Hearts and Caterpillars

            Last week, at the park, a boy of about 8 ran up to us, “Hey, remember me?” he asked breathlessly. 

            “Yes, I do,” I replied.  He had played with Ben and Evan the last time we were there. 

            “I had a dream about him,” he said, pointing at Evan. 

            “Really?” I asked, surprised at this revelation.

            “Yeah, I dreamed that he was all better, that his ears were fixed and he could hear, and his mouth was fixed and he could talk.”  The boy's brown eyes radiated compassion as he explained his dream.

             I smiled at him and thanked him for sharing that with me.  I didn't bother to explain that Evan was more than perfect as he is, or to illuminate the impossibility of that happening.  The three boys ran off together to play, and I stood watching, impressed by the heart of a stranger- a child - who was touched enough by Evan to find himself resolving my son’s  challenges in his nocturnal world. 

            I always supervise park time actively.  Evan is not mean spirited, but he is likely to be misunderstood.  He has a very active imagination, and the sounds he makes when he is playing can be confusing to other children.  I stand close by to assure children when he grunts and growls, “He is pretending to be an animal, don’t worry about him.”  

            On this day, Evan climbed onto one of the playground animals – a yellow duck - affixed to one of those mammoth springs.  Evan held onto the two bars which protruded from the duck’s head and rocked vigorously, propelling himself forward and back, hollering and whooping in what I’m sure, in Evan’s imagination, sounded perhaps like a cowboy riding a wild bull.  Only, it didn't.  It sounded like high pitched, ear-drum shattering shrieks.  Evan was attracting a lot of attention, which he either was oblivious to, or perceived it as admiration for his over-the-top duck riding skills.

            “Hey, you scream like a girl,” the voice rang out over the playground. 

Then, louder, because he assumed his comment was unheard and he wanted to be sure to correct that: “HEY, YOU SCREAM LIKE A GIRL.”

            I turned and looked in his direction.  A bloated, grey haired, old man sat on the cement ledge where many parents sit while their children play, yelling insults at my son. I wanted to yell back at him: tell him he looked like a sack of human waste, a pile of failure, had the jowls of a walrus….that he was obviously near the end of his useless existence and didn't he have better things to do with his last days than to sit at a park taking verbal shots at my child’s self esteem????

Instead, I just calmly said to him, “He can’t hear a word you’re saying.” 

            The man put his head down, sheepishly, and just said, “Oh.” 

            I turned away from him and continued to watch Evan’s exuberance on his duck ride.  I thought, “Would it have made it somehow less reprehensible if my child could hear the insult??  What the hell is wrong with people?”  Sometimes, it is good to be deaf.

*****

            This week I attended the beginning of the year meeting to discuss Evan’s academic progress and set goals for him.  This meeting was attended by Evan’s homeroom teacher, Deaf/Hoh teacher, his speech/language specialist and his ASL interpreter, and the Principal.  Evan is now in the first grade.  We marveled at how far Evan had come in a year.  We reminisced about our beginning meeting a year ago, when Evan knew almost no signs, no letters, and had very poor social skills.

            “When Evan develops more language, he should be tested for gifted,” one of his teachers asserted.  We all agreed.  The growth we had seen in a year was unprecedented.

            “He is like a sponge.”

            “Show him something once, and he has it.”

            “A year ago, he didn’t have the language to answer a yes/no question.  Now, he ‘talks’ too much.  He wants to tell you a whole story to answer every question.” 

           

            “One of his goals will be to count to 120,” his Deaf/Hoh teacher explained.  “He couldn't do that on our test.” 

            “Do you think this is just because he doesn't have the signs for the higher numbers yet?”  I asked.  Evan added and subtracted with accuracy faster than most of his peers in class.  Math was a strong subject for him.

            “Oh, absolutely,” she answered.

            “Can he write them?” I asked. 

            “Yes, let me tell you,” she said, “I gave him a blank hundreds chart.  He started to work diagonally down the page, and then he filled in some rows across, then up and down.  It was all correct. He is amazing.”  She was in awe. 

            “Also, we have to give all first graders the DIBELs test for reading scores. Naturally, he scores in the red.”  (DIBELs tests for phoneme awareness.  What is the first sound in ‘bat?’  The child has to answer: /b/.  Evan reads by sight, not sound.)

            “This is very frustrating to Evan,” she explained.

             I’ll bet, I thought. 

             His teachers and I know this is absurd, but this is one of the ludicrous features of the test/data-driven culture that has permeated education today.  They are required to give Evan this particular test.  In fact, not only is this supposed to be a measure of Evan’s academic ability, but it is supposed to be a measure of his teachers’ effectiveness for their professional evaluations.  We all agreed that petitions would be made to change this, and a new, appropriate test would have to be put in place.  In the meantime, I requested that they not test him with DIBELs anymore, even if they just had to manually input a ‘fail’ to spare him the experience.

           

***********

            We have come a long way in every area.  Evan is still a very mischievous little boy.  I awoke in the middle of the night recently with Evan, lollipop hanging from his lip like a cigarette, trying to gently ease the blanket he preferred off of me, while he simultaneously replaced it with a less desirable cover.  The living room light was already on, TV on (no sound), and his Halloween bucket was waiting on the tray table.   Evan was preparing to have a candy-munching-midnight- movie-watching good time. 

