Snapshots...

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 with a lovely landscaped yard to roam, better medical care than I have, no small children, and doting parents who are known to allow dogs in the bed with them.

 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 6^th month as part of our family.  He also turned 7 on January 27^th*. 

(*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 27^th.  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, the one child policy means that you only have one chance to raise a child that could support you in old age.  China has few resources or opportunities for the deaf or handicapped.  It is not unusual for special needs children to be abandoned.  I took it for granted that I would never know what actually happened. 

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. 

*********

Sometimes, I marvel at where my life has taken me.  I distinctly remember a day delivering mail in Key West, bored out of my mind, the days before my sons and teaching. I was in the twilight of a relationship that was heading nowhere.  I prayed, “Lord, surely you made me for more than this?  I want to be useful.  I want to have a family. Surely, You made me for more than sticking mail in boxes?”   (Be careful what you wish for!)

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.

 

 

 

 

Winding Roads/ Evan's first Christmas

A friend posted on Facebook the following quote:

 “Don’t look back unless you are planning on going that way.” 

This completely gels with my constant mantra of “Put one foot in front of the other.”  It must have resonated with several other positive thinkers because the “Likes” and concurring comments racked up quickly. 

Then, I realized, it was all wrong.

This is what Evan has taught me over the past few weeks. 

Over the last month, Evan has been ornery – both at school and at home.  His teachers reported that he was pushing at all the boundaries, testing all of the rules. He came home with a sad face on his behavior log for hitting another child.  I asked him, “Why did you hit?”  Evan looked at me, sad, and signed, “He had the guitar.”  I asked, “Did you want the guitar?” Evan looked sad and just nodded.  I signed that we would have to ask Santa for a guitar.  This pleased Evan greatly and he smiled.

At home, I have seen behaviors resurface that I had not seen since the early weeks of China.  Hitting.  Seething at me.  Spitting on the floor.  In the house.    Yep.  The urge to sugar coat here is palpable.  I don’t want to turn anyone off considering adoption – particularly the adoption of an older child.  I like writing about the inspirational side of this process, leaving everyone with the warm fuzzies.  But, I suspect it would not surprise anyone in Evan’s fan-base to discover that there are plenty of difficult days. 

Most children have difficulty expressing themselves.  Even adults can’t always readily define what is bothering them.  Evan’s lack of speech and hearing exponentially exacerbates this.  Clearly, something has been bothering him.  I would like to report that I was understanding and saintly-nurturing through this, but mostly I was disappointed and frustrated. 

Evan wasn’t all that pleased with me, either. One evening, he sat at the dining room table and drew a grid to represent a calendar.  There were numbers in every square. The icons for Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas were clear.  In one square, Evan drew a jack-o-lantern.  Several squares down the line was a turkey.  Then, more numbers and a Christmas tree.

  I thought instantly: calendar.  It turns out this was my report card.

 (This is where I must confess my failing.  Halloween has never been a big deal for us.  Ben doesn’t like costumes, so we have always passed on this.  I bought Evan a costume so he could participate with his class.  I also bought a big, beautiful pumpkin for the house.  Unfortunately, I never got around to carving that pumpkin.  After helping Ben through tons of homework nightly, making dinner, and taking care of a million other things, it never seemed convenient to get elbow deep in pumpkin guts.  The pumpkin stood in the kitchen- refusing to rot- like a great orange albatross, a monument to my shortcomings as a mother and a human being.  I couldn’t throw it away because I kept thinking, “I am going to make this right.”  I never did. Evan would point at it a couple of times a week, make the sign for 'knife', and gesture at me with a look of absolute disgust.)   

Now, Evan looked up from his calendar, pointed to the jack-o-lantern square, jabbed the air towards me, and pen-in-hand emphatically X’d out the square.  Not just once, but over and over to underline his disappointment.   I pointed to the turkey, hoping for leniency. I signed that I did cook a turkey for Thanksgiving.  Evan glared at me, flipped the paper over, and drew a GIANT sad face, mimicking the daily report from his teacher. This was what I earned.  Shame on me.   

