If parenting were ice skating, then pre-Evan, I was Dorothy Hamill pirouetting effortlessly and gliding along with a big smile and outstretched arms.
Post-Evan, I am at times stiff legged, inching forward, at times hugging the railing, and other times moving swiftly forward, body wobbling, arms flailing, legs splaying - hoping for control while anticipating a messy crash.
In fact, and this is huge for my Type-A/control freak self, I am getting used to the idea that my life will forevermore be somewhat out of control – a mess. This is not because Evan is adopted. It’s not because Evan is deaf. It is because Evan is Evan – which he would still be even if he were neither of the former.
Evan lives in full-court-press mode. He is gregarious, confident, funny and loving. He is also stubborn and maddening at times. I have let more than the standard two weeks pass since my last blog, so here are some snapshots of our lives…
The Laundromat:
Recently, our washing machine broke right before the weekend, usually a big laundry time. With a bed-wetter in the house and limited amounts of sheets and blankets, this is a huge crisis. I called and ordered another, but the earliest delivery date was a week away. Friday night after school, I piled the car with so much laundry I could barely close the trunk. Off we went.
As we pulled up to the Laundromat, I saw instant trouble. The storefront is made entirely of floor-to-ceiling windows. Inside, there was a boy of about 10 or 11 playing with a remote control car. He could not have sensed what was coming. Poor kid.
We got out of our car and Evan ran inside. I quickly retrieved a rolling basket and unloaded the car with Ben’s help. I got the washers loaded and could hear Evan laughing and running around. Soon, I didn’t hear the car anymore. I rounded the corner and the boy now had his car on top of a covered trash can. He was standing between Evan and his car, unsure of what to do. Evan was oblivious to the boy’s discomfort. I grabbed Evan by the hand and gently asked, “Is he bothering you?” The boy must have been a nice kid, because he seemed to be afraid to admit what I already knew. His older sister, however, was not. “YES, he is.”
I led Evan away. Evan signed to me, “He is my friend!” This really meant, “He has a cool toy and I want to take over.” I realized that I would have no peace, and neither would this boy, if we waited for the clothes inside the store. I took the boys to the car and we waited there. Evan thought I was a major drag. Oh, well.
By the time the clothes were out of the dryer, the family with the RC car was leaving. Ben, Evan and I went back in to fold the mountain of laundry. The boys helped with some. Evan decided to make friends with the lady working there, and spent some time “helping” her. She didn’t seem to mind. I marveled at how sometimes other people are better with him than I am. Of course, he is often better for other people than he is for me!
Clothes folded, we rolled the basket back out to the car. I started loading the numerous bags into the trunk, one eye on the kids. Three adults sat inside in chairs facing the glass wall looking out onto the parking lot. This must have reminded Evan of a stage, because I looked up to find Evan putting on a no-holds-barred dancing exposition. (This is something Ben would not have conceived of in a million-trillion years. I couldn’t pay Ben to make a spectacle of himself. )
Evan was shaking his bottom, twirling, incorporating tai chi moves, and doing the Uma Thurman V-hand across the eyes that Pulp Fiction immortalized. This went on for ten minutes. I watched in amazement. The family inside laughed and videotaped him. Ben said, “OMG!” about twenty times. When it was time to go, Evan faced his audience and solemnly gave a samurai-type bow with the fist of one hand against the flat palm of the other, in front of his chest. In the car, he waved vigorously to his adoring fans and signed to me that they liked his show. He was quite pleased with himself.
As I drove home, I thought about Evan’s enormous confidence level. Evan starts off with the basic assumption that everyone will and should like him. This can be highly annoying, like when he wanted to be boy-with-car’s best friend. This can also lead to awe-inspiring, hilarious displays of confidence and showmanship. Children come to us as complex packages of raw materials. As parents, we only hope that we can shape all that into something productive and socially acceptable.
The Dogs
I was wrong. I may need meds. Perhaps it’s early dementia setting in. I have no further explanation. I saw the 8 year old pugs at the Home Show. The Humane Society ambushed me when I least expected it. I am highly susceptible to pugs. Their flat faces and fat bodies, big soulful eyes, swirly tales and lazy dispositions…. I am a sucker for all of that.
Cowboy and Buddha have been together their whole life. Now, they found themselves in a corral at the Home Show. Someone surrendered them. Maybe their dog-parent got old and sick and couldn’t keep them. I do not know. I petted them. Ben petted them. Evan ignored them and went to the cat cage. I could feel the pull on my heart like furry little magnetic waves washing over me. Evan was now at another table, probably touching things he ought not to. Must----pull----away---Must---- have----will---power…..
“I have to go get my son,” I said to the nice- Humane-Society lady -trickster that could smell a bleeding heart a mile away.
“Here, take our card,” she said smiling.
I stuck the card in my coat pocket and tried to forget their little faces. Someone will take them, I told myself. All week long, every time I reached in my pocket for something, I pulled out that card. Then, Friday morning I opened my newspaper to see Cowboy featured in the Pets-for-Adoption section. My heart sank. They were still without a home. Two days later, we rode past the animal shelter on the way to drop some stuff off at Goodwill.
Ben said, “Mommy, can we go see the dogs?”
(And this is where I lost my mind.) “Sure. Why not?”