            One huge area of improvement is Evan’s emotional growth.  On October 20^th, Evan drew a picture and wrote on it, unassisted, “I love (heart) you Mom.” I cried. 

             In true Evanator fashion, he followed that up with another drawing in which I hung, dripping blood, from a dinosaur’s mouth.  He still wrote, “I love you Mom,” but he pointed to my unfortunate predicament on paper and laughed. 

            One day, he came home from school quite upset.  He signed to me that he was angry. 

            “Why?” I asked.

            Evan proceeded to sign to me that a girl had stepped on a caterpillar.  He was really upset.  One of Evan’s favorite books is, “The Very Hungry Caterpillar.” 

            Evan went to the kitchen and got a plastic container with a lid.  He explained to me that he wanted to put a caterpillar in it and keep it safe so it would turn into a butterfly.  He took some paper towel and traced the bottom of the container.  He cut this out and laid it in the bottom of the container.  Then he cut a small rectangle out of the paper towel, and signed to me that this would be the caterpillar’s blanket.  He balled up a small wad of paper towel, and signed, “Pillow.”  Then, he signed, “Eat??” 

            Evan didn't wait for an answer.  He went to the refrigerator and retrieved a boiled peanut.  He put that in the container.  Then he asked if he could bring his caterpillar haven to school so he could rescue one from the playground? 

            “Of course,” I signed back to him.  The next day, I walked Evan to class and told his interpreter that Evan had explained the entire caterpillar massacre the day before and had set up this safe-shelter.  Would she help him find a caterpillar? 

Without hesitation, because she is awesome and this was all too stinking cute, she agreed. 

            At the end of the day, I was excited to see if Evan had acquired his new pet.   He returned to my class room, container in hand.  The boiled peanut was replaced by a leaf, and he was smiling. 

            ‘Success?’ I wondered.

             I didn’t see a caterpillar.   Evan held up the container for me to see.  Inside, instead of a “Very Hungry Caterpillar,” was a “Very Angry Ant.” 

            I laughed and signed to Evan. “No caterpillar?”

            Evan signed back. “No, caterpillars turn into butterflies and go away.  Bad.”

He pointed at the ant with a big smile and gave a ‘thumbs up.’

            I have said before, and I will say it again: Children are the teachers, and we are the students.  If you are lucky enough to spend time with children, listen and watch carefully.   Sometimes you think you want a caterpillar, but what you really need is an ant.  Life gives us a lot of ants.  All we need is a simple shift in mindset.  Go ahead, give those ants a big ‘thumbs up!’  

           

           

 The Evanator, sometimes more sweet than sour.....

            

EVAN! the Glowworm

                      Evan signs his name with an exclamation mark.  Like this:  Evan!  

This is how he signed the school’s Code of Conduct contract.  He signs his name on the top of worksheets like this, too.  This demonstrates two things:  An understanding of the intrinsic function of that piece of punctuation; and a sense of self-esteem and self-awareness that is far more developed than most adults I know. 

            Who on earth would deem themselves worthy of a name end-capped by an exclamation mark?  This is on par with those stars who are so big - so famous - that they decide to go by one name: Madonna, Beyonce, Prince…     Is the world ready for Evan! ? 

            This summer we hit a milestone.  As of July 3^rd, Evan has been my son for 1 year.  We have all experienced epic changes in this past year.  Evan has grown and changed in ways I could have only hoped for in those first weeks (when he was still hitting me and spitting at me!)   Sometimes I wonder, how did we all make it?

            Evan has started his second year of school, first grade.  Coming back after the summer was difficult.  We’ve been back to school for three weeks, and Evan still signs to me every morning, “Enough school.  I’m done with it.”  Oh, little does he know! 

             Once he gets to school, he is happy to be there.  He has the same Deaf/HOH teacher, but a different interpreter and home-room teacher.  This was a surprise to him.  I’m sure that whatever version of “school” happened at the orphanage involved the same staff, day in and day out.  (A big shout out to Evan’s interpreter last year, Debbie, who is more like an Auntie to our family, now.  Debbie did phenomenal work with Evan last year and we love her!!) 

            Miss Sandy (interpreter) and Mrs. Davis (home-room) are already enamored with the Evanator, and in awe of his powers.  Mrs. Rogers, Evan’s Deaf/HOH teacher, believes Evan could be President some day.  I am sure that would usher in the end of democracy.

             Evan finishes his Math work faster than everyone else in the room.  He is facing a new academic challenge this year, though: SPELLING.  Evan does not have the use of phonics, so every word must be memorized.  Success, till now, has meant that Evan could look at the word and sign it. He is quite good at this and he is reading a lot of sight words.  However, this skill involves just remembering what that word looks like as a whole.  Now, we are asking him to individually remember the letters, in order.  

            Evan became quite frustrated when I tried to get him to practice the three (out of seven) words he did not know.  He had a major melt-down which went from anger to sobbing.  Thursday, I wrote all 7 words and had him write them in columns three times.  Then I gave him a practice test.  He missed: down, find, and come.    I attempted to have him do more work with those words and he went into a lengthy, volatile tantrum.   I waited for the storm to pass....and waited....and waited.......    