The pumpkin finally got put out as I prepared for our Christmas visit to my Mom’s.  It was still firm and orange, mocking me, and I couldn’t bear to toss it in the trash.  I quietly left it on my neighbor’s stairs as we loaded the car to go to the airport. 

The trip to RI was mostly uneventful.  But when we arrived, Evan’s behavior continued to be challenging.  I do realize that the quality of children’s behavior has an inverse relationship with the proximity of Christmas, but this seemed to be more. Other mothers confided that this regression and re-testing is not abnormal.  Kids sometimes need to push to make sure you are still there to push back.  It just so happens that Evan’s “pushing” draws from a deeper, more difficult place. 

Threats of landing on the naughty list did not work.  The day before Christmas, in an attempt to help both Ben and Evan burn off some pre-Christmas energy, I took them both to the park near my mother’s house.  On our walk back, up a steep hill, Evan ran ahead.  Clearly, he thought he was winning some kind of race and looked backwards to taunt us.  Ben and I continued to walk at a casual pace. 

Three-quarters of the way up the hill, I took a step and felt a sickening, painful POP in the back of my calf.  Something had snapped. I fell to the ground, one leg useless.  Ben reached down, “Mommy, are you ok???”  He asked with deep concern.  As I explained that something was wrong with my leg, I looked up and saw Evan looking at us from half a block away.  He pointed at us and laughed at me.  The hare to my defeated tortoise.  He ran on ahead to my mother’s house, ran inside, and stripped to his underwear - the victor. 

Ben helped me hobble home, offering himself as a human crutch.  I made a mental note to make sure to specify that this child will be the one to make decisions about my elder-care. 

Evan ran back out into the yard to watch our arrival.  As he danced in the December air in nothing but his Ninjago underwear, he was oblivious to the cold and my pain.  I hobbled indoors and made arrangements for a ride to the ER. Ben hovered.  Evan played in the living room.  I told Evan I was going to the doctor. He waved his hands at me dismissively, “Go.” 

When I returned, hours later, on crutches, Evan seemed unfazed.  Ben asked if I was going to be ok.  I reassured him that this was just a temporary condition and he seemed relieved.  The day wound down and we went to bed in full anticipation of Santa’s arrival. 

On Christmas morning, Ben woke first at 6 a.m. wanted to run down stairs.  Evan was still sleeping.  Remarkably, it took several minutes to wake him up. He is new to this whole Santa-concept, so I don’t know if he forgot – or if he just wasn’t sure how it all worked.  The difficulty is that I had to get him to open his eyes so I could sign to him that Santa came and there were presents under the tree.  Finally, after shaking him and practically lifting his eyelids myself, Evan looked at me.  I told him “Santa came!”  He got up – but not with the excitement you would imagine. I figured he would rev up once he saw the stacks of presents under the tree. 

We all walked downstairs.  Ben may have flown – I don’t think his feet touched the floor.  I expected an explosion of excitement when Evan saw the tree.  He approached with caution.  Certainly not the unbridled child-reaction I expected.  I showed Evan his name on the gifts.  He looked at me and signed, “Guitar?”   I told him to open the presents and see.  The smaller gifts on top were met with lukewarm enthusiasm.  Finally, he got to the bottom box, somewhat triangular in shape.  Evan’s eyes lit up! He tore it open. Inside was a child-sized acoustic guitar painted blue with orange flames.  He opened the box and took it out and kissed it.  I got a “thumbs-up” with a big grin.

Evan danced around with that guitar demonstrating moves that he had clearly picked up from watching music videos somewhere.  At one point, he hopped across the living room on one leg, strumming ala Chuck Berry.  This was Evan’s Christmas dream, and I (Santa) had not messed it up.  Evan will be the first deaf rock star, I have no doubt. 

Since Christmas, Evan carries his guitar with him everywhere.  He sleeps with it.  He insisted on taking it to the Laundromat and grocery store because, he mimed to me, he will sing for people and wave at them.  Evan is still Evan – occasionally he forgets it is a guitar and he holds it over his head like a weapon to whack someone with.  I’ve had to take the guitar from him a couple of times.  Evan always apologizes and promises to do better. 

