It had never occurred to Ward or me that this type of treatment was possible. It was not on our list of worries as new parents. We worried about covering the electrical sockets, whether his car seat should face backward or forward, and if his food was cut in small enough pieces.
I would learn later that restraint was a common occurrence for children who have disabilities. A landmark study by United States Department of Education’s Civil Rights division found 267,000 occurrences of restraint used at school in 2012. Three-quarters of the students were children with a disability.
Until we could find another preschool, I took Thorin to work with me. Most days we were alone. I was the executive director of a film festival and the only year-round staff person. It was a tough month for both of us. I put markers, books, movies, juice, and food in his backpack. They were not adequate distractions for an active two-year-old in a workplace environment. At some point, popcorn or Goldfish crackers—occasionally both—would be thrown at me. Juice spilled on the carpet or on Thorin. And then there was whining—from both of us.
I did not realize how stealthily and quickly two-year-olds could hatch escape plans. One minute Thorin would be playing quietly on the floor, and the next, boom, he would be gone. I almost always found him lying prostrate in the hallway surrounded by toys and food. Once—just once—a woman from another office found him at the end of the hall, pounding on the 100-gallon fish tank.
“Are you sure this is going to work?” she asked as she walked in my office with him in her arms.
“It is working,” I said in a chipper tone. “Thank you!”
Could we have found a daycare? Maybe, but we were terrified to leave him with anyone except family and friends. We had already met the Boogeyman; he was a twenty-something pregnant lady who palmed herself off as a speech therapist. Anything was possible.
I tried to turn my meetings into phone conferences whenever possible. On one occasion, I hammered out the logistics of a film presentation at an elite college with a professor and the college’s development director on the phone. I was engaged, informative, and witty. Basically, I was killing it. As the call continued, I saw Thorin holding up an empty wrapper of fish crackers, making the sign for more. I reached over, grabbed a bag, and tossed them gently to his feet. He couldn’t open them. Before I could rectify the situation, he screamed.
“Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”
“What was that?” the development director asked.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “What did it sound like?”
The capper for me was the day three board members came to the office for a meeting. I had made arrangements for my sister to take Thorin for two hours, except she got sick with a stomach flu. Oh well, I thought, they might as well meet my kid.
I wore an oatmeal-colored linen wrap skirt and a white linen wrap blouse. Thorin sat on my lap while I printed the documents for the meeting. What I didn’t realize was that he had untied both wraps. So when they walked in the office, and I rose to greet them, my skirt fell off and my blouse opened. Really, he can’t open a package of fish crackers but he can undress me. No one said anything. I don’t know if it was the harried look of a new mother on my face or the fact they could tell I might burst into tears, but everyone took their seats as if nothing had happened.
As summer wore on, I started to note changes in the nature of Thorin’s visits with his mother. I would arrive and find that she had left twenty minutes early. After one visit, she asked me if he could nap before I brought him because he was very active. Why didn’t she know a nap would make him more awake and active?
I realized even this limited time with Thorin was too much for her. I wondered if she knew she wasn’t up to the task of running after an active and curious two-year-old. I was eleven years older than her and I knew how demanding the task was.
Twenty-five minutes into another visit, Michael called me to come back and pick up Thorin. It was 90 degrees and muggy. When I got there, Thorin reached out for me immediately rather than staying in Michael’s arms.
“This guy was a little fussy. It’s so hot in there. She cut it short. He was too much for her,” Michael reported.
It was hard not to feel encouraged.
Our pretrial conference was at the end of August. When we arrived, Ward and I found Linda sitting on a bench outside the courtroom. We had been told by Linda the purpose of this proceeding was to set the court date for the determination of parental rights hearing—no decision would be made that day. The conference was scheduled to begin at ten o’clock; twenty minutes later, nothing had happened.
“These things never start on time,” Linda said yawning.
A few minutes later, she was called into the courtroom. Ward and I didn’t think anything was unusual because this was all unusual for us. But after an hour of various people going in the court room then coming back out, including Thorin’s mother, it was hard not to think something was up. Then Karen walked up to us.
“Can we talk?” she asked. “There’s a room down the hall. Linda will join us.”
The four of us sat around a small table in a room no bigger than a vestibule.
“Things have changed,” Karen said. “Thorin’s mother is considering voluntarily terminating her parental rights today.”
“I can’t believe it,” I said.
“What’s happening?” asked Ward.
“His mother would like to continue visits,” said Karen.
“No,” I blurted out. I could tell Ward was nervous about my answer, but he didn’t say anything.
“Would you send photos to her?” Linda asked. “It would be through our office.”
“Yes,” I said.
They sent us out into the hall. Thorin’s mother was there; she didn’t look at us. I avoided eye contact with her, too. Twenty minutes later, we all filed into to the courtroom. The judge asked her in several ways if she understood what she was doing. Each time, she said yes. She quietly cried the whole time, and Ward and I had tears streaming down our faces. My heart went out to her. In that moment, I could only feel gratitude. She was no longer my nemesis. She was a mother giving up her son for the right reasons.
