Moo Christmas

‘Twas the night before Christmas, Ian and I both individually sat on Mikey's bed and explained that tomorrow is a very special day, it's Christmas, and he was going to get presents, and Mikey sat there and nodded seriously. "Yeah. Yeah. Yeah."

The next morning, however, was like any weekend, where he woke up and wanted to be cuddled in our bed, and drink juice, and eat Marmite on toast, and watch Toy Story 3 on TV. Finally, we persuaded him to go with us to the living room and look under the tree, where we had wrapped and stacked up a pile of presents the night before. The one item that was unwrapped was a rocking horse which was actually a cow, and he got on that and rocked away, oblivious to the other gifts. Finally, we handed him a present and he unwrapped it, and played with it with enthusiasm, still showing no interest in opening up more. That's the way it went -- he was enthusiastic about everything, but didn't do the full orgy of tearing up presents that we were expecting. In fact, it wasn't until Boxing Day he finished opening all his presents, and then after he opened the last, he said, "More! More presents!"

Lots of great stuff. Buzz Lightyear was a big theme, and so was music. He's been playing with a stand-up keyboard we bought for him, and on Boxing Day, we went to our friends Graham and Ali and they gave him a drum set which we have yet to put together.

Right now, Mikey’s keyboard compositions are very modern, atonal dissonance with accompanying Gregorian style glossolalia. I'm hoping he goes more commercial, but that's my pop sensibility.

I tend to call Mikey "Mikey Moo." The other day, he called out to me as "Daddy Moo!" And then on Boxing Day at breakfast, I said something about "Mikey Moo," and he began moo-ing like a cow. When I realized what he was doing, I began laughing, and he looked at me very seriously, "No, Daddy, not funny." So I had to stop laughing while he continued to moo with a very stern expression on his face, which is about the hardest thing I've done in a long time.

Here’s the obvious: Christmas is for kids. I don’t see why anyone without them would like the day in the least. When you become a parent, it can be your favorite holiday again.

Stage Father

For the last month, Mikey has been practicing for his preschool’s holiday concert. There were four songs to sing: “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town,” “Rudolf the Red-nosed Reindeer,” “The Dreidel Song,” and “Feliz Navidad.” With great enthusiasm, we would sing them all together after school, applauding as he rocked back and forth and punctuated certain words (“Eh eh eh eh eh NOSE! Eh eh eh eh GLOWS!”), or acting out certain parts of the song (laying his head horizontally across his hands in the universal sign for sleeping during the line “He sees you when you’re sleeping” in SCICTT). On that Friday, we got him dressed up in his prescribed outfit and accessories – white shirt, black pants, Santa Claus hat, and flashlight – and got him to school.

We returned at 10 am for the concert, and were ushered into an overcrowded classroom, filled with parents with a little space for the kids to perform at the front. After squeezing in, it was the running of the toddlers as they all came into the room, screaming, laughing, and crying. Half took the stage, and half ran into their parents arms and clung. Mikey was one of the clingers.

So we sang along with the kids on stage from the audience.


Ironically, that evening, Mikey did want to go up on stage. Unfortunately, it was the stage of the El Portal Theatre where we took him to see his first English panto, in a performance of “Cinderella.” If you’ve never been, a panto is a British tradition, a performance for the whole family with sing-a-longs, cross-dressing (the ugly stepsisters are always played by men), improvised chatter with the audience, and lots of dancing and corny, slightly saucy jokes. Before it had begun, Mikey was down the aisle and up on stage, to the applause of the people finding their seats, and the consternation of the stage manager.

He was transfixed by the dancing and singing, and joined with the audience to boo the ugly stepsisters, and we had a great time.

A family holiday tradition is born.

My Son's Asleep

What a weekend.

It rained.

It also rained on the day we drove downtown to get married three and a half years ago, so we had a good association with rain in L.A., now it’s made permanent. The press conference was at 1 o’clock, and we were the first court case at 1:30. We arrived at about ten after, and the first person we saw was my brother, Mikey's Uncle Moosh, holding a Buzz Lightyear mylar balloon for Mikey. Buzz Lightyear is Mikey’s latest obsession ever since Disneyland, and he calls him “Eyte Ear.”

On the fifth floor, the press conference was behind schedule, but all our friends had arrived early, ahead of us. In addition to Uncle Mikey, Aunt Kelly, and Cousin Natalie, we immediately were embraced by 25 other local friends who insisted on being in court in the middle of a day on a Friday. Susan and Lee Cummings and their son, Mikey’s buddy, Lanyon arrived shortly thereafter to Mikey’s delight, and just in time since Mikey was in the middle of his normal naptime and feeling overwhelmed.


The actual hearing was quick. After the conference, we went into room 419, where Judge Michael Nash made a speech, and then the actress Nia Vardalos asked us some questions, to which the answer was always “Yes.” The court asked us for our names and to spell them, which I stumbled over, and then to identify our friends in the audience and I drew a blank. Mikey grabbed all the stuffed bears in sight and fell out of his chair with a thump. When Nia Vardalos started crying during the questions, Ian lost it too. Basically, it was a shambles. A glorious shambles.

Afterwards, we had a couple interviews with local and national newspapers, and Mikey’s lawyer Cynthia Billey and all of her associates at the Children’s Alliance made sure the paperwork was all done and we were out.

On Saturday, we packed up the car during Mikey’s nap, and then as soon as he opened one eye, he was out in his seat, being whisked away again. He said, drowsily, “Home!” But we said, “You’re going to a party at Theo’s!” And he said, “Theo?! Party!” and got very excited. At Theo’s (and Graham, Ali, and Sophia Bradstreet’s) home, we had a party for most of the people who came to the court hearing, plus the Bradstreets and a number of other folk who couldn’t take off the middle of the day for the court but wanted to celebrate. Among them was Ian's boss Norman and Lyn Lear and their family, and another of Mikey’s attorneys, his education advocate, Sasha Stern, also made an appearance, to tell us that cases like Mikey’s is the reason she can get out of bed in the morning.

It was a blast with champagne for the grown-ups, trampoline jumping for the young ‘uns, and high calorie, low nutrient snacks for all. We lost track of how many people Mikey got to surreptitiously sneak him a cupcake.

Today is totally low key. We went to the Farmers Market, had some tamales (Mikey’s two requests of today, reflecting the Most Multicultural Child On Earth was “Marmite!” and “Tamale!”), and picked up some exotic mushrooms for dinner. Mikey is theoretically having his first uninterrupted nap of the last two days, but in true fashion, isn’t interested in sleep now that he can do it.

There is finally silence in his room. My son's asleep.

It's Official: He's Legally Ours Now

Here we are at Mikey's adoption today.

Details to follow. We are celebrating now, no time to blog.