            Then, Evan, sobbing, took a piece of paper and looked at me.  His eyes were so sad it broke my heart.  He started to write some Mandarin characters.  Then, he got frustrated because (I think)  he couldn't remember those clearly, either.   He started to mime and sign about being back in China.  I think he was trying to tell me that the teacher there would write the character and he would just copy across.  He was sobbing now, and not angry, and I held him for a long time.  Evan is so resilient that sometimes even I forget how much change this little guy has endured in one short year.   When we got home, he requested that I take out his Mandarin workbooks and photo album from the orphanage.  He seemed to feel better after he looked through those. 

            After conferring with his teachers, it was decided that Evan should only test on the four words that he had down in order to feel successful with his first spelling test.  He scored a 100!  Now, the work begins for next week.  (I will work on more “fun” ways to practice the spelling.  I have to admit that I didn’t really do a great job with this last week, and as a former Kindergarten teacher, I should do better! )  Sometimes, being a teacher’s kid is like the shoemaker’s children who have holes in their soles. 

            At home, Evan continues to think bedtime is negotiable.  He tried very hard earlier this week to persuade me to allow him to just watch TV until he falls asleep.  I found him on the couch asleep one night when he must have waited for me to fall asleep and then went to the living room. 

            It is not just TV he wants to watch, though.  Evan has been on a crusade for the past month trying to watch “Mommy movies.”  I have a very small selection of movies intended for adults – Rated R, to clarify!    Evan discovered from examining their DVD cases that there are probably scenes not fit for children …scenes where he could see GIRL PARTS.   In the past month, I have found Evan hiding in his room on more than one occasion with his portable DVD player and a Mommy-movie.  After taking his DVD player away a few times, I decided to just take all of my movies and put them into my bedroom.  Both boys know my room is OFF-LIMITS. 

            Well, in Evan’s mind, “No” means “No” just until he can find a way around it.  Two nights ago I woke up at about 1:30 am.  You may remember from previous posts that I sleep between Ben and Evan to save Ben from being antagonized and sleep deprived.   I looked around, and Evan was not there.  However, I noticed right away, that there were toys in the bed.  In my sleep-fog, my first thought was, “Evan must have been playing in bed.”   Then, my brain began to clear….. and the scene in front of me came into focus….

           

            This was not some random selection of toys for my nocturnal son’s entertainment. What I was gazing upon was pure, diabolical, genius.

             Evan had set up an EVAN DECOY in the bed next to me.  He had two Mr. Potato head bodies on the pillow where his head should have been.  This was followed by the Lite Bright box for his torso. The long Sea Scope (like an underwater telescope) took the place of his legs.  A small, toy boat was place horizontally at the base of the scope for his feet. 

            I was stunned.  I had to stifle my laughter so as not to wake Ben.  I walked down the hallway looking for the conspirator.   I was surprised to see the living room was empty.  I went back down the hallway and realized the light was on in my room.  Now, the downfall of being deaf is that Evan cannot hear me coming.  I peered around the corner.  Evan did not notice me right away.  He was too busy rummaging through my movies, looking for something salacious.    Within moments, Evan looked up.  He was like the cat that swallowed the canary….BUSTED.  This resulted in a lengthy time out at about 2 in the morning.  I am also putting a lock on my bedroom door this weekend. 

            These glimpses into my son’s mind both amaze and terrify me.  I have a feeling Evan’s IQ is off the charts.  He is (thankfully!)  not mean or destructive.  Mischievous is the perfect word for him.  Ingrained into his behavior from the days in the orphanage is the idea that adults can be circumnavigated.  I worry that as he gets older, this will lead to bigger problems.  I pray that I can teach him to make good decisions, and that somehow the angels will protect him from himself.   

            I remember reading that Winston Churchill was a legendary mischief-maker and mediocre in school.  K. Smith, a Yahoo! contributor, wrote:

Winston was a man who waited for no one. He made his own rules and made the impossible possible. He gave everything he had into what he believed was right and would not stop until he accomplished what he was aiming for. Through his whole life Winston was always testing the limits and pushing the line. He refused to lose and saw winning as the only option. He once stated, "We are all worms, but I do believe I am a glowworm."

            Maybe I’m biased, but I think Evan is also a “glowworm.”  On one hand, it thrills me to think Evan has the potential to be in the same league with legendary movers and thinkers.   I have felt from the beginning that God must have a special plan for this boy.   At the same time, it makes me want to reach across the barriers of time and give Mrs. Mama Churchill a giant hug.   And a margarita. 

The difference a year makes....  When Evan first arrived from China...showing me how strong he is!

 This summer...I guarantee you cannot see his ribs anymore!

Nighttime Ninja

             

            Ben and I have always been like peas in a pod.  Despite this, I was adamant that I would maintain my own sleeping quarters.  I've heard of too many parents who let the kids come and sleep with them as babies, never to be free again.  I am single and have no social life, so I was not preserving a sanctuary for adult activities.  Mainly, I just wanted my own space, a retreat.  It swiftly becomes obvious when you are a new parent that nothing – and I mean nothing – is really yours anymore.  Oh sure, you can set boundaries.  You can even install locks.  I actually have no problem keeping the kids out of my room when I am not in there.  They don’t want my stuff…they are after ME.  Parents can try to maintain a sense of Me in their heads, but your children look at you and all they see is MINE. 

            I was able to work around this at bedtime with Ben.  We would read together and then I would stay with him for a short time while he fell asleep.  I would then sneak out of his room and go back to my room for the night.  Ben even confronted me one day, but I stuck to my guns and told him Mommy needed a good night’s sleep in her own bed. 