She signed the papers and asked if she could leave. Thorin was ours.
Thorin and Bubba
Thorin calls me Ba
CHAPTER THREE
A Typical Son
As Ward and I drove from the courthouse to pick up Thorin from Shonë, we tried talking about what had transpired in the last hour.
“Do . . . you . . . you believe . . . what was,” I stuttered.
“No, I could never,” Ward said.
Alarmed I asked, “Did you just run a stop sign?”
“I’m glad you didn’t see the first one.”
“Maybe we should pull over.”
We parked next to a grocery store for a few minutes, sitting in silence and staring out the front window into our future. Our lives were suddenly and remarkably different. For Ward and me, our experience of parenthood was no longer marred by fear and trepidation at the prospect of losing Thorin. For Thorin, it finally meant permanence: we were his forever family. I was relieved Thorin’s painful origin story now had a happy ending.
When Thorin was old enough to understand, I would tell him his mother loved him so much that she made a decision that was difficult for her but was the best for him—that was objectively true. No matter what his mother had done or not done in the past didn’t make her decision less noble. She was helping Thorin secure a better future.
When we walked into our apartment with Thorin, I went upstairs. I made it to our bedroom before my legs started shaking so badly that I dropped to my knees. I trembled and sobbed. The fear left me like a tumbling wave. I couldn’t do anything but ride it out until it passed. After several minutes with my face against the cool hardwood floor, I was able to get up and behave normally again.
Ward and I took turns calling our family and friends to let them know that Thorin would always be their grandson, n
ephew, cousin, and friend. Saying it each time made it more real. This was our birth announcement, as much as his adoption ceremony would be eight months later.
We took Thorin to dinner to celebrate. He didn’t know what we were celebrating exactly because we had shielded him as best we could from the unknown, or at least hoped we had. We hugged and kissed him throughout the meal. Ward and I would spontaneously break into laughter followed by tears. Thorin clapped wildly as he laughed. He made the sign for “more” over and over again.
Our conversation was a running loop, followed by Ward kissing me then Thorin.
“Thorin, we love you so much!”
“Thank you,” he signed.
Our waitress asked, “Is it somebody’s birthday?”
Looking up at her smiling, I wondered what she would say if I told her we were celebrating the birth of our family. Instead, I told her a close truth.
“No, we’re just very happy to be together.”
As I ate, I realized the tight band I felt across my chest for months was gone. My breathing was easier and more expansive. I felt buoyed and grounded at the same time. As I gazed at Thorin, I was struck how he looked to me. Like the first time I saw him, he was in sharp focus, and everything else was a blur.
Back home, we all fell into a sound sleep. At about three o’clock in the morning, I was awakened by a vivid dream: I saw calendar pages floating one after another like a clichéd film montage showing the passage of time. It was funny to me that the dream was so literal, but the sensation it raised in me felt like a great whoosh, pulling me out of bed.
In a still dreamy state, I went downstairs in search of my appointment book—I know that makes me a troglodyte. I flipped the pages backward until I found the day we had gotten the first call from Linda about Thorin. I then counted forward to the present; it was one day shy of nine months. My mom had been right. Our long labor had been the length of a pregnancy.
Three days later, Linda emailed to inform us that she and Karen would still be visiting until we could adopt Thorin, but their visits would be more pro forma. She explained we would be notified at some point of our adoption date and our status officially had changed from foster parents to pre-adoptive parents. We could make more independent decisions but we still needed to notify DHHS first. It was a parenting promotion.
The first order of business was finding a new preschool for Thorin. I couldn’t continue to bring him to my office and actually get work done; plus he needed to be with other children during the day.
After some careful investigating, I located a school highly recommended by both parents and professionals and scheduled a tour. When we pulled into the parking lot, Ward and I found a single-story brick building with painted window sashes. The entryway was framed with a homey post and beam front. On both sides of the entrance, there were well-groomed shrubs along with some small trees.
At the door, Ward pulled the handle and discovered it was locked. To the left of the door was a keypad with an intercom. A cheery voice answered after Ward pushed the call button.
“Hello Pecks! I will be out soon!”
I wondered how they knew it was us, as I scanned the doorway for a camera. As we waited, Ward pointed to the twelve-feet-high enclosure with red and green playground equipment peeking over the fence on the other side of the parking lot.
“That’s must be some playground! I’m liking what I see.”
I tapped Ward’s shoulder. “Hey, how can I make a surprise visit if the doors are locked?”
“Let’s assume you won’t need to carry out any surprise visits here, Kari.”
The woman who answered the door was peppy and athletic looking. Her red shorts and green-striped polo shirt matched the building, making her look like an illustration in a children’s book.
“I’m Louise, one of the directors of the school! Come on in!” As she talked, The Love Boat theme played in my head—she reminded me of Julie, the cruise director.