We walked the dogs. We liked the dogs. We left and went to lunch. Ben asked about the dogs every 15 minutes. I thought about them, stuck in that kennel with all those doggies yapping. What an undignified predicament for two old pugs that were probably loved their whole life. We returned and adopted the dogs.
World peace ended.
Evan could not, would not, leave them alone. The boy who barely looked at them at the Home Show was now relentlessly obsessed with them. Since bringing the dogs home, Evan has chased them non-stop. Capturing doggies is his new favorite game. And this is where his “of course everyone should like me” mentality (see laundry story above) fails badly. The dogs, sadly, do not like Evan. They are afraid of his stomping feet and loud shrieks of laughter. They do not want to be pushed, pulled or hauled away to be his headrest in the tent while he watches TV. They do not enjoy his experiments when he tries to see if he can ride them, or what their eyeballs feel like, or what will happen if he covers their nose and mouth.
I enlisted Evan’s teachers who tried to model appropriate behavior with a stuffed dog. I drew pictures of a dog with his tail up = happy face, and tail down = sad face. Evan added straight tails to my pictures and drew a straight face in like his behavior chart at school.
Suffice to say, nothing could convince Evan that he should take a different approach with the dogs. Why be nice and gentle when you can be forceful and get instant gratification? To illustrate how little Evan understands the nature of a pet, when I would step in to stop him from hauling them off, Evan would take a commanding stance and angrily point the way he wanted them to go. As if.
The dogs had their minds made up, too. They tuck tails and run from him. I had them on leashes one day as the boys were coming off the school bus. Cowboy saw Evan. He panicked and backed out of his harness and ran into traffic. I was not sure if he was trying to escape or commit suicide.
I started posting S.O.S. messages on Facebook. Friends offered suggestions and organizations to call. One friend even set up a meeting for us with potential dog-parents. The would-be daddies weren’t sure about two dogs, and I didn’t want them to be separated. A couple days ago, the angels smiled on me, (or the dogs). My almost-in-laws, aka Aunt Sandy and Uncle Truck, called to say they would take the dogs. For Cowboy and Buddha, this is like winning the doggie- lottery. Next week they will move to a spacious home in Jacksonville , FL
I’m not sure how the transfer will go, but I know it is the right thing to do. Ben is happy that he will still get to see them. I feel good that my unexplainable lapse of judgment has inadvertently led these old pups to a fantastic retirement home. And though I’m sure Evan will initially disagree, life will be better without Mommy chasing him continuously yelling, “No! Stop that!!”
Mysteries and Milestones
January marks Evan’s 6th month as part of our family. He also turned 7 on January 27th*.
(*We are unsure of his actual birth date, since he was left with no paperwork of any kind. The orphanage in Xin Xiang estimated that he was 3 when they found him by himself outside the Civil Affairs Office. They gave him a birthday of January 27th. Ben was luckier. His birth mother left a note with the time and date of his birth. )
We marked Evan’s birthday with a simple gathering of a few friends at Golden Corral. Evan loves the buffet there. In the summer, both boys will have a family birthday party at Nanei’s. I got him a Transformer cake and he received a few presents. (The boys already have too much!) Evan decided to entertain everyone around us with some more dancing. I am starting to get used to this.
Birthdays with adopted children always make you wonder about their origins. I was not lucky enough to hold either of my sons at birth. I wonder about the woman who was. Ben’s mother must have tried to figure out a way to keep him. She waited 7 days before leaving him with a note outside a police station. I can only imagine that his cleft lip and palate made it impossible to feed him. She saved his life. She blessed mine eternally.
Evan’s story is infinitely more complicated. No note. Left at 3 years old. Deaf and not speaking. A mystery. I had assumed based on the barest of details that perhaps Evan’s birthparents had only lately come to know he was deaf and decided they couldn’t keep him. Or, maybe he became ill and lost his hearing. In China China
One night, after having a temper tantrum, Evan was sobbing. He started signing/miming thunder and lightning and a tornado. I gave him a confused look. (I’m getting really good at that!)
He grabbed some paper from my computer printer and sat on my lap. He started drawing purposefully. A house or building. Dark clouds with lightning bolts. A massive tornado next to the house. He drew a monster face on it. A stick figure on top of the house. He told me that was him. He mimed the lightning and tornado again. He mimed someone shaking him awake. He mimed/signed crying. He signed the house was gone. No more house. He drew another picture. A stick figure in a car – or a van? Tears coming down. Big Tears. He wrote “Evan” next to the stick figure.
My heart broke. I signed to Evan, “Who woke you?”
Evan paused to remember the sign.
“Father.”
He looked at me. His eyes were sad. I held him. This stubborn, maddening, delightful, surprising, fearless, confident little boy…there was no telling what losses he had endured, what led him to me. I saved the drawings for future conversations. My heart ached. Evan moved on to playing, as only children can do.
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Sometimes, I marvel at where my life has taken me. I distinctly remember a day delivering mail in Key West
This morning, my sons are sitting across from me, nicely cooperating while they build a Lego set. I am skating forward cautiously, keeping my balance, moving my feet forward. I am not fooled, though. Later today, there will certainly be arm-flailing chaos. Dorothy Hamill didn’t know what she was missing.
(Sorry the video is sideways...I can't figure out/am too lazy/ how to fix that.