             Before traveling to China to get Evan last summer, I congratulated myself on having the foresight to invest in bunk beds when Ben outgrew his toddler bed.  Mind you, this was years in advance, so somewhere in my heart I had known that I would add a sibling for Ben some day.  When Evan’s arrival was imminent, Ben called the top bunk, as any big brother would.   I envisioned that our bedtime ritual would not change all that much.  I would read to them; maybe Ben would come down to the bottom bunk for the story and then go back up.   I planned to stay in the room just long enough to put my little angels to bed, and then go back to my room.    Ben and I spoke of this in detail before Evan came.  I worried that Ben would feel left out, but Ben magnanimously suggested that Evan should lie on the bottom bunk with me because he would perhaps be afraid in his new home. 

           

            We followed this plan for the first few nights at home.  Evan had a lot more energy than I could have envisioned, so it took a lot more time for him to settle down.  My role quickly went from maternal-comforter-in-the-dark, to Nighttime Guard to make sure Evan didn't take it upon himself to wander down the hall or up the ladder to bug Ben.  Things got even more complicated not long into our cohabitation as family when one night a small voice rang down from the top bunk:

            “Mommy…”

            “Yes, Ben?”

            “I’m lonely.” 

            Truth be told, I knew it was only a matter of time.   I missed Ben terribly, too.  He was my little snuggle buddy.  Evan wasn't all that sweet in the beginning.  And he feared nothing.  He regarded me more as an inconvenience, the foil to his plan.  It was more of a contest between us, to see who could remain awake – and in control – longer. 

            “Alright, Ben, come down.  There’s room for three here.”

             The bottom bunk is full-sized, rather than a single like the top bunk.  Still, it was tight, even with three relatively compact bodies across.  Thankfully, we are all short.  We decided we should sleep horizontally. 

            Now, before I go on, you must picture this.  I assure you at 45; nowhere in my rational mind did it occur to me that I would find myself sleeping sideways between two small Chinese boys.  My position is in the middle out of necessity.  You might think this is so that each of my sons can be next to Mommy, and this is one reason.

            This is not where I start out every night. Each night Evan begs to sleep next to Ben.  In fact, while I am brushing my teeth, he switches our pillows and plants himself next to his brother.  Then, he throws himself into the middle position and looks at me with a Cheshire Cat grin, batting his eyelashes at me when I enter the room.   This is not a move he makes out of fraternal love.  Evan knows, as do I that this is his last stand of the night; his last chance to harass Ben.

            I sign to Evan, “Move over.”

            Evan flattens himself, sinking all of his weight into his pillow and the mattress. He grins up at me and signs emphatically, “PLEASE.”  

            I sign, “Move!” 

            Evan wags his head side-to-side, smiling hard and signing, “PLEASE.” 

            Ben groans.

            I sign to Evan, “If you bother Ben, you and I will switch.” 

            Evan quickly signs, “I know. Ok.”

             This does not mean, “I will try to be good.”  It really means, “I hereby accept and expect my fate that I will sleep on the end, but thank you for this final opportunity to deeply annoy my dear brother Ben.”  He is gleeful. 

            I lie down on the end. 

            Within seconds, “Moooooom, Evan hit me.”  Or touched me. Or has his foot on me.  Or poked me in the eye.  Or threw his book on me.  Or breathed on me.   

            I sit up.  I sign, “Switch.” 

            Evan signs, “No! I’m Sorry,” and shakes his head, laughing.   I know Evan is not sorry.  Evan knows I will make him move. 

            I grab an arm and a leg and drag him out of the middle spot. I switch our pillows.  I lay down and tell Evan to lay down.    Ben turns away from us and goes to sleep.  I know I cannot go to sleep until Evan settles down.  I lie there, between my boys like the Great Wall, protecting Ben from Evan the invader. Evan gradually settles down, but not before he makes a few ill-fated attempts to reach across me, likely designed to annoy me more than Ben, who by now has succumbed to the sand man.

            I admit Evan outlasts me most nights.  Maybe it’s because I’m getting older, or have two children to keep up with, or because I get up farmer-early so I can have a couple of hours of peace in the morning.  I don’t stay awake long enough to retreat to my own bed.

             At some point in the middle of the night, I usually awake with a foot in by back and then it is time to escape.  This is not easy.  I first must assess the situation.  There in the dark, I take inventory of the legs and arms that entwine mine.  The stakes are high.  Evan has two speeds – on and off.  Getting him to go back to sleep is no easy task.    I have to extract myself from the middle as gently as possible. 

            Evan is sensitive to vibration. Jiggling the mattress or shaking the bed can be really bad.  He may not wake up, but he will reach out and sling an arm or leg over me like a caveman trapping his woman.

  Seeing as I am a lady “of a certain age” and not an Olympic gymnast, my first impulse would be to lean to one side or the other and prop myself up.  But I cannot go sideways too far without causing disruption.   If the boys are snuggled close to me this is really tricky.  One night, (I am not exaggerating), out of desperation I grabbed the frame of the bunk above us, swung my legs over my head and did a backwards somersault out of the bunk.  This was not as graceful as I am hoping you are imagining it, and my landing would have lost me all points. 

            On a positive note, Evan couldn't hear me when I cursed a blue streak as I landed on the Legos spread out over the floor like thumbtacks to prevent my escape.  Ben only let out a small whimper, cracked his eyes open, and shut them again as if it was quite natural to see his mother splayed out, limbs akimbo, on the floor. 