Our tour began in the spacious lobby. On one side, there were vertical, multicolored cubbies with coats and backpacks hanging inside. The other side had a large aquarium filled with exotic fish. Next to that was a bookshelf filled with both resource materials and children’s books, and the far end was a glass wall that looked into the school’s office.
“This look great!” said Ward enthusiastically.
“Thanks! Sorry about the door. We keep it locked after morning drop-off. Safer that way, right?”
“Can I drop by anytime?” I could feel a gentle nudge in my back from Ward.
“Of course! It’d be great if you let us know when you were coming, though.”
“That seems more than reasonable,” said Ward as he cast a look in my direction.
I narrowed my eyes; I knew I would most certainly not be giving them notice the first time I dropped by.
A staff person walked into the room wearing a headset. She smiled and then spoke quietly into her mouthpiece, “The Pecks are coming your way soon,” after which she reached out her hand to shake ours.
Louise pointed to the windows and said, “We have blackout shades that we can deploy as part of our lockdown protocol.”
“Seriously?” I asked.
“Yes,” she replied. “We take safety very seriously. Unfortunately, the reality is school-place violence happens. Whether by noncustodial parents or even strangers.”
I hadn’t even thought about those possibilities and reconsidered my previous assessment, wondering instead if Louise was a former Navy Seal. As we walked down the hall after her, Ward whispered, “They have you beat in the safety department.”
Louise allowed us to look into the classrooms briefly before moving on.
“We have an almost equal mix of children with and without disabilities. Thorin wouldn’t be the only child with Down syndrome.”
Ward asked, “How’d you create that ratio? Why would parents send their children here if they didn’t have a disability?”
Louise smiled. “Some parents believe diversity of all kinds is important to their children’s development. Also we have numerous siblings here. Parents want their children at the same school.”
We filled in Louise on what had happened to Thorin at the other school. She didn’t say much but she seemed attentive. She recommended Thorin have a tour before his first day at the school, so he would have an easier transition.
We learned that the chair Thorin had been restrained in was actually a therapeutic chair. The belt was designed to help children with low muscle tone. Cinched to the point of abuse was actually a manufacturer concern. Ward and I both noted a few of the chairs at the new school. I wondered how Thorin would feel about seeing them.
When we came back to the school with Thorin, Louise gave him the same tour, fortunately without noting the blackout shades or lockdown protocol. She focused on what he liked doing, what he ate for lunch, and his favorite color. When he signed “yellow,” he was pleased to know she understood him.
Louise showed us a room that looked like a large closet, maybe five square feet. It was cramped and contained a small table with three chairs and shelves packed with games, puzzles, and books. Ward and I stood outside the room while Louise and Thorin went in.
“This is the speech room, Thorin. The door can stay open when you are in here, if you’d like.” Then she pointed to a chair identical to the one used to restrain him. “Thorin, we cut the straps off this chair. Can you see they are gone?”
He nodded yes.
“Thorin, this is your chair. We’ve put your name on it, see?”
Thorin pushed himself upright against the chair to study his name written in marker on the back. He smoothed his hands over the frayed webbing left from the belt.
Looking at her, he signed, “Thank you.”
It was hard to hold back the tears, but I did. Thorin was stoic about it, and I would be, too.
On Thorin’s first day of class, I carried him into the building. He was not fearful but excited. Thorin gave me a quic
k kiss then went off with his teacher, crawling quickly alongside her. I saw other parents pulling their clinging children’s bodies off their own so they could make their escape. I was relieved Thorin seemed happy to be rid of me. The alternative looked dreadful and undignified.
Thorin’s physical development took off after he started at the school. In the previous months, we had encouraged him to walk, but he met us with what I thought was resistance. When I would see him take a step or two, I would get so excited and yell, “Great job, Thorin,” which caused him to jump and hermit crab scuttle away from me, all the while looking over his shoulder. As we walked outside, I would suggest he touch my fingertips and walk, but he would drop to the ground and start fast crawling away.
I tried bribing him with animal crackers. Sitting on the couch, I said in a cheery voice, “Hey, Thorin, walk just this little bit to me, and you can have a cookie!”
No response.
“It’s a lion!” I said followed by a roar. I had never faked roared in my life, and listening to myself, I realized even I wasn’t buying it.
Thorin gave me a disgusted look then pulled himself up as he held on to the coffee table. He made his way over to me, never letting go along the way, smiled broadly, and put his little hand out to take the cookie. He bested me and he knew it.
I shared our adventures in walking with his physical therapist at the school.
“Thorin has low body tone. He needs to develop his strength so he can truly feel confident in supporting himself,” she explained. “I know you think you’re supporting him, but it might feel like pressure.”
“Pressuring?” I immediately felt like Mommie Dearest. As I looked at her, I nodded affirmatively, but inside I told myself I was a fraud for not knowing what Thorin needed.
Not Always Happy Page 7
