drive, we handed the card back and forth and communicated that we wanted to stay in touch.
CHAPTER TWO
The Longest Labor
Ward and I wondered what we should expect when we brought a two-year-old foster child with Down syndrome into our home given we had no experience with two of those descriptors. What was unexpected was how low Thorin’s Down syndrome ranked in our list of immediate concerns. Of the three—foster child, toddler, and Down syndrome—his diagnosis was dead last.
When the day came for Thorin to move into our home, we were immediately overwhelmed. All first-time parents are. If you’re not, you’re either doing it wrong or have an excellent supply of tranquilizers, in which case, you’re doing it wrong.
Most first-time parents get to ease into toddlerdom. For the first year or so, parents are trying to get their kids to either eat or sleep—and trying to sleep themselves. We had to figure out those things and a few others, plus he came to us already mobile—highly mobile. He couldn’t quite walk on his own—he needed only a bit of support to move around upright—but he was an accomplished crawler. Toddler-proofing our home consisted of seeing what he could reach, grab, or knock down and not putting things in those spots.
We had to learn not to react to alarming actions he made, if we didn’t want him to do those things again, such as pretending to choke. He had quickly figured out choking scared the crap out of us. Do you know how hard it is to act calm while your son pretends to choke—or at least you’re 85 percent sure he’s pretending?
As new parents, we also got tons of advice, sometimes unsolicited, including advice we could not easily object to as parents of a child who was a ward of the state. The most adamant directive we received from Linda, Karen, and Sherry before Thorin moved into our home was “You are not allowed to have your foster child sleep in your bed.” It wasn’t like I wanted him to sleep with us; in fact, it never occurred to me. But, it was the first of many distinctions we would learn between being a parent of a foster child and an adopted child.
“It’s not a good idea in general anyway,” said Linda. “You could roll over and accidentally smother him.”
Smother him! I wanted to say if I was going to accidentally smother anyone it would be our then aged mini-dachshund, Coco, who had halitosis and incontinence and farted nonstop. But, we did solemnly agree: no sleeping in our bed!
Three hours and twelve minutes into parenting, our solemn oath flew out the window. Thorin woke up screaming. We stood over the crib trying to soothe him, but he kept bouncing back up and yelling.
“Ow! Ow!”
“I think he means out,” Ward said looking at me.
Vigorous head nodding and a big grin from Thorin confirmed that was correct.
“Well, it isn’t like he can tell anyone we let him sleep with us, right?” I offered.
More positive head nodding came from our coconspirator.
Without further encouragement needed, Ward lifted Thorin from the crib, and the five of us piled onto the bed—two adults, one kid, a mini-dachshund, and a German shepherd—and slept through the night. From that moment on, we treated our foster child like he was our child.
The next morning upon waking, I realized, Holy crap! We’re parents! I was beyond thrilled, but we now had an awesome responsibility. Seeing the rest of the bed was empty, I discerned Ward had gotten the household in motion already. When I came downstairs, I found Thorin sitting on the couch. He stared at me as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. He was wearing a onesie with little yellow fireman’s hats on it that zipped from his left leg up to his neck. He sat in the lotus position, which impressed me because I was incapable of such flexibility. His chin rested in the cup of his hand, his elbow planted on his thigh. He gave an incredibly big yawn for such a small boy. I was on the verge of bursting into tears but knew that would be the wrong message for this auspicious morning, the beginning of our lives together.
Crap! I am going to completely lose it here. Think smaller. Think breakfast.
I turned my intense emotion of love into enthusiasm.
“We’re so happy you’re here!” I said, hoping I could keep it together.
Thorin offered a shy little smile.
Good grief! Everything this boy does is adorable.
After taking the dogs outside, Ward walked in the room. He looked at Thorin and asked, “You like eggs, right, Buddy? Sherry said you like eggs.”
Thorin looked up at us and smiled. We took that as a yes.
While Ward made eggs and talked to Thorin, I went upstairs and cried into a bath towel. The months of
waiting for a child had been all consuming. There had been no space for the unknowing of what it means to be a parent, and, at that moment, it hit me. I’m someone’s mother. I do have an awesome responsibility. Not awesome meaning totally cool, but as it was originally intended: reverent, fearful, wonder. As the tears flowed, I pictured throwing myself in front of the proverbial bullet, car, or bear.