            Most nights, I eventually make it back to my bed, if only for just a little while.  I know the day will come where the boys will want their own space. Perhaps I will be wistful then, and long for the togetherness of these nights.  For now, if I seem tired and need extra concealer to hide my dark circles, you will know why. 

           

            

Ben's 7th Anniversary - Red Thread

            Seven years ago this week, for utterly selflish reasons, I flew across the globe.  I had spent the previous eighteen months filling out paper work…medical, financial, immigration and social worker paperwork.  I had a photograph of a small boy with a round face and big eyes on my refrigerator.  I kissed that picture every day and said, “Mommy is coming.”  It felt surreal.  Even when I stepped on the largest plane I had ever been on, with a back pack filled with toddler-sized clothes, it did not seem real.  I was alone on this adventure of a lifetime.  I wasn’t sure that I was sane.

            After a couple of brief touring days in Beijing, I boarded a smaller plane to Nanjing.  I was happy to leave Beijing because the air pollution kept me continuously nauseous.  In Nanjing, my guide Jane (provided in each city by the adoption agency), met me at the airport.  She spoke English very well and commented that she almost missed me because I am small and dark, like the Chinese.  When she left me at my hotel, she told me to meet her in the lobby the next morning at 9:00 am and we would go and get my new son.  Even though I already had the itinerary printed out, and I certainly knew why I was there, hearing Jane say this felt like a surprise – so soon??!!  Wow!!    

            I remember trying to sleep that night thinking, “My life is about to change forever.”  I stared at Ben’s picture.  I wondered how he would handle all of this. Other families had told me to be prepared: He might be really scared. He might cry for days. It will take time.  Certainly, some children made the transition more easily than others. 

            The next morning, I gathered the documents that Jane had requested, and went to the lobby. I felt electric with excitement.  Was this really happening?  Was I ready?  Jane walked into the lobby.  She asked if I had remembered to bring all that she had instructed: documents, money, gifts for the ladies from the orphanage, the orphanage director, and the Civil Affairs officer?  Yes, I had it all.  We exited the hotel and got into the van.  The driver pulled onto the busy, eight lane road. 

            Jane said, “I think you will meet your new son very soon.  He is already there.”

            “He is??” I replied, incredulous. It was like I was in the middle of a dream.

            “Yes, he left the orphanage very early this morning. It is a long way from Wuxi.” 

            I took a deep breath.  Here we go!  The ride to the Civil Affairs office was very short.  In minutes, we pulled into the parking lot.  Truly, I felt a little dizzy. We walked into the building. There was a large sign indicating that this was the place for adoption and marriage.    Jane led the way into a small office to the left.  Immediately, I saw him…. A small boy, wearing denim overalls with a dog on the front.  He had a yellow long-sleeve shirt underneath, and he was wearing a neon multi color baseball cap. He was wearing small, girls’ shoes with a buckle.  He was running around the table, laughing, playing with the Ayi (aunties) from the orphanage. 

            I stood still staring at him. Upon noticing me, one of the ladies with him stood and took one of his tiny hands.  She gently turned him towards me, patted him on the back, and said, “This is your new Mama.”  

            I looked down at him and smiled. I hesitated to reach out, not wanting to scare him.  He was tiny – more like a two year old.  Twenty-six pounds. 

            Zhengzhi (Ben) looked up at me and smiled.  He said, “MAMA.” 

            Tears welled up in my eyes.  My heart exploded with a love I had never felt. One thought entered my mind, “Everything I do, for the rest of my life, will be for you.” 

            I knelt beside him and offered him a little truck I had brought with me.  He took it enthusiastically.  We played for a few moments.  I asked the Ayi questions about his routine.  Jane translated for us.  I signed papers and we took official photos.  Miraculously, Ben did not seem phased by any of this.  He smiled and held onto me as if he had just been patiently waiting for me his whole life.

            When all the official rigmarole was complete, my guide led us out to the van.  Ben was happy and excited to go for a ride.  I marveled at this small child who didn’t seem to be afraid at all.  To this day, Ben is the happiest kid I have ever met. 

            We arrived back at the hotel and Jane walked us to my room.  I was embarrassed to admit I had no Pull-ups for him.  Naively, I had thought at 3 ½ he would be fully trained.  Of course, institutionalization comes with delays.  She kindly went out and purchased some for me.  Then she reiterated his schedule: He will eat, then nap, then early bed time.  Then she left us. 

            I can close my eyes to this day and hear that hotel door closing.  I turned and looked at my new son.  I would be lying if I said there was not a moment of panic.  I am mom.  He is mine.  Oh, my God, now what do I do with him??  What was I thinking? 

Ben looked up at me, smiling. He was still wearing those little girl shoes that looked too small for him.  I remembered I had bought him sandals with flashing lights.  I went to my suitcase and took them out.  I held them up.  I tapped the bottoms to make them flash.   Ben’s eyes expanded like saucers.  He started to shriek, and hopped on one foot, practically hyperventilating.  I could not put them on him fast enough. 

            I cannot describe this moment except to say that I have never in my life witnessed such pure exuberance, excitement and appreciation for anything.  I put both of them on his little feet.  He ran over to the full length mirror and danced, shrieked, and ran in place for at least five straight minutes.  It makes me cry every time I think about this.