Happiest Place On Earth Adjacent

I went to Disneyland for the first time in my life on Sunday, and I suspect it won’t be the last time, given Mikey’s reaction. It wasn’t a trip we had planned far in advance. Growing up in Ohio near Kings Island with grandparents in Orlando near Disneyworld, my lack of amusement at amusement parks was based on experience. On Saturday, however, we were at a park in West Hollywood and met up with my friend and former head huntress Susan and her son Lanyon who is Mikey’s age, and she launched into a pitch on Disneyland. All my concerns about cost, age appropriateness, and lack of alcohol were addressed and dismissed, and once Ian had turned, I crumbled. So Sunday morning, we left at 7:15 and breezed down to Orange County 45 minutes later when the park opened.

I was in the front seat looking for a parking space, and Ian was in the back with Mikey. I heard simultaneously Ian say, “Oh … dear,” and Mikey burst into tears.
Mikey, it seemed, had greeted Disneyland by vomiting down his shirt.

He was fine, so we changed into his (only!) spare and met Susan, Lee, and Lanyon at Jamba Juice where Mikey had a smoothie to make up for the lack of food in his belly -- and it went all down his spare shirt. This is before we made it through the ticket gates.

So Mikey wore Lanyon's spare shirt, and we went into the park. Lanyon was content at sitting in his stroller, grinning, and saying, "Disneyland! Disneyland!" while Mikey had to be out of his stroller, racing around in the crowd, saying, "Wow!" We saw our first cartoon character, Buzz Lightyear, the hero of Toy Story 1, 2, & 3, and Lanyon said, "Buzz!" and Mikey said, "Ahhhhhhh!" and ran into my arms. Not a big fan of people with masks over their faces, and no idea who Buzz Lightyear was.

We educated him by taking him on his first ride, which is a Buzz Lightyear ride where you fire lasers at the evil Emperor Zurg while spinning in your cart. You can actually control the spin with a lever, so Mikey saw to it that we were constantly spinning. The whole time, shrieking with joy. We also picked up a Toy Story 3 tee-shirt, so Mikey would have a commemorative article, and Lanyon could have his spare shirt back.

That was the theme for the whole day. He has a blast. He high-fived Sully, the giant blue monster from Monsters Inc., he sat through fully 3/4 of a Disney show which felt like 4/3rds of one as Handy Manny droned on, he went on the merry-go-round five times and six or seven other rides, he ate and ate and ate. Many highlights, but when he and Lanyon held hands and ran around giggling, it was not only one of our favorite parts, from the Oohs and Aws of the crowd, it was the favorite part for many strangers. We're going to sell this video of them to Disney, or we should.


He fell asleep in his stroller at 2 pm, and we drove back. And then we learned at home how to wash vomit out of a car seat! Talk about a happy ending!

Actually, the happy ending or happy beginning occurred last night when Mikey’s lawyer notified us that she had received official confirmation that we will be at the courthouse adopting Mikey on the 19th at 1:30 pm. We will be the first on the docket for National Adoption Day. Hooray!

The Birthday, The Bed, The Ear, The Adoption.

I’ve had my first practical use for this blog. I’m using it to help me put together a baby book as a gift for Mikey for his adoption day, which will hopefully be next month.

It’s been a pretty busy month since the last update, too busy to update on how busy everything has been.

Mikey’s birthday went brilliantly, though he took the notion of the “birthday suit” literally, and didn’t wear his clothes through most of it. The theme of the get together with family and friends was Bubbles, Balls, and Balloons. The latter two were great successes, but the former was a flop – the cheap bubblemaker I got spit out a zillion bubbles in the first twenty seconds and then stopped. The next day at the All Saints Episcopal Church in Beverly Hills, Mikey’s little cousin Natalie was baptized, and Ian and I were godfathers. Mikey, to Ian’s horror, would only wear the very dirty tee-shirt his grandparents brought him of a basketball to church.

He got an embarrassingly huge pile of gifts for his birthday, considering we hardly made a big deal of it. We had to open up one or two presents a day for two weeks to go through them all, and meanwhile the cards had gotten all mixed up, so we don’t know who gave the good stuff and who gave the crap. Ian’s boss gave a great present though: Mikey’s first big boy bed. It’s from Pottery Barn Kids, the Catalina twin bed, which we liked because it gets down low so he can crawl in now, and later can rise up with room for a trundle bed for sleepovers. (And no, this isn’t Mikey’s bedroom, this is the bed from the catalog – I’ll take a pic of the bedroom later)



At school, he’s moved up to the “older kids’ class” which is filled with 2-year-olds, up from the babies class he’s been in up to now. He loves it, but Ian and I have asked the teacher to tell the kids to let him do some things on his own. We know that Mikey just points and people run to get him whatever he wants … it’s the curse of being cute. As I know all too well, alas.

Last Friday was a bit of drama. Mikey had a bit of a cold. Nothing serious, we thought, just a bit of a sniffy nose. We put him down at the usual time of 7:30 after a great night of sushi at Akari, and at 9:00, he was awake, calling, “Daddy! Papa! Daddy! Papa!”

When we checked on him, he was touching his ear, “Ear, boo boo!” I figured he had a bit of sinus thing like I get when I have a cold, and I was looking at his medical records to see whether he was approved for children’s ibuprofen, when Ian said, “I think we should take him to the emergency room.”

Mikey had quickly turned from whining to screaming, and we quickly threw our clothes on, and got him in the car and to Northridge Medical Center in three minutes – it’s about ten minutes away by foot. I haven’t been to an emergency room in decades, and so I was picturing a scene like you see in “e.r.,” but it was very calm and orderly. In fact, Northridge is the Valley’s first pediatric trauma center.

Despite Mikey’s howling, it took us an hour and a half to be seen, and when we told him that the doctor needed to look in his ear to see the boo boo, he calmed down and let her do it. She said it was an impressive otitis media middle ear infection, and sent us off with a prescription for codeine and antibiotic. Mikey was so exhausted at two o’clock in the morning that he had the hiccups and still fell asleep, hiccupping with his head resting on his chest.

He’s better now. Tomorrow, he’s dressing as a puppy for his first of several Halloween parties. And, like I said at the beginning of this blog, on November 19th, we’ve been told, which is when National Adoption Day is celebrated in Los Angeles, we will be able to adopt him!

Shoe Business

The week ahead looks to be interesting. This weekend we have two birthday parties for two little girls, Monday is Labor Day, and Tuesday, I start at a new job. I’ll be working for The Mouse on the massively multiplayer game for kids, Toon Town. Appropriate given my daddy status. On Thursday, my parents come to Los Angeles to stay with us. On Saturday, Mikey turns 2 and we have a party with a couple family and a handful of friends. On Sunday, Mikey’s cousin Natalie gets baptized.

A lot of major events in a short period of time. And then today, Mikey just put his shoes on by himself.

The way it went down was this. Ian had left early, and I was getting Mikey ready for preschool. We had juice (Naked ™ Green Machine + Essential Greens ™ Veggie Harvest), then breakfast (Farley’s rusks, banana, and milk), then brushed teeth, combed hair (no crying today!), and put on clothes (red Paul Franks monkey tee-shirt, red and blue checked shorts), and were debating the merits of different shoes. Red shoes were considered and rejected because they have laces. Sandals were in the diaper bag and not part of the equation. So, blue shoes or gray shoes? Before we had settled it, the phone rang, and I went to chat with Ian for five minutes.