I heard Ward call for breakfast. I dried my eyes and threw the towel in the hamper. I walked down the stairs, secure with my new place in the universe.
The three of us sat at the table eating scrambled eggs. I had placed a miniature fork at Thorin’s plate, but he used his hands to put little piles of eggs in his mouth. Ward and I were finished with breakfast in about ten minutes. At that point, Thorin had barely put a dent in his. Thirty minutes later, he was just halfway through his breakfast. I didn’t want to rush him. Who knew what could cause him to choke?
As we waited for Thorin to finish, Ward and I ran out of conversation. Sitting at the table quietly gave me a moment to think about Thorin’s hair—the extent of my parenting ideas at that moment. He had a butch haircut, which I thought was a shame because his hair was a brilliant gold. Where Sherry must have seen a miniature Army recruit, I saw Laird Hamilton, the big wave surfer.
“I bet you would look great with long hair,” I said to Thorin. I turned to Ward, “Right?”
Neither of them said a word. Ward was minimal in his conversation, and I understood about four words Thorin spoke. I wondered if I would be talking to myself most of the time.
A knock came at the backdoor. I was grateful for my sister and Matt initiating the morning ritual of visiting Thorin. Three minutes later, the entire triplex was in our apartment to greet Thorin on his first day.
We decided a good after-breakfast activity would be to have Thorin explore the backyard with the help of a walker we brought from Sherry’s house. There was a concrete path that ran along one side of the triplex, across the back, and up the other side. Both ends had gates that opened to the sidewalk. He walked from one end of the path to the other more than once, which was good exercise and preparation for walking.
The following morning after breakfast, Thorin pushed his walker to the backdoor where he made the sign for help.
“Ow! Ow!” he said, pointing to the backyard.
Ward carried the walker down the steps while Thorin crawled down backward. The scraping sound from the walker brought Ella and Evvy out of their apartments to visit. After Thorin’s morning constitutional, they hoisted him up on the hammock, and the three of them swung back and forth. I felt comfortable enough to go inside and do the dishes.
A few minutes later, Evvy ran into our apartment.
“Thorin and I kissed each other!”
“Oh my!”
“I guess we’re getting married,” she said as she twirled around the kitchen.
“You know, I don’t think you have to go there yet.”
Shaking her head she replied, “If I marry him he has to stop wearing sweat pants and T-shirts all the time.”
I laughed, “Men in general don’t like to be told what they can and cannot wear.”
Crinkling her nose she said, “I think I should talk to my mom about this,” and ran out the door.
Hearing Thorin’s biggest obstacle as a marriage partner might be how he dressed was awesome, as in totally cool. As Evvy went flying down the back steps, Betty and Johannah arrived.
“We’re going to throw you guys a toddler shower,” Johannah told me as they walked in.
“Is that done?” I asked. “You know, in this kind of a situation?”
They both laughed.
“Won’t people think we’re angling for free stuff?”
“I hope so,” Betty said. “Set up a Target registry.”
Three days into our parenthood, the phone rang. It was Linda.
“Hey, I wanted to give you all a chance to settle in before I told you about some things that are coming up fast.”
She rattled them off like a grocery list:
•She would be visiting us once a month.
•Karen, Thorin’s GAL, would visit once a month.
•Thorin’s sister Jade, who lived in another foster home, wanted to see him.
•Thorin would have weekly visitation with his biological mother.
•A preschool had been chosen for Thorin, which he would start later that week.
As I was frantically writing it all down, I realized Linda had no idea what “settle in” meant. My immediate concern was the weekly visitation with his biological mother.
“I thought this was a low-risk adoption?”
“It’s still low risk,” she said. “But, his biological mother hasn’t lost her rights at this point. She’s entitled to see him. She’s also entitled to go to doctor appointments.”
“Does he see her alone?”
“No. The visits are at DHHS. They will be supervised by a caseworker. You’ll bring him and drop him off.”