            Everything was so new to Ben.  He received any small gift with the excitement of a lottery winner.  It is an indescribable blessing to be a part of this.  We are all so spoiled with material goods in the States, from birth, that you really cannot find this here.   I only gave Ben a few small gifts in China.  You have to be mindful of the airplane baggage requirements.  Whenever Ben took a nap or went to bed at night, he had to lay his new belongings, including the shoes, on the bed beside him.  He would touch each one, over and over, as he drifted off to sleep. 

           

            I would lie on the bed next to him, and he would reach out and touch my face, too.  Ben would lovingly touch my hair, my eyelids, my nose and mouth. 

Sometimes, even when we were out walking somewhere, Ben would tap me, and say, “Mama.”  It wasn’t a question; it was a statement.

“Yes.” I would respond.

“Mama.” Another tap.

“Yes.” I would respond.  Ben would repeat this 4 or 5 times.

 Then, emphatically:  “MY Mama.”   

(Yes, I carried tissue with me all over China.) 

            And so, seven years later, my sweet Ben is 10 years old and heading into the 5^th grade.  I have marveled at how life brought us together, from opposite points on the globe.  I am ever grateful to his birth mom for making a decision that likely saved his life.  Cleft babies do not live long without the necessary surgeries.

            In China, there is the Red Thread legend: The two people connected by an invisible red thread are destined to meet, regardless of time, place, or circumstances. This magical cord may stretch or tangle, but never break.   It seems that Ben (Zhengzhi) and I, were linked by this mystical red thread. 

            We did not know it at the time, but that thread was twined around a third person…  On June 5^th, 2009, the 3^rd anniversary of the exact day that I signed papers to adopt Ben, hundreds of miles away, in Zhengzhou, a finding ad appeared in a local newspaper.

             A finding ad is the mandatory ad the Chinese government posts when a child is abandoned.  The ad posts a picture of the child and details of where he or she is found.  This is just in case a family member might see the ad and come forth to claim the child.  That almost never happens.  The child is then remanded to the Social Welfare Institutes – the orphanages. 

            In the ad, was a sad, lost-looking 3 year old, deaf boy.  No one came forth. He entered Xin Xiang Orphanage, where he slowly adjusted and lived for the next 3 years. He was given the name Shi Ke Ran.  (This name means “overcame slowly.”)  On July 3^rd, 2012, when I met Evan, I was given a copy of that ad.  It breaks my heart to look at it. 

            And so, on this 7^th anniversary week of Ben’s adoption, we celebrate as a family this magical red thread.  In one month, we will also be celebrating Evan’s first anniversary.  Life is full of wonderful surprises and adventures.  You never know what wondrous things may come.  

Above are the pictures of Ben I had for over a year on my refrigerator before meeting him.

Adoption Day 6/5/2006.

In praise of Evan's teachers...

(I wrote this a while ago, and did not post it. Evan has awesome teachers. They, too, are in awe of his progress.) 

“Miracles at Marshpoint”

            Last week, my son Evan came home from Kindergarten at Marshpoint Elementary School very excited about the field trip they had taken on that day to Oatland Island.   He was very animated – no pun intended – telling us all about the animals he had seen.  Evan explained that you have to walk on the trails, not run.  I asked him, “Did you walk?”  With an impish grin, he responded, “No, I ran.”  Then he went on to explain that he was selected to have the honor of feeding the pigs.  He was beaming! 

            The above scenario probably happened in every Marshpoint Kindergartener’s house that very same evening. In our house, however, it was like watching a miracle unfold before your eyes.  Why was this so remarkable?  Just three school-quarters ago, in August 2012, Evan entered Marshpoint Elementary - a boy without words. 

            I adopted Evan from Xin Xiang, China on July 3^rd, 2012.  He was 6 years old and profoundly deaf.  My first son Ben and I took a weekly sign language class for a year prior to meeting Evan.  Learning American Sign Language is indeed every bit as complex as learning any other foreign language.  Anyone who has taken one year of French or Spanish can understand the very low level of functionality that one year of instruction will provide.  We were still ahead of Evan, though.  He had not learned any sign language at all. 

            Prior to leaving for China, I had notified the Special Education department that they would have a new deaf kindergarten student coming.  When we finally arrived home, I called again and confirmed that Evan was here.  Lynne Phillips, the wonderful Principal of Marshpoint, somehow instantly coordinated a meeting with about ten of the people who would be involved in planning for Evan’s success. 

            I vividly remember sitting at the conference table as everyone introduced themselves.  I laid out the challenge ahead:

             “I adopted Evan from China.  He has spent the last three years in an impoverished orphanage.  He is profoundly deaf.  He does not speak.  He has only used informal gesturing to communicate.  He only knows a few signs I have taught him.  Evan probably lip reads Mandarin Chinese, so all of your mouths will be moving the wrong way.  Evan seems extraordinarily bright.  He had never seen the alphabet before, but he is already able to identify some letters after just a short time of doing flash cards.”   Stares from around the table.   Then discussion.  Questions.  More discussion.  Heads shaking. Strategies.  How do you teach a boy without words?

            I showed the group Evan’s notebooks from China.  In his little class in the orphanage, they were trying to teach him to write in Mandarin.  Tiny, intricate, Mandarin characters filled row after row of small squares in the notebook.  They were in awe; as was I.  Evan’s fine motor skills were certainly developed beyond our typical Kindergarten student.  If Evan could achieve this in an orphanage setting, what could he do with all the resources here?