When I came back, Mikey was in his nursery, playing with his Legos ™ and wearing the shoes he had put on by himself. And the right foot was in the right shoe, and the left foot was in the right shoe. (This is something which my mother can tell you, it took me more years that it ought to have to figure out) Mikey had even worked out a compromise between blue and gray shoes.

As you can see.

Rhapsody

On August 14th, Ian and I took Mikey to see our friend Rachel Worby conduct the Pasadena Pops for one of the last times, since she is leaving after this season. The theme of the night was “All That Jazz,” and it began appropriately enough with Kander’s “All That Jazz” from Chicago, and then went through Mancini, Monk, Ellington, and several by Gershwin. Normally, as close friends of the Maestra, we get a good table up front, but at the last performance we decided that with Mikey, we were best off on a blanket in the back. It turns out that was a great decision.

It had been a month and a week since we had visited the parents and grandparents in New Bern, North Carolina. And it had been a week since I got an email from my mom with the title “Dad Is Dead,” referring to her father, my grandfather, Mikey’s great grandfather, who he only had a chance to meet the one time. How is it possible for a death to be a shock when it isn’t a surprise? I don’t know, but it was. I think it’s simply that I’ve been lucky for 41 years: no one I’ve truly loved has died before now. I am so grateful that we decided to hitch a visit to North Carolina onto the back of my cousin’s wedding in Wisconsin. The photos that we have of Mikey and Grandpa giving each other high fives are ones I will always treasure, and when he’s old enough to know what a remarkable man his great grandfather was, so will he.

So, it’s been a sad week. Add to that that Mikey has begun preschool, so he’s not home for several hours during the day. Apparently, according to his teachers who know what to say, he misses us enough that he’s called out “Daddy!” or “Papa!” after his nap, and once or twice looked for us in the preschool kitchen (the place where naturally we’d be), but the truth is that he loves it. He’s so social, it’s a good fit for him.

When you’re with Mikey, there’s not much time to reflect on your grandfather passing on and your son growing up. You’re feeding, chasing, laughing, and doing all the other present-tense things you have to do to keep up with a 23-month-old. Even at a concert like Saturday’s, you can’t sit and reflect on the music much, because the kid requires your attention. Then there was the plaintive, warbling glissando of the clarinet – which Rachel described as a bit of humorous improvisation at the first rehearsal of Rhapsody in Blue which Gershwin decided to keep in – and Mikey froze and began his dance.

The pity of it is that unlike the visit with his great grandfather, we were unable to capture it on film. Our video camera undoubtedly has a night light, but damned if I know how to find it in the dark. As he danced among the blankets and chair in the back rows of the concert, we heard various witnesses describe it as somewhere between a contemporary interpretative dance, a Charlie Chaplin routine, and a drunken jig. In fairness, Rhapsody In Blue, which closed the concert, began about two hours after Mikey’s usual bedtime, so the normally energetic kid was even more punch drunk than usual.

For me, Rhapsody In Blue was first associated with the black and white fireworks in the beginning of Woody Allen’s Manhattan. Then, when United began playing it in their commercials, I began associating it with flying. Now and forevermore, it will remind me of a warm August evening outside the Rose Bowl in Pasadena, and our son jumping, tumbling, shaking, and skipping perfectly in time with the score. A rhapsody indeed.

Score!

In order to stay certified as foster parents, Ian and I need to take 15 hours of classes on some subject or another related to parenting. We took a big whopper of a class a couple months ago, the Beyond Consequences workshop, which was interesting but since we didn’t then have a child let alone a deeply troubled one (knock on wood), we mostly did it for the hours. Two weekends ago, SCFFAA had a parents’ round-table which included daycare and was only 2 hours, so we thought we’d check it out.

The first big take-away from the seminar had nothing to do with the speakers, but with Mikey having a good time playing with the other kids and barely even noticing we were gone, leading us to the conclusion that he’s ready for preschool.
The second take-away came from some of the advice the parents on the panel gave about keeping score. It’s apparently pretty easy to become resentful, only notice the things you’re doing to make the whole family thing work, and rack up a lopsided scoreboard in your head, picking up points for every time you have to get up during the night to feed or attend to tears, deal with a bad diaper or a temper tantrum by yourself, do laundry and clean the house while your partner has fun playing with the kid, or do whatever it is which isn’t your favorite part of being a parent. I don’t know if there is a multi-point system, but if so, how would one calculate the number of points for getting the poop out of the tub when our relaxing bath-time went terribly wrong last night? And is that score multiplied when your partner unhelpfully chimes in, “It’s breaking up! It’s breaking up!”

No, the advice was, basically, don’t keep score. Open your eyes and recognize all the things your partner is doing which you aren’t noticing, enjoy the parts of raising a child that are truly magical, and get over yourself. Which is pretty good advice, whether you have a child or not.

So, Ian and I don’t take score on who does what, or we don’t keep score, which is slightly different. What, after all, is the point of keeping any score? As a game designer, I can say it’s a way to quantify your degree of success, usually compared to other players. Since you and your partner – as defined by the word “partner” – are both members of the same team, it’s counterproductive to make that a competition.

Where score matters are on things like developmental tests which Mikey will be taking soon courtesy of the north Los Angeles regional center. And scores matter on the playground, where life is tough.

We just got back from the playground in Tarzana, where I met up with my good friend and parenting mentor Suzanne and where Mikey was literally mobbed by a gang of boys and girls who looked to be between 6th and 8th grade who were hanging around, waiting for their day camp field trip. About a dozen of them passed him around, getting high fives and fist bumps, pushing him in another kid’s push car, and generally oohing and ahing over his every grin and giggle. Meanwhile, every other kid in the park, including Suzanne’s own absolutely adorable and sweet little girls, were ruthlessly ignored no matter what.
Suzanne and I laughed about it, and then I was thinking about this whole notion of competitive childrearing afterwards. Giving Mikey a point for every minute with every teenager looking on him with adoration. Subtracting points from Suzanne for such sad cheats as her prompting her youngest daughter, “See, show them you can do fist bumps too!” That kind of thing.

It’d be funny to be that shallow and that competitive. I would never do it. But if I did, the score would probably be 89 to 4 in Mikey’s favor. Approximately. ;)

The Potty Animal

Yesterday, we bought Mikey a potty. It’s arguably too soon. He’s 22 months old, and most authorities say boys aren’t ready for toilet training until they’re closer to 3, not close to 2. He also is wet every morning, and the rule is that until you can hold your bladder, you’re not ready for toilet training. What we’ve been doing is letting him come into the bathroom when we go, and his job is to flush the toilet and put down the lid afterwards if he wants.