Overall, Evan’s behavior seems to be improving again.  I’m sure the challenges will continue.  As I review the past month, I wonder if Evan had to “return to China” to see if I would still choose him – or to see if he would still choose me!  Maybe, he was afraid deep-down that Christmas would fail to meet his expectations like Halloween.  I can only wonder.  January will mark 6 months of epic changes for this little guy. 

Perhaps he will need to regress occasionally to confirm where he came from and feel in control of where he is going.  Maybe we all do.  The success of sites like Facebook is literally built on our desire to look back – to connect our past with our present, and link it to our future.   Looking back helps us to be successful today and to make hopefully better decisions tomorrow. 

 When I tell people that Evan’s most prized Santa-gift was a guitar, it is met with bewilderment.  It is, I’m told, the LAST thing they would think that a deaf child would want.  I could have dismissed Evan’s request and deferred to my own beliefs about what he would enjoy more. But I remembered my own childhood and my mother telling me I could be anything I wanted.  Despite being on the lower rungs economically, she encouraged all my dreams.  When I wanted to go to a private high school, she told me I could go anywhere I wanted if I worked to pay for it.  Because she believed in me, I now see all obstacles as things to be circumnavigated.  There are no walls.  Looking back, I can see the power that has given me in my life.  This is the gift I want most to give my children year after year.  This year, for Evan, it is painted blue and shaped like a guitar.

Gobble, Gobble.

Originally, we were supposed to travel to see friends for this Thanksgiving holiday. Plans were cancelled because the time was just not enough for the long drive.   I explained to another friend of mine that we were staying home after all. He expressed his opinion that this was the right thing to do.

           “You are the mother of two boys now. You shouldn’t be driving all over the country on the holiday.”

          Taken aback, I responded, “I was taking them with me, you know.”

  He forced me to look at this from another perspective: “That’s what I am talking about. You should be making dinner at home. These are the things they will remember when they grow up.”

            Hmmm.  Maybe he was right.  Maybe my gypsy tendencies were depriving my children of the memories of holiday traditions at home.  Every Christmas we leave and go to my mother’s in RI.  I remembered the epiphany I had (the shame I felt!) when Ben, here only for 2 years, asked, “Mommy, what’s a Christmas tree?” To be fair, he was actually being coy.  He knew what a tree was.  It was what we had at Nanei’s house.  It was what we saw decorated in stores and other people’s homes.  It was one of the details of the holiday that I had decided we didn’t need to trouble ourselves with since we wouldn’t be in our house when Santa came, anyway.  My annoying pragmatism was robbing my son of childhood memories.  I remembered decorating the tree every year growing up.  Why didn’t it occur to me that Ben would want those same experiences?  We went out that night and bought a small artificial tree that we decorate every year. 

          I never felt that level of guilt about Thanksgiving.  There were school Thanksgiving events. Sometimes we would go to a friend’s house to join their feast.  Ben has never been interested in food and it would have been crazy to make a dinner for just us. But now we have Evan.  Evan has food eccentricities, too, but he will eat chicken drumsticks and is a little more adventuresome than his big brother when it comes to eating.  I had to stop and consider my friend’s advice. 

           Evan has been learning all about Thanksgiving at school.  Last week, I was not all that surprised when he insisted I buy a turkey at the market.  He wouldn’t allow me to put it into the main basket of the buggy.  He insisted that he hold the frozen bird on his lap throughout the shopping trip. Evan asked me every morning leading up to today if I was going to cook the turkey.  Every day, I pointed to Thursday on the calendar and told him that we were waiting for Thanksgiving. 

          This morning I got up early and prepared the turkey.  I was glad the boys were not there to see me pull out the neck and the other parts. There was already little chance of getting Ben to try some.  I asked him a couple of days ago, “Ben, will you eat some turkey?  You eat turkey lunch meat…” I implored.

           Ben said, “That depends, will it be shaped like a bird?” 