              I left the group that day hopeful.  Evan would have an ASL interpreter and a Deaf/HOH teacher.  He would be in an inclusion room with other children.  The beginning would be difficult not only because of the speech and language deficits, but because Evan was somewhat used to being on his own.  The primary goal for the year was to give Evan words – a language; while simultaneously teaching him the Kindergarten curriculum and socializing him to follow rules and use manners. We were getting ready to climb a mountain.  Everyone at that conference table had years of experience.  No one had ever dealt with a case like Evan before.

            Evan has spent the past three-quarters in Aida Avendano’s Kindergarten class.  Mr. Schvarcz is the indispensible para-professional in Ms. Avendano’s room. Debbie Barefield is Evan’s interpreter, and Claire Rogers is Evan’s Deaf/ HH teacher.  Mrs. Powell also spent weeks with Evan this year, filling Claire’s shoes when she took maternity leave.  Cindy Robinson is the school audiologist who has been a tremendous resource also.   Fran Huneke is the Speech Pathologist who works with Evan.  I am sure there are many more people I should mention and thank, so I will extend my gratitude to the entire Marshpoint community for welcoming and working with Evan this year.

            Evan can now identify all of his letters.  He is reading small sight word books.  His ASL vocabulary has surpassed mine. Evan comes home and teaches us signs! Evan comes home most days with a “happy face” for good behavior. He participated in the Kindergarten Christmas show, signing the songs as his class sang.  He recently came home with a paper with sentences he wrote.  

            Evan is no longer a boy without words.  He described his Oatland Island experience as well as any other kindergarten student that day.  As I watched him sign about the different animals, Evan had a big smile.  I had a bigger one.  Ben and I understood what Evan was telling us.  More importantly, Evan was confident that we understood him.  In that moment, it was clear how far this little boy had come.  Yes, Evan has a long way to go.  Academically, it will be an uphill climb to help him become fully literate.  But, the team at Marshpoint has helped us scale this first peak.  This is my love letter to them.  I am forever grateful.  I am in awe. 

Mother's Day 2013 - A Tale of Two Sons

            Mother’s Day started a couple of days early for me.  Evan came home Wednesday with a small handmade card for me on yellow construction paper.  He had written the words “Happy Mother’s Day” and “I love you, Mom.”  Evan held my hand and presented it to me, all smiles. Of course, I gushed over it – my first card from my new son!  I asked him, “Did you do this?”  “Yes,” he nodded with pride.  He wrapped his arms around me with a big hug.  Then, he turned his head to Ben and smirked. 

            Ben looked obviously uncomfortable.  Not wanting to be outdone, he started to explain that he was making something for me at school and it would come home Friday. I reassured him that I was so excited to see it and not to worry – Mother’s Day was Sunday.  I reached out and incorporated Ben into our hug. 

            As you can imagine, this did not sit well with Evan.  He picked up his yellow card and a pencil.  He wrote Ben’s name and then a big X over it.  Then Evan drew a heart split in two with me in one half and himself in the other, turned towards each other with kissy lips.  He signed to Ben, “You’re out. It’s me and her.”  Ben frowned.  I hugged him again. 

            The next day, Thursday, was Evan’s class room Mother’s Day event.  I left work and hurried to his school.  I was a few minutes late, so the room was filled with Moms sitting beside their Kindergarteners.  When I walked in, Evan broke into a huge grin.  My eyes filled with tears.  He gave me a big hug and held my hand. 

            Evan’s teacher was showing a video of each child telling, “Why I love my mother.”   When one child was finished, the screen would change to the next child.  Finally, Evan popped up.  He signed, “I love my mom because she cooks me chicken.  I love my mom because she took me to see the dinosaurs.”  The interpreter translated as he signed.  Evan beamed.  I fought back tears.

            Portfolios of artwork from the year were distributed.  Evan also presented me with a beautiful Mother’s Day card with flowers he painted on the front.  Evan is quite a gifted artist. Inside the card, there is a picture of Evan dressed in grown up clothes.  “I will love you, Mommy, even when I am grown up!”  I hugged him tightly.  Evan showed me all of his artwork.  Truly, I was amazed. 

            I met many of Evan’s classmates. He was obviously well liked. They enjoyed showing off some of the ASL they knew.  After snacks, Evan went around photographing everything and everyone in the room.  I spoke with Claire, Evan’s Deaf/HOH Teacher.  She marveled at how far he had come.

             “When Evan came in here the first day, he ran in the room and started pulling stuff off the shelves.  The other kids stared at him in amazement,” she said.  “I remember sitting with him for 15 minutes trying to get him to write his name.  I would put a piece of paper in front of him and he would ball it up and throw it on the floor.  I put another paper in front of him, and he did it again.  I kept replacing the paper showing him his name.  Finally, he picked up the pencil and scribbled something furiously in Mandarin and showed it to me.” 

            “I’m sure that was his Mandarin name,” I replied.

            “Yes,” Claire agreed.  “It was really hard in the beginning, but now he is reading words and he knows what they are.  He is really so smart.”

            Claire went on to tell me how Evan seems to learn everything very quickly. She said, “When he gets a handle on language, I would have him tested for the Gifted Program.”