So, why did we buy him a potty? We just wanted him to be comfortable with it, sitting on it, playing the drums on it, whatever he wanted to do. We’ve talked to some friends of ours whose 2-and-a-half year old daughter cries whenever she’s put on her potty, and we wanted to make sure that Mikey didn’t have that same reaction. Let him warm up to the object over time, we reasoned.

Tonight, we came back from a playdate and dinner, and Ian went to the bathroom and Mikey followed. A moment later, I saw that Mikey had his pants and diapers off and was sitting on the potty. Ian asked for me to get him a book to read while he sat, and I gave him “8 Silly Monkeys.” (“8 silly monkeys jumping on the bed / one fell off and bumped his head / Mama called the doctor and the doctor said / ‘No more monkeys jumping on the bed” et cetera).

A minute or two later, Mikey bolted up and we saw that he had pooped in his potty.

Not saying that he’s toilet trained, but pardon me while I brag about our 22-month-old and what he did 24 hours after getting his first potty.

Genius.

Mikey Meets Grandma and Grandpa

My cousin Sarah got married in Kenosha, Wisconsin last weekend, and Ian, Mikey, and I flew out from Los Angeles to be there. As you know from my previous blog entry , this is the second time Mikey’s been on a plane with us to go to a wedding, and we hoped his perfect behavior on the plane at and at the party wasn’t a fluke. I can’t say we’ll never have a bad flight with him, but now that we’ve been on 9 separate planes with him, it’s safe to say that the rule is that he flies very well. On the last flight today, one of the stewardesses came to us and asked if she could hold Mikey, and we said sure, provided he didn’t object (which of course he didn’t), and we talked about her own attempts to adopt while she rocked our son in her arms until he drifted off to sleep.

Just one of the moments of the last six days which will stick with us.

Mikey’s plane patience was tested at the start when we flew out at 6:30 pm from LAX, arriving at O’Hare just after midnight. By the time we met up with my parents, got our car (and then got another car with a bit more room for all our luggage), got lost in Chicago, and made it to the hotel in Kenosha, it was after 3 in the morning. He actually woke up the next morning, which meant he didn’t sleep his usual 11 hours, and that was the theme of the week: sleep deficiency. Even when we tried to put him down at some time approaching his normal nap time, he was too excited. This is a boy who knows how to have fun.

The wedding was very touching and my cousin looked beautiful. Mikey had already bonded with my parents by then, and fell asleep in his grandmother’s arms. When Ian and I whispered to her, “Do you mind holding him?” thinking his 30 lb. weight might be a bit much, she looked back at us and then smiled at him before whispering, “Your dads ask really dumb questions sometimes.”

He was awake, however, in time to break dance at the reception, after watching some of the older boys do it.

The next day, we flew with the parents to New Bern, North Carolina to stay with them for two days and introduce Mikey to his nonagenarian great grandparents who weren’t able to make it to the wedding. Perhaps not surprisingly, there’s no direct flight to New Bern, North Carolina from most locations, so we were supposed to change plans in Atlanta. Unfortunately, a massive storm hit the south-east, centered in Atlanta and the weather got so bad that the airport was shut down. Our modest layover became a desperate fight to get out of the water-logged city any way we could after our flight was cancelled. We were booked by the computer to fly out the next morning, but slightly more humane and human ticket agents got us in the long standby list for the last flight out that night. It began to look like only one or two of us was going to be able to get out, in the high drama as we entered our sixth hour in Concourse B.

Meanwhile, Mikey was having the best time, playing with other kids if they had strollers he could fasten up, high-fiving and fist-bumping whoever would return it, staring at people who were sleeping until they opened their eyes, and pointing out the “big trucks” and “planes” and “rain, rain, rain” outside the windows. He probably felt we left too soon when we all, to our relief, managed to get onto that last flight out.

The visit in New Bern continued the bonding between Mikey and his grandparents. He had his first ice cream with them, as well as his first seafood Newberg and broccoli soufflé. They put him up on their player grand piano so he could pound on the keys or watch them play themselves by magic. They hosted a party at their house on the Trent River, and thirty of their friends didn’t let explosive thunderstorms dissuade them from coming to meet Littlest Mikey.

And Mikey met his grandparents at their apartment at a retirement center. My grandfather is not doing well, but he is still quick-witted enough to tell me that he was rereading a book the other day and didn’t think much of the writing except for the introduction. The book he was modestly referring to was his own Stories For My Grandchildren , for which I wrote part of the introduction, and I promised him that I would be reading them to our son. An easy promise to keep.

As far as my grandmother, on meeting Mikey, she said, “We think he’s a gift from the Lord.” I can’t disagree.

The Water Baby

Mikey became a water baby today.

A little background: I love having a pool. When I was a kid in Ohio, I was the one with a pool – it was a rarity among folk in a climate where winters (and most of fall and most of spring) were harsh enough to freeze 20,000 gallons to a solid. When Ian and I bought our first house together, he required a good kitchen and I required a pool. Of course, we also required a quiet neighborhood, extra bedrooms, and all the other requirements for parenthood, and we were lucky enough to get it all. The pool is fenced in, as required by California foster care, and we have an attached hot tub which we never use as such, but which we figured was perfect as a kiddy pool. I live every minute of every summer I can in the pool, and Ian, who grew up in an even less pool-oriented climate than Ohio – England – has gradually gravitated towards it as well. Needless to say, as summer begins in the blast furnace they call the San Fernando Valley, we want our child to be comfortable in the pool because that’s where we will be.

Mikey, on being brought out to the pool at a friend’s house days after we first got him, screeched in horror, and could only be comforted with a snack cup of pretzels. Gradually, we introduced him to our pool, and he came to understand the pleasure of dipping his feet in the water and splashing, with me or Ian by his side. A week ago, he stood up on the highest step in the hot tub/kiddy pool, and then soon, he was comfortable walking along it, collecting some toys we scattered along it.
Today, we brought him out to the pool, as we do every afternoon, and we went through the familiar procession, feet splashing, standing, squirting one another with bath toys, collecting toys on the top step. Ian sat on the top step, and Mikey just suddenly decided to sit down next to him. That lasted for an hour or so of play. I was in the middle of the hot tub, and Ian got out to lie out on the deck, and Mikey went to join him. Mikey handed him his shirt, and Ian put it on, and we thought it was over for the day.

“Should I take his swim suit off here?” Ian asked.

“Might as well, and take his diapers off too,” I said. “They’ve already absorbed half the pool.”

When Ian removed Mikey’s bottom half of clothing, Mikey held up his arms to have his shirt removed as well, and soon the naked little boy was back in the pool, and I was watching warily to make sure he didn’t find the immersion in water too … relaxing. I was so expecting imminent pooping that when he turned around and squatted, I assumed that was it, but Ian called to my attention that he was just trying to get down to the next lower step. I helped him down, and for the next two hours, we played in the water which was up to both of our necks, laughing, splashing, and singing. I only pulled him out because the sun was setting, and I was entirely pruned up.