          “Yes, until I cut it,” I answered.

          “Then, no.  No thank you, but thank you for asking, Mom.”

   Great.

          I still had Evan, though.  He was eagerly waiting for turkey day.  Evan came in the kitchen and looked on with curiosity as I rubbed some spices on the outside of the bird.  It was only a 12 pounder, but still quite impressive for our little family.  I lowered it into the oven.  Periodically, Evan ran out to the kitchen to ask when the turkey was coming.  I signed that it was a big bird and we had to wait.  As the time drew near, Evan came out just as I was basting the bird.  He licked his lips and applauded.  I thought about how abundant and luxurious it must seem to him to have such a large piece of meat all to ourselves.  I beamed.  I was glad I hadn’t “cheated” and gone out to eat, or bought a rotisserie chicken.  My son would long remember this first Thanksgiving.  Heck, he was like a Pilgrim himself – a stranger in a strange land – thankful that he had landed in a new life where a small boy could have a big bird on the middle of his dining room table. 

          I was quite caught up in this euphoric feeling as I put a cloth tablecloth on the table and cleared my work files from the area. We were going to have a real holiday.  I set the table with the nice dishes.  I started to wish that I had gone all out and made fresh biscuits and some traditional side dishes, but I reined myself in.  Ben only eats corn from a can.  He will ask, too.  “Mom, is this from a can?”  The answer had better be yes.  I heated up canned corn and some French style green beans that Evan likes.  Neither child likes bread. 

          I pulled the turkey from the oven.  It was beautiful.  I set it on top of the stove and left it to settle.  I realized all at once that I was still in my sweatpants and no makeup.  Well, this would not do. I caught a momentary glimpse of what Evan’s memory would play like when he was a 20 year old young man.  I couldn’t have my son’s first Thanksgiving dinner served by his mother in her sweatpants and bed head.  The boys were playing in the living room.  I jumped in the shower. I put on jeans, a sweater – fixed my hair and put on some make up.  As I emerged from my room, Evan asked me when the turkey was coming.  “Right now,” I responded. 

          I put the turkey on the table along with the corn and green beans.  I had a sweet potato. I offered some to the boys, but they refused.  I cut into the bird and put the first slice on Evan’s plate.  He looked thrilled.  I offered a piece to Ben.  He rejected it at first until I begged him to at least try it. Ben held a small fragment to his mouth and then declared, “No.  But at least I tried it.  Can I have some corn?” I filled his plate with corn. 

          I scooped corn and green beans on Evan’s plate.  The two dug in.  Evan ate a bite of turkey.  He didn’t complain.  But he didn’t eat anymore, either.  Ben and Evan enthusiastically shoveled canned corn and green beans into their mouths. Ben looked at the turkey and asked, “Are those its legs?”  “Yes,” I answered.  “Oh my God,” he laughed, “Then that must be its…!! I can’t believe I am looking at that!” Ben giggled peels of laughter.    I sat in front of my 12 pound bird. With a sinking feeling, I realized it was indeed MY 12 pound bird. 

          Then, I realized I had forgotten something very important!! (Cue the trumpets!)  The STUFFING!!  How could I forget!! All was not lost.  We fought over the stuffing when I was a kid.  It was more popular than the turkey.  I stood up and motioned for them to look as I took the large serving spoon.  With some ceremony, I inserted the spoon into the cavity of the bird.

A look of sheer horror crossed Evan’s face!  As I pulled out a scoop of stuffing, he released a blood curdling scream.  I realized all at once that he thought I was scooping out whatever a 6 year old imagines fills the inside of a huge bird.  Ben exclaimed, “It looks like trash!” Evan leaned over to Ben, and held his hand up to his mouth to shield his words from me as he conferred with Ben; Evan babbled something as he pointed at me and then the bird with disgust.   I burst out laughing so hard I dropped the spoon.  I gave up.  They finished the last of the canned vegetables and ran back to watch cartoons.   I finished my turkey dinner and tried to think of ways to use leftovers.   