            I am not surprised by this.  I knew since our first harrowing days together that Evan’s IQ must be extremely high.  I am so grateful for all the work Evan’s teachers have done with him, words cannot suffice. 

           

            The school day was ending and Ben arrived at the door of Evan’s classroom.  Evan showed Ben all of his artwork and the card he made for me.  He stood to my side looking at Ben and hugged me tight.  His eyes were locked with Ben’s.  Ben folded his arms in front of him and grimaced.  As I did my best to reassure Ben, Evan stayed pressed against me signing, “You’re out. She’s mine. Go away.”  I felt sorry for Ben, but extremely flattered by the adoration I was receiving from my little Lemon Drop. 

           

            We left the school and went across the street to McDonald’s.  I had to convince Evan to leave my card in the car.  We walked in and got our Happy Meals.  Evan could see how much he was irritating Ben, so he poured it on extra thick.  He held my hand; he sat next to me; he looked at me with love in his eyes.

            Then, Evan noticed two pretty Asian high school girls at the next table.  He started smiling and waving to them.  He made faces at them.  They thought he was adorable.  They were sitting at two tables and talking across the aisle to each other.  Evan walked through them about fifty times throwing away one piece of trash at a time.  They giggled. He strutted.  When we went to play in the play area, he periodically pressed himself against the glass to check on his new girl friends.  They seemed to be having fun playing with him.  Then, when he wasn’t looking, they left.  

           

             It was time for us to leave, too, shortly afterwards.  Evan looked around, and signed, “Where are the girls?”  He looked crestfallen.  It is a testimony to his enormous sense of self esteem that he fully expected they would be waiting for him.  I signed to him, “They went home.”  When we walked outside, he was still looking around for them. 

            We got into our car.   Evan picked up my beloved Mother’s Day card – the tribute to his love for me, his Mom.    I smiled and held out my hand ceremoniously to receive it again.   He looked at me and pulled back. He signed, “For the girl.”  

           

            I gasped. I feigned hurt feelings.  I pretended to cry.  He handed it to me with a face that said, “Oh, alright, you can have it.”  I was amused.  Premonitions of Evan’s teen years rushed upon me.  I am certain I will have mothers of young girls with broken hearts calling me. I’m afraid Evan is going to be someone’s Bad Boyfriend some day. My Fickle Pickle.    

            Yesterday, Ben finally had his moment.  He came off the bus with a large brown paper bag.  It was stapled shut and decorated for Mother’s Day.  He was so excited he wanted me to open it on the sidewalk.  I convinced him we should bring it into the dining room.  Evan followed, practically glowing green.  Evan tried to pounce on the bag. Ben screamed at him, “It’s fragile!”  I blocked Evan from getting near the bag.  This was the moment Ben had been waiting for all week. 

             Evan picked up two pencils and drummed feverishly on a book, creating as much noise as possible.  I created a Force-Field of Laser-Like Mother Concentration, blocking out Evan and giving my undivided attention to Ben.  We opened the bag and carefully lifted out Ben’s creation.  Ben explained in minute detail how he painted the flower pot and poured plaster in to cement the flower in place.

             “I chose the tallest flower, Mommy, and I had to hold it in place really long until it dried.  That was the hardest part,” Ben explained. He was so proud.  We both ignored the whirling dervish spinning and drumming around us. 

            Attached to the flower pot was a laminated index card with a Mother’s Day poem on one side and Ben’s picture on the other.  Ben pointed out the flowers he had drawn on the card.

            “Is it the most beautiful Mother’s Day gift you ever received, Mom?” he asked.

            “Yes, Ben, it is the most beautiful,” I sincerely answered. (One of the perks of Evan’s deafness is I can answer these questions without hurting feelings!) 

            After admiring the beautiful gift, I told Ben, “Mommy is going to put this in my room where I can admire it and it will be safe.”  (We both knew from whom!)

           

            Evan was now very sore, and stomped off to the living room.  I placed the flower pot on my dresser and closed the door.  I went and found Evan hiding under a blanket in the living room.  I hugged him, and he stiffly let me.  I signed, “Mommy loves Evan.  Mommy loves Ben.”  Evan pouted.  I signed it again.  Evan hugged me, resigned to sharing me, at least for now.

           

            I feel incredibly blessed to have the love of two very special sons.  I really cannot express in words what Mother’s Day means to me.  I always wanted to be a mother.  The saddest days of my life were when I thought, “No one will ever call me Mommy.”  I won’t bother to try to explain this.  Only women who have experienced this can understand the depth of that grief.

             Often, people will comment that my sons are lucky that I adopted them.  I know what they mean, and I don’t take offense at this.  What I would like others to know is that anything I am able to do for my sons is matched and surpassed by what they add to my life.

             I hope Ben and Evan will look back and be pleased with the life I am giving to them. They have certainly made my dreams come true.  I have golden-macaroni picture frames.  I have refrigerator art.  I have a houseful of Legos and Happy Meal toys.  I have constructed over two-thousand peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.  I have countless hugs every day.  I referee the most ridiculous arguments.  I dream of 5 peaceful minutes on the phone, or – gasp – in the bathroom.  The boys seem to get bigger every day.  I want desperately to freeze time, but I know I can’t.  Some day, my house will be quiet again, and a lot cleaner. In the meantime, I will revel in the fantastic, loving chaos of Motherhood.   I am Mommy.