He may turn out to be a bigger water baby than even me. I wonder if Ms. B, who is giving him swimming lessons in a couple weeks, will mind if he does it nude.

My Trip To The Clouds & Sun Valley

Father’s Day weekend and the out of state wedding we attended were perfect, as of course was I (Littlest Mikey). We drove to Burbank Airport Friday morning, which is nice because it’s close and small, and only had a bit of grumpiness when they took my shoes off and took away my sippy cup at security for thirty seconds, because I look so shifty. We hung around the gate with our friend Stan, Chris, and Robert who were also going to the wedding, and I smiled at all the folk waiting for the plane who were doubtlessly thinking, “Oh, a baby on the plane. I do hope he sits near us!”



The first flight was about two hours from Burbank to Salt Lake City. I cried for a moment as we walked across the runway to the small plane and it roared in a scary way, but that didn’t last long. I am not used to being held on a lap for two hours, so I squirmed between the two laps I had available and ate and ate and ate, and sometimes I played with the food boxes, or the tray table, or the window shade (where I learned two new words “Up” and “Down”). Then we had a short layover in Salt Lake City and moved into a smaller propeller plane. I tried to stay awake for the hour flight to Sun Valley, but much to everyone’s disappointment, I fell asleep.

When I woke up, we were on the shuttle to our hotel, the Sun Valley Lodge. Our room wasn’t ready, so first we were put in a room which could only be reached up a long flight of stairs. When Papa Ian complained that such a room wouldn’t do for a baby in a stroller, they moved us to another room on the ground floor. This room had a lovely view of the lodge ice rink, but when Papa Ian called to ask what time the shows were and whether they were loud, we were moved again and upgraded to the best room in the hotel, the parlor suite with two balconies and a separate living room. Something about a squeaky wheel, which I very seldom am, myself.

That night we went to a pre-wedding dinner at a restaurant, where I had lamb for the first time. Many people said I was cute and well-behaved, so that must be true. We left just before dessert at 9:30, and I fell asleep in the crib the hotel provided without any protesting.

The next morning, we went off in search of a restaurant in the “village” of shops attached to the lodge, but ended up returning back to the hotel where I was a little grumpy and didn’t want to wear my bib and occasionally things were thrown to the floor. The ‘rents need to remember to feed me first, then go exploring, right? After that, I went back to normal angel mode as we found a playground on the property and did swings and slides for an hour or two. We went back to the room for my mid-day nap, but I was too excited about seeing more of the town to sleep, so after a while, they plopped me in my stroller and walked a mile down the road to Ketchum. We’ll have to send you some pics and videos of the walk, because it’s all that snowy mountain, big vista, big clouds, “God country” good stuff. Anyhow, I fall asleep in the stroller apparently, but two hours later, I wake up and they have visited Hemingway’s grave, run into some other wedding guests, and we’re out eating burgers and chowder.

Then we had to spit spot back to the hotel, and get dressed up for the wedding. My dads wore black tie and I wore the seersucker suit my grandma sent me, which was a mite too big when I tried it on a couple weeks ago, but fit as if tailored now. (I learned a new word at this moment, “Ready,” as in “Are we ready?” “Ready!”) The shuttle took us to Lindsley’s stepmother’s ranch. Huge place. The ceremony was in the barn, the reception was at the guest house, and the dinner was in a tent down the hill. Someday when I come back, I might get to see the house itself which apparently down on the river. I was a little shy and frowny around the crowd at first, but by the time dinner was served, I was running across the dance floor, from table to table to tell people “Hi” and be the official greeter. If the bride was miffed that I was getting more attention than she was, she didn’t show it. I hope my life continues to be like that tent, filled with people who love me. I learned the word “moon” after pointing to the night sky. I finally fell asleep in my stroller at about 11:30, just in time for the first shuttle back to the lodge, and a little past the time when I got to see Papa Ian do the Macarena.

I slept in late, but we still had to spit spot to get all packed up and Daddy Ted left his cell phone charger behind and Papa Ian left his Kindle charger behind (they discovered hours later back in El Lay when they unpacked). We took the shuttle to the brunch at a country club where there was a bagpiper who frightened me when he came in and when he left, since I was right near the door, and he sounded like a dozen cats going backwards through a vacuum cleaner. We went back to the lodge, and after another walk around in my stroller, I fell asleep until the shuttle came to take us to the airport.

The security folk in Sun Valley Airport take their jobs very seriously, and were very thorough in searching my diaper bags. They tested all my food to make sure my bananas and hot dogs weren’t bombs, patted Papa Ian down for looking shifty (which is how he looks when he’s annoyed), and then I got annoyed at my Osh-Kosh straps until we unsnapped one, Huckleberry Finn style and I was okay. I loved my window seat which had a view of the propeller, which looks a bit like my ceiling fan at home which makes me go, “Ooooh!” whenever it’s on.

In Salt Lake City again, I didn’t want to be in the stroller as we walked to our connecting flight, so I held Daddy Ted’s hand and ran so we wouldn’t miss it. Daddy Ted was impressed with my speed and it wasn’t until I suddenly began going slowly that he looked down and discovered that I had lowered my second Osh-Kosh strap and was going as fast as I could with my pants around my ankles. I don’t think Salt Lake City had seen the like before.

I didn’t sleep on the plane, but continued to eat and play and play peek-a-boo with fellow passengers, including some of the wedding guests. On the landing to Burbank, I pulled at my ears a bit and whimpered, but that’s the only time the pressure seemed to bother me. We drove back home, said hi to the cat (who I call “Dat”) and went to sleep after a bit of protest.

Today, back to some routine, playing in the park (when I wake up – it’s 8:30, and I’m still asleep), then social workers come at 3, swim class at 5:30.

His Name is Michael

I’m still not going to include any photos of “Baby M” on this website, because a) I’m not sure how I feel about breaching the privacy of a minor like that, and b) it’s against the rules of our foster care agency, and we could lose him as a result. Probably B is more to the point.

Anyhow, Ian and I decided that it was okay to do away with this “Baby M” stuff, and give his name. It’s Michael. Mikey, we call him. Coincidentally, that’s the same as my little brother and occasional writing partner. I can say that I spent the first 20 years of my life saying, “Mikey, do what I say!” and then took 20 years off, and am now prepared to say “Mikey, do what I say!” for another 20 years (at least).

Now what I have to find is the old toy we used to have which played:

My name is Michael
I got a nickel
I got a nickel, shiny and new
I’m gonna buy me all kinds of candy
That’s what I’m gonna do.

I’ve begun looking for a nanny/baby-sitter/au pair at least part time, and it’s funny how many enthusiastic folk blow you off rather than even showing up for the first interview. We’re relying on recommendations first, but we’re also looking at an agency. I signed up on GreatAuPairs.com, and the first response I got was from a man in China who wants to come out and live with us. We’ll have to think about that one.