We first heard about Jade a couple months before Thorin moved in. By all accounts, Jade was described as heroic. After Thorin was born, she often stayed home from school to make sure he was cared for and safe. She became more than his sister; she became his caregiver because the adults in the house weren’t capable. As Thorin’s health deteriorated, Jade realized she needed to get him help. On separate occasions, she notified a teacher and a staff person at the neighborhood police office about what was happening in her home. No help came. Finally, she went directly to the police station to report her family. She was ten years old.
Thorin was taken to the hospital where he recovered enough to return home. State mandates were created to keep families together, which is great if the parents get better at parenting. Back at home, his health started to decline again, and he was placed in protective custody.
For that first visit with his mother—Thorin had been with us only a week—I prepared him as best as I could. We had told him we were “Mom” and “Dad,” but did he know what that meant? We had no idea what he thought about the dramatic changes in his life.
“I’m taking you for a visit with your . . . biological . . . mom,” I said. “Sound good?”
No response from Thorin.
“It’s a short visit. It’ll be in an office. You’ve done this before, right?”
He sat on the couch, impassive.
“I’ll be there to take you home after, okay?” I added, “I’ll pick you up and bring you here. I’ll bring you home.”
Thorin hadn’t lived with his mother in almost a year and a half. I hoped he would take his cue from me, so I decided to project that this was not a big deal. That would be the message. I would lie.
I dressed him in a recently purchased outfit from Target I had earmarked for special occasions. I imagined it was something he would wear to meet new family: green khaki shorts, a yellow and green plaid short-sleeve button down shirt, and a khaki hat with a yellow stripe band. He looked adorable. I pulled him onto my lap and held him and gave him extra kisses before we left the house.
When I walked through the doors at DHHS, Glenda the Good Witch, whose name I learned to be Patty, waved us over.
“Hi, Kari! Hi, Thorin! Good to see you, little man!”
“Hi, Patty!” I looked around trying to figure out which of the women sitting in the waiting room was Thorin’s mother.
Patty shook her head. “She’s waiting for him back there,” motioning down the hall. “And this is Michael,” pointing to a man walking toward us. “He’ll supervise. Michael knows Thorin from other visits.”
Thorin almost jumped out of my arms to hug Michael, and off they went, just like that, with no backward glance at me for reassurance. I looked at Patty, who was staring at my chest. I looked down and saw I was holding the front of my shirt over my heart tightly.
“Try not to worry,” she said. Her phone rang. She looked sad as she answered the call.
I knew I couldn’t sit in the waiting room for the ne
xt ninety minutes, so I decided to go home. On my way, without thinking about it, I pulled into a gas station and bought a pack of cigarettes. I hadn’t been a regular smoker for twenty years. At home, I sat in our backyard and smoked one cigarette after another. I was numb and dizzy, which was preferable to the emptiness I felt as Michael walked away with Thorin. When it came time to leave, I washed the bitter smell off me, ran water over the remaining cigarettes, and threw them in the trash.
I returned to DHHS and walked into the lobby. Michael was standing next to Patty, holding Thorin in his arms.
I reached out to him and asked, “Hey, Sweetie. Ready to go?”
Thorin snuggled into Michael more. I was the odd man out. I was the interloper. Thorin knew Michael longer than he knew me. I had loved Thorin for months before we had met, when he didn’t even know we existed. I was crushed and didn’t know what to do.
Michael gently pulled Thorin away from his chest, “Airplane, Dude?”
Thorin put his arms out to his sides. Michael held him lengthways from underneath and flew him toward me. Just as he would get near me, Thorin would shake his head and pull back his arms. After a long, three or four minutes, Thorin let himself fly into my arms, and we headed back to the car.
“How did it go?” I asked from the front seat as I was driving home.
Thorin stared out the window, ignoring me.
A few days after Thorin visited with his biological mother, we toured the preschool picked for us. We were completely underwhelmed when we went for a visit. It had an institutional vibe: 1960s school tile, harsh overhead lighting, and tight quarters. The classroom was a combination of gray, tan, and beige. It wasn’t One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest but it didn’t scream preschool fun either. It was hard to picture Thorin, who was lively and vivacious, being happy there. I said as much to Thorin’s case manager from child services, who we met for the first time in the hallway. Kimmie looked like she was twelve years old.
Not Always Happy Page 4