           I tried so hard to stage just the right memory for my children. Sometimes I feel like the purveyor of American tradition and I worry that I am not doing all that I can and should.  In the end, they were the ones who gave me a memory I will never forget.  There is something delightful about never being normal again.  It is one of the blessings of parenting, for which I am ever thankful. 

Tap into your Inner Evanator!

I often try to imagine what this strange new world looks like to Evan.  Hardly a day passes when he doesn’t encounter something new.   A few nights ago, I was tired and didn’t want to cook.  I asked the boys if they wanted pizza.  Naturally, that met with approval.  Evan went to get his sweatshirt, ready to go jump in the car.  I told him to wait. I went online and ordered delivery.  Evan was rather upset with me for offering pizza and then sitting around doing nothing about it!  I could see that he was growing frustrated, so I called him to my computer and showed him the pizza website.  Then I signed to him that they would drive the pizza to our house.  Evan cocked his head sideways and raised one eyebrow. I didn’t need any sign language to figure out that he thought I was nuts.

Thirty minutes later, the pizza guy showed up.  Evan was thrilled. I’m sure he thinks I’m a sorceress.

This weekend was the second annual Rock and Roll Marathon in Savannah. We are directly on the race route which means our road closes down. By 8:15 in the morning thousands of runners are going right past our front door!  Last year Ben and I had a blast cheering for the runners and looking at some of the costumes people were running in.  

I was curious to see what reaction Evan would have when he saw hundreds of people jogging the wrong way down our one-way street.   I called Evan over and signed for him to look out the glass in the front door.  Our neighbors already had their lawn chairs set up on the curb.  Evan got very excited and wanted to go outside, too.  The boys put their sneakers on, still in their long jammies.  (Ben was wearing dinosaur pj’s and Evan had the Incredible Hulk.)

I opened the front door and we stepped out.  My neighbors called out, “We were wondering when you were coming out!”  I turned to answer them and heard Evan make a battle cry...  I turned back just in time to see my boy take off running!  I reached for him and missed. He was a blur...a skinny body in green and a head full of black hair.  Evan lept from the sidewalk and jumped into the middle of the pack!  I called back to Ben, “Stay there!  Mommy will be right back!” and took off running. 

So there I was -thankfully in my jeans and not my jammies - running at full speed after the Evanator. He passed many runners in his Incredible Hulk pajamas.   I saw runners dodging to miss him.  I made grabs for him as I came close and came up with handfuls of air.   Evan was laughing his butt off the whole time.  I am not exaggerating when I tell you it took more than a city block for me to catch him.  I don’t know how we didn’t end up on the evening news.

Evan and I walked back to the house.  Ben was waiting with the neighbors on the sidelines, always the dutiful son.  Evan was not happy when I explained to him that you had to have a race number to run.  

As we stood with our neighbors watching the runners, Evan scolded me for bringing him back. It occurred to me: Evan has no intention of ever being on the sidelines.  A few weeks ago he dove into the middle of an adult basketball game, and now the marathon.  There are no boundaries in Evan’s mind. 

People often remark that Evan is lucky to join our family.  That luck flows both ways.  I am the eternal pragmatist and Ben never takes a step without measuring the possible risks.  When I told Ben it was time to lose the training wheels on his bike, he complained, “No, then I will fall down!”  And now we have Evan... A 6 year old who fears nothing.  Never doubts himself.  Races headlong into the fray.  Life is for doing – not watching.  Wouldn’t we all benefit from uncorking our inner-Evanator?  What could we accomplish if we didn’t stop to worry about success or failure, whether we belonged, or what we were dressed like?  I dare you …..I dare me!

Red Face and the White Flag

I spent 6 idyllic years as the Uber Parent.  Complete strangers would cross the room in a restaurant or retail establishment and say, “Your son is so well behaved. I just had to come over and tell you that.”    I would beam with pride. I knew I had very little to do with it. To be fair, this was a little like moving into a beautifully landscaped house and posing outside with pruning shears.