Check out my partner Ian’s blog about feeding Mikey, the Sprog at http://www.tastebudding.blogspot.com/

My Son's Hair

I haven’t mentioned it before, but Baby M is half African-American and half Latino. Ian and I are both white. Some have said we’re very white. I’ll have to decide as M gets older how much of his personal life it’s appropriate to share on the web, but suffice to say, transracial adoption is a controversial topic for many reasons, some good and some bad. We know there’s a lot of ways we’re going to embarrass him growing up, but we’re going to do what we can on anything we can fix with a little education.

Today, I drove M down to see Althea at Spice Salon on West Pico, just off La Brea. She’s a Jamaican hair dresser who has been running classes for white parents to teach them how to take care of their black babies’ hair. She didn’t have any group classes coming up, so we did a one-on-one consultation.

I wasn’t entirely clueless, it seems. I showed her the brush I was using daily and the olive oil based conditioner, and she recommended a moisturizing shampoo I could use instead of Johnson & Johnsons generic baby shampoo, which would also not hurt his eyes, called hair milk.



She told me to get a wide-pronged comb and every morning, do the leave-in conditioner, work out the knots with the comb, and then brush, and she showed me how to do it gently but firmly.

“I’m not the only black person who hates to see a white couple with a black baby whose hair is so untidy, he looks like a wild child from the Congo,” Althea says. “Hair is part of our culture. Do something with it, so he’ll be proud.”

I can’t teach M how to be black in America, but hopefully I can give him some tools so he can figure it out for himself.

Slightly Down & Very Up

Today we had a meltdown at CVS. It’s the second time I’ve taken M there, and each time, there’s been an issue. The first time, I put him in a cart without checking to see that it pushed alright – and when I discovered that it didn’t, I lifted him up to put him in a properly working cart and he freaked out at being lifted up, only calming down when placed in position again. Then, when we were leaving, he lost it again after I let him roam in the aisles and then picked him up to leave. This time, I checked out the cart to make sure it was working correctly, put M in it, and we were having a great time, until he reached for some medicine and I said no, and he lost his mind. Arms up, tears exploding. I had dealt with him crying before, of course, and obeying the dictums issued from Dr. Kaplan’s “The Happiest Toddler on the Block,” I began empathizing (“You’re mad! Mad!”) and speaking Toddlerese, telling him what he was feeling. He didn’t go into my arms as he usually does, he thrashed on the floor.

Five minutes went by of hysteria.

Ten.

These are very long minutes, but I wasn’t irritated with him, more confused that my usual tricks weren’t working, and a little embarrassed, to tell the truth. Finally, I swept him up and took him out of the store, our errands unfinished. Afterwards, I thought I should have left him in the aisle, finished my shopping, and collected him afterwards. Oh well. Thirty seconds into the car seat on the way home, and he was calm as a cucumber.

The rest of the day was fabulous. He’s been nervous about the pool, crying when he first was brought close to one, and then tentatively trying more and more, putting his feet in the water, splashing, sitting down on the highest step and walking on it. Today, no progress off the highest step, but he still enjoys it. I figured we do it every day and he'll get more and more comfortable ... and meanwhile, I get to soak in the pool.

Then, there’s bathing. He loved the bath on Day 1 we got him, and has hated it every day since. We’ve done everything. The temperature is tepid. The bath is full of suds and toys. Ian or I have gotten in the tub first. We’ve tried bringing him over to the shower. Everything turns to suspicion and then tears. Finally we brought out Baby J’s old baby tub, and M liked to play in it with the bath toys. Today, I filled it with warm/tepid water and carried it out to the back patio and filled it with suds. M played with his toys in the suds and then asked for help taking his shirt and his diapers off, and then got in. Turns out the little bugger likes bathing al fresco.

Then, there’s feeding. He’s got an appetite, but not for green stuff. We’ve played around with texture, trying to puree broccoli and green beans down to a mush, and still, it ends up down his chin when he tastes it. Today, I slipped spirulina in his banana yogurt. Now, if you haven’t had spirulina, also known as blue-green algae before, it’s full of beta-karotene and other vitamins and intensely green. That yogurt looked like acid guacamole. But he lapped it up and wanted more.
Not an up-and-down day. A slightly down and very up day.

Thursday, we’ll get more word from the social worker about the process of adopting this challenging and wonderful toddler.

Getting To Know “M”

When we had Baby “J,” I titled all the posts about him, “Week One With Baby J,” “Week Two With Baby J,” et cetera. In part, it made titling these posts easier; but it also betrayed our suspicion that it would ultimately be a temporary placement. Since we fully intend and believe Baby M to be a permanent placement, cumulating in an adoption in about six months’ time, that tradition has to change.

That said, it will be a week tomorrow since we took in Baby M.

Here are the words he says pretty consistently: Ball, More, Dada, No, Yes, Yeah, Hello, Hi, Goodbye, Thank You (“Di doo,” after receiving something), Please (when prompted “Saying please”), Blue (when looking at a picture book about colors, he is only interested in the one with the ocean and saying “Blue,” the other colors are merely in the way of getting to blue), Cheese, Nana, Cat (occasionally, when the presence of Floyd is enough to get any reaction at all), and Poo Poo.

He’s very independent. He wants to put his pants and shoes on by himself and sometimes succeeds. I can’t rush him, or he’ll give a reproachful, “Ah!” Any new situations can likewise only be approached by M at his own pace and comfort level. Playgrounds, bath, bed, all are met with hostility if he’s pushed, but if he’s allowed to approach them himself, he’ll get into it. He’ll go get diapers or a ball or whatever you send him for that’s out of the room, and once in a while, when his diaper is full, he’ll go ahead and get the diaper and bring it to you as a gentle hint.

The trick we’ve been told over and over again is establishing a routine. We have a routine in the process of being established, but it’s not easy. We have to be ruthless about enforcing the right times for meals and naps because mere minutes after the proper moment, we’ve got tears. Otherwise, there’s a little “Eh!” before he settles down.

He can sleep by himself in his crib (or “cot” as Ian still calls it) but he prefers to fall asleep against my chest, and then be transferred over. I like it too.

Baby "M"

What I left out of the last blog post was that when Ian called me and said we were going to lose Baby “A,” he said, “Apparently, there’s a baby boy a month younger who has become available. I said ‘yes.’” Now, Ian is the cautious one of the two of us. He notices the crack in the ceiling and worries that the attic is going to come crashing down on us, and he notices that the pool has extra leaves in it and worries that the pump is burned out and is going to cost us hundreds of dollars. (For the record, he was wrong about the ceiling, and right about the pump)

The baby – we’ll call him “M” – has been with the same foster family for 19 of his 20 months on earth, and they couldn’t keep him any more, even though parental rights with his biological mother had been terminated almost a year ago. This means that almost all of the hassles of foster-adoption, the two or three hour long visits several times a week with the biological parents, the threat of having him returned to them, all that wasn’t going to happen. We were asked if we could pick him up Thursday between 1 and 1:30, and we said we would, but we still had Baby “A” and only one crib.

There was a behind the scenes kerfuffle, and we brought Baby “A” to our agency where the people who had brought in his four-year-old sister were meeting us. They seemed very nice, though after the fact, I learned there had been a bit of a funny British/American translation issue. Ian wanted to tell them that “A” wouldn’t sleep in his crib without duress and he used the British word for crib, which is “cot.” “You let him sleep in a cot instead of a bed?” they asked, horrified, imagining the poor baby in a fold-out army issued number.

Having decided we were taking on Baby “M” stifled our grief over losing Baby “A.” We were like a restaurant, flipping lunch service for dinner service in the 24 hours between babies. Today, we went down to the Culver City DCFS office and met him.

He’s handsome. Our social worker called him “beautiful,” and that might be more accurate. We were told there might be some behavioral issues – scarcely surprising for any foster child, let alone one on his first day away from the only family he’s ever known – but aside from a brief cry when Ian picked him up, he was good as gold and remained that way all day long, from driving back to our house, to play time, to dinner time, to bath time, to bed time.

Tomorrow, he’s got a visit with the pediatrician, and our three day weekend. We’re hoping this angelic demeanor will last. Everyone keeps saying to us, “This is the one.”

Feels like it.

The First (and Last) Week of Baby A

We had Baby J for a month to the day; it looks like we’ll have had Baby A for just over a week. We got a call yesterday from our social worker saying that the family who took in his four-year-old sister, someone certified to take care of her asthma, is also going to take him in. There was a possibility we could have kept Baby A longer if we had agreed to take in his sister, but it would have been very difficult to take care of a chronically ill child and her very active toddler brother without help, and there was a good likelihood than in a couple months, he would end up with his biological mother and her seven other children at the end anyhow.

It has been a great week with him. What a difference between a 21-month-old (not an 18-month-old as we had thought before) and Baby J, the five month old. We took him to petting zoos, pony rides, parks, and on Saturday, the Pasadena Pops, where our friend Rachel Worby is the conductor and musical director. She played on the steps of City Hall, and Baby A was standing up on stroller boogying when they got to the Duke Ellington medley. Definitely a memory we’ll always have.

He’s taking a nap now after playing ball in the front yard and then a walk over to the grocery for some much needed ‘nanas. Probably go to the park this afternoon after lunch.

We don’t when he’ll go, today or tomorrow, but we’ll enjoy the time we have left, though it’s hard to plan your day when anytime, you may be called home to pack a bag for forever for the little one.

Baby A

We got a call last night at 10:30 about a year old baby boy who was in need of immediate placement in a foster home. We had been getting a number of calls since losing Baby J in February, but none of them seemed right. There’s always the possibility of losing a child when you foster-adopt, but some possibilities are stronger than others, and if your goal is to be an adoptive parent and not a babysitter, you have to keep that in mind.

Earlier yesterday, we got a call about a 2 day old baby girl, born positive for crystal meth. We said yes, and in the minutes it took to pass the word to the county social worker, another family had already beaten us to the front of the line. Last week, we turned down a match with another little girl born positive for crack and syphilis, but whose mother was fighting to keep her.

Fifteen minutes after we said yes last night, he arrived. Baby “A” is actually more of a toddler than a baby, not twelve but eighteen months old, and doesn’t fit in any of Baby J’s old clothes. He was asleep, but woke up in my arms as I carried to the crib. He cried when I tried to put him in the crib, so we brought him to bed with us. He was exhausted but so resistant to sleeping, he stood on the bed as his strength left him and he began to do the drunken splits. Finally, he snuggled in with us and slept until 7 this morning.

He’s very vocal and babbley, saying favorite words like “Ball!” “Spiderman!” and “Mine!” He refused to eat his breakfast of bananas and cereal, and it was such an anathema to him that we discovered we could use the bowl to chase him away from anything we didn’t want him to get into. Finally, when the hunger got him, he showed that he would eat bananas (on their own), crackers, and drink milk and water.
When I was at Target with him buying him a high chair today, I made a classic rookie dad mistake. He pointed out a big ball, and he had been so good, I grabbed it and gave it to him. I don’t know what I was thinking: that he would be happy with the ball in the basket, to be played with when we got home? No, obviously, as we were the store, we were playing the game where he throws the ball down the aisles, crying until I retrieve it for him. And then he gives the “I got you!” grin, because he knows he has.

Have no idea whether we’re going to be able to keep him for a while or forever or not.

Cleaning House

So, it’s been a year since we were certified for foster-adoption. I know this because the agency called and said it was time to inspect our house again. The guy who is coming over is the same one who looked it over last time, and he said he was sure that everything was fine, it would probably be a pretty quick visit. That’s good, so he probably won’t spot the stash of drugs and pornography.

Kidding, kidding. We’ll bury that in the usual spot in the back yard, next to the dead hookers.

I held off updating the blog the last month because I was hoping for news of a new placement, but that hasn’t happened.

Baby J is long gone. We packed up a suitcase for him so he’d have more to take to the next foster family than he had coming to ours, and there’d be some familiar toys and clothes so hopefully he wouldn’t be too scared. We took the baby seat out of the car, and the stroller out of the garage, and they’re all in the nursery. Like us, they're just waiting.

I mentioned in the last blog that it was too soon to have learned a lesson after loving and losing J. Pretty much, that’s still the case, but we have decided one lesson that we’ve learned is that we can handle this. That’s something.

My novel has been passed to a producer for Lifetime, and a literary agent. Fingers crossed that something will happen on that front.

Better get back to wrapping up the knives in a lockbox, plugging up all the outlets, replacing the rubber corners on tables which have fallen off, locking the chimney and toilets, locking away the cleaning products and medicines … I don’t want this guy’s estimation of our house as the world’s safest place for placement to be diminished.

The Fourth and Final Week with Baby "J"

Three impossible words to realize and difficult to even type: He’s leaving us. We don’t know when or how, but it seems that it’s all settled even if the details have yet to be worked out. California and Baby J’s home state have decided to move the case, and of course, he’s going with it. It’s not about his birth parents being fit or unfit, or the home we’ve tried to make for him, it all comes down to cold, by-the-book legal jurisdiction and possibly money. Like I said in an earlier blog post, no state wants a new foster case.

As of this writing, we have heard from Baby J’s appointed lawyer that the other state’s DCFS has initiated a petition for services for him and they’re looking for a new foster family there to take him in. California DCFS has yet to receive information about it, such as day and means of transporting him, other than that we are likely to receive more information today. So, we are regulated from the role of foster and potential adoptive parents to simple babysitters waiting for their charge to be picked up.

I didn’t cry at first when I heard all this. J was asleep at the time and I went in and watched him, and even then, I didn’t. We had known since Day 1 that there was the risk of losing him, but being generally lucky people, we figured luck would be on our side. Then he opened his eyes, smiled, and reached up his arms to be picked up, and the tears came even as I smiled and cooed and lifted him up to play airplane. The tears kept falling throughout the day as I talked to Ian, and my parents who never had a chance to meet him but cried also at the prospect of losing who would have been their first grandson. We had visits and phone calls from friends, and my brother, J’s Uncle Michael, came over, and there was more laughter than tears.