Ben’s good temperament is legendary. Never a tantrum.  Almost never whines. Does what I ask of him 95% of the time – the first time I ask.  When people would offer praise, I would sometimes say, “Oh no, it’s not me; he came to me that way. He’s just a great kid.”  But this would trigger the reinforcement compliment: “Parenting must have something to do with it, too.”  Well, who was I to question their sound judgment? 

Recently, I brought Ben and Evan to the movies.  At the entrance to the theater there are arcade style games.  When the movie ended, Evan ran from me all the way to the games.  I ran behind him.  Ben ran behind me.  Evan tucked himself behind the video game to hide.  I caught a glimpse just as the last sliver of Evan disappeared, so I pulled him out and signed to him, “Don’t run from me!”  Evan signed back, “Sorry,” which is his favorite sign lately.  He thinks it is just like a magic eraser that grants you a do-over when adults are upset with you. 

I looked up and a handsome man in my age group was looking at me, amused.  I tried to wipe the frazzled look from my face and smile. 

“I wondered if anyone was going to find him back there,” he offered.   I explained to him that I am quite adept at chasing him and it is Evan’s way of being funny.  The boys played on the games (just the preview screens since I refuse to drop a quarter in them).  I chatted with the man. He was waiting for his teen children to emerge from a movie. 

Evan spied a teenage girl dancing on one of those electronic match-the-moves games.  He decided she needed a dance partner and darted onto the platform with her.  I ran over, snatched Evan off and decided it was time to go.  Then the fun began. 

Evan did not want to go. He ran from me and kept jumping on and off different machines.  Poor Ben thought, “If he’s still playing, I’m going to play.”  While chasing Evan like a greased pig, I was calling back to Ben, “Don’t play – If you do it, he will think he can, too.”  Ben looked dismayed.  I looked like an idiot.  The nice man got a glazed, faraway look and decided to move several feet out of the arcade area to wait for his children. 

I finally got a grip on Evan and started out of the theater.  I turned to say, “Have a good evening,” to the gentleman in a feeble attempt to restore some appearance that everything was normal and I had this under control.  Evan broke away from me and darted out the door. I ran after him, uselessly shouting, “Evan!”  Ben trailed after us with a pained look on his face. 

Because the cosmos could see that I still had a remnant of dignity left, we ran right past an acquaintance, who upon seeing my predicament, felt necessary to offer: “Wow, you really have your hands full!” 

So that’s it.  I have traded spontaneous accolades for wonderful parenting and a perfect child for, “You really have your hands full!”  This is always accompanied by a head shake and faint, but still perceptible recoil – as if the condition might be contagious. 

I have adjusted to this.  I have waved the white flag.  I have resigned myself to the reality that for the next couple of years I will be publically embarrassed on a regular basis.  People will look on with a mixture of pity and judgment.  I will take this as karmic retribution for every time I have observed another parent with an out of control child and smugly thought, “They need to get it together.”  It’s ok.  I can take it.

In reality, Evan’s behavior has improved greatly. He came home last week with a happy face on his behavior chart every day – an enormous accomplishment.  The child who is running around the house in his underwear right now - carrying a blanket and pretending to be Dracula - bears little resemblance to the surly stranger I brought back from China about 3 months ago. 

Three months ago, we went toe-to-toe about everything.  He is still stubborn, but there are far fewer battles.   Three months ago, when I would reprimand Evan, he would glare at me like a hardened teenager.  Now, Evan gets teary eyed and signs, “Sorry.” 

Perhaps the biggest difference I have noticed lately is his laughter.  It is hard to put into words the change that I have noticed.  In our first weeks together, Evan rarely laughed.  Oh, he would laugh at people.  He would misbehave and then pose like a superhero, hands on hips, and give a canned laugh.  But now, Evan laughs.  He squeals, he giggles, his laughter bubbles up and spills over the top like a 6 year old's  ought to.  His face lights up. This, to me, is worth every red-faced moment I can endure. 

Rumble in the Jungle (Gym) -well, almost!

We were leaving the grocery store about a week ago and Evan was riding in the buggy –(that’s a shopping cart to my Northern friends.)   Somehow, when we arrived at the car, he had lost one flip flop.  I knew it had to be between the car and the entrance of the store, so I locked both boys in the car and went back to retrieve it.

As I returned to the car, in a matter of seconds, this is what I witnessed:

Evan reached up to turn the dome light on.

Ben reached up to turn it off. 

Evan turned it on.

Ben turned it off.  (Ben knows this wears the battery down. Being the ever-conscientious worry-wart kid that he is, Ben considered this a mission of the utmost importance.)

Evan pushed at Ben.  Ben pushed at Evan.

Evan balled up his fist and socked Ben square in the eye. 

Needless to say, Evan was punished. Ben received an icepack.  This little interaction made me aware of

 #1. Evan still has a long way to go in developing social skills. and

 #2. The kid throws a punch like a professional boxer.  He has definitely done this before.

All of this was fresh in my mind when we visited beautiful Forsyth Park last weekend.  There were many children playing and Ben and Evan ran joyfully to the playground equipment.  I hovered, as I usually do, to make sure Evan is “playing nice.” 

Evan brought a new toy, a plastic action-figure/robot with him.  He climbed to the top platform from which all slides descended.   Several kids were up there, going up and sliding down.  Evan sat at the top of a slide, toy in hand.

 An older child, with curly hair and a very annoying (yes, I said it!) personality, reached over to Evan and tried to snatch the toy from him.  With manners that conveyed a “No one ever says no to me” mentality, the child simultaneously asked/demanded, “Hey, can I play with that?”   I watched with mixed fascination and trepidation.  He had no idea he was messing with the Evanator!

Evan yanked his toy back and waved his scolding finger at the child imitating angry speech noises. 

I walked over and said, “He can’t hear what you’re asking him.  He's deaf.”

Annoying boy: “Well, how do you say it in Spanish?”

Me:  “It won’t matter what language you ask him in, HE CAN’T HEAR YOU.” 

A/B: “Well, how do you talk to him, then?  I want to play with that.” 

(Obviously, the possibility that he would not get to play with the toy was not even in his realm of thought.)

Me: (thinking of the Evanator): “I think it’s better for you if you just forget that you ever saw that toy and keep it moving.”

Naturally, the A/B was bewildered, but this seemed to be the end of it.  A little while later, Evan asked me to hold his toy.  The A/B witnessed this and then asked me if he could play with it.   I told him that Evan had just gotten the toy recently and he wasn’t interested in sharing right now. 

I breathed a sigh of relief thinking we had avoided a social “faux pas.” I was proud of Evan that he hadn’t resorted to physical aggression.  PC or not, I couldn’t help but think that A/B was going to find himself perilously close to danger many more times in his youth unless he developed better social skills.

 Now that the toy was “off the table” I was pretty sure this kid would lose interest in Evan. I was wrong. 

Evan was happily darting up and down the ramps and slides, making his warrior cries.  You would think witnessing this force of nature would be enough to deter anyone from messing with him.  Most kids get out of the way when they see Evan coming. But not that kid.

 Evan had paused on a walkway when - like a moth to a flame - A/B walks up to Evan again.  I watched in amazement as the boy stood in front of Evan and started SWATTING Evan on the chest REPEATEDLY saying over and over: “Tag, you’re it. Tag you’re it. Tag you’re it. Tag you’re it.”

 Evan stared at him in total amazement.  One eyebrow arched up.  The famous Evanator sneer came across his face.  I thought, “Here it comes.”   I held my breath.  I didn’t move to stop him.  Part of me – that primal mother-bear part of me – wanted to see the winds of karma do its thing. 

Evan released a barrage of what I’m sure were not very nice words in this boy’s face.  But Evan did not raise a hand.   I was proud of him, (and not so proud of myself!)  I told the boy again, “He can’t understand what you are saying.”  The child seemed annoyed and ran off.   Evan went about his business.  A short while later, I saw Evan chasing Annoying Boy through the ramps and slapping him on the back.  The A/B was yelling, “Hey, leave me alone!  Leave me alone!!” 

“That’s my boy!”  I laughed to myself.  The Evanator always wins J