He’s still in our home and our hearts, and it’s too soon, too close for reflection on what it means to have had this wonderful boy for one month, which he will forget but we never will.

Week Three With Baby “J”

Well, we’re midway through Week 3, and things aren’t any more certain than they were Hour 3. Like I said in the last entry, the judge has asked the parents’ home state to take the case, and the following Friday, they still hadn’t responded with a yes or a no. Ditto on the continuation on Monday. So, this Friday is the continuation of the continuation of the continuation of the continuation of the very first part of the process. It is a little like knowing you’re running a marathon, and stepping into quicksand right from the start.

No one’s happy about this limbo. DCFS doesn’t know whether this is a real case or not, the birth parents aren’t sure whether to stay here or go home, we don’t know if we’re foster-adopting or just babysitting.

But J continues to amaze us. When he first came to us, he could barely raise his head during “tummy time,” and now he can prop himself up. He can sit by himself with no support, if not quite consistently. He can roll over from his back to his stomach if not – alas, for him – from his stomach to his back yet. Last night, Ian and I taught him to wave “Hello” and once he caught on, he couldn’t stop laughing.

He has a little bit of a cold and is beginning teething, and then there are the usual other bodily secretions, making him the gooiest baby. And yet, even goopy, he is good-looking. So adorable that I was stopped by no fewer than five women at Ralph’s stopped me to admire him.

“How old?”

“Five months,” I smiled. The woman smiled. J smiled.

“Enjoy her while you can. She’ll grow up fast.”

J had no idea he had just been feminized. I hope to be around when he’s old enough to get mad about that.

Week Two With Baby "J"

On Sunday, our sister-in-law Kelly gave birth to a little girl, who, if we are able to adopt Baby J, will be his first cousin. We got to the hospital yesterday, and J was a little cranky, so we went looking for a restroom to change him. In all of UCLA Santa Monica hospital, there is no bathroom with changing facilities. We even discreetly checked out the women’s restrooms to see if by the old double standard, they were there in there, but no luck. Finally, we changed J’s diaper in the front lobby, and then learned that babies aren’t permitted to visit the maternity ward. That’s right: no babies allowed in maternity. H1N1 contamination fears, it seems. So I visited the beautiful little girl, and told J all about her. Hopefully he’ll get to meet her soon.

Earlier yesterday, we had our third meeting with birth mom and dad, which is stressful for all of us. Ian and I are in a strange state of being as foster-adoptive parents: we are supposed to be cheerleaders for reunification until that doesn’t work out, and then we’re supposed to snap into parent mode. Being human, and having this amazing little boy in our lives, whom we feed, burp, change, play with, tickle, and sometimes just stare wonderingly at while he stares back at us and then slowly grins … well, let’s just say our cheerleading for reunification with the birth parents sounds really false in our ears.

Baby J’s birth parents love him, that’s pretty clear. And he has not been neglected or abused. I don’t think they can take care of him, but it’s not my call. The judge here in California has decided to move the case to another state, where the birth parents actually live (one of them was visiting here when the incident occurred leading to J being taken away by the police), and we will see on Friday if that other state agrees to take the case, and with it, our boy. 50/50 odds, we’ve been told.

It’s hard to warm a bottle with crossed fingers.

We just want to be able to name the next blog posting "Week 3 With Baby J."

First Week With Baby "J"

A friend came over this weeknd with her six-year-old daughter who noticed that I had not set up one of the play mats in the nursery, and the little girl made herself useful in fixing it for J. She patted my arm and said, “I know this is tough, but I think you’ll get a hang of it eventually.”

Friday was the biological mom’s detention hearing, to see whether it was legal for the state to take away her child to begin with. Since we heard nothing, that’s good. If it had been found in her favor, there wouldn’t have been any phone calls, just cops at our door to take him away.

Next, we’ll be hearing who the judge for this case will be, which will determine a lot. There are judges renowned for doing anything for reunification with mothers and babies (“M’am, if you could just do crack and whore on weekends only, maybe?”), and we’re hoping we don’t get one of those or it’ll be a long, drawn-out process.

Best scenario from our point of view is that the judge severs parental rights off the bat, and we’re fast track for adoption in 6 months. Otherwise it could take a year or more if the mother keeps getting second and third and fourth chances – which happens.

6 Things we have learned about Baby J this week:

1. He goes through 10 to 12 diapers a day, sometimes one right after the other.
2. Only 3 things make him cry: being wet, being hungry, needing a burp. It’s no use trying to find another reason, even if it doesn’t make sense that he could be wet, hungry, or needing a burp.
3. He had his first solid food – rice cereal – last night, and loved it. Ate every bit.
4. He is the most social baby. He beams when there’s company over, new people to coo over him.
5. He is fascinated by himself. He can stare into the mirror at himself without blinking.
6. He is nearly there on sitting up on his own, and can stand up as long as someone’s there to help him keep his balance. We may have to lower his mattress in his crib soon to keep him from climbing out.

One thing I didn't have to learn this week, but was emphasized:

1. Thank God for friends and family.

Baby "J"

As I write this, it’s 6 am, and we have a 5-month-old in a crib sleeping away with – I can tell you – a clean diaper and a full belly.

Yesterday, Ian called me to say he received a phone call from our social worker at about 5 o’clock pm about a 5-month-old girl. He proceeded to tell me the story of how she ended up in the system, which is convoluted and we probably don’t have all the facts – and probably wouldn’t give them all online if/when we do. Suffice to say, she was at the DCFS office, ready to be picked up. I called them to confirm we were interested in her, and was told that she was actually a he. No name yet, but come and get him right away.

(We learned his name later, and just like his history, going to keep that a secret on this public blog. Call him “J.”)

Our nursery is as complete as it can be considering we didn’t know the age/sex/number of what we would be getting. I ran out the door and picked up what I figured was the essential what-a-5-month-old-needs-to-survive-one-night-at-our-place: blue onesie for 9-12 month old, diapers (what size? No idea what he would weigh), wipes, dry formula, bottles, nipples (hee hee), and car seat.

I picked up Ian and we went to the office, getting there at about 7:30. They bought him out, and he was “cranky” as he had been all day. He howled in the social worker’s arms, and then he howled in mine. Ian took him, and he calmed down immediately, and smiled and played with Ian’s glasses. The social worker said that was the best they had seen him all day. I can see I’m going to have to work on this.
Half-way back to our house in the car, he fell asleep in the car seat, his hand gripping mine. We got home at 8 and he slept until 11. First diaper change, unsuccessful attempt to get him to take a bottle of formula, and then swinging him around the house until 1 am when he decided to sleep.

He woke up, not crying, at 5 with a wet diaper. Changed, and finally got him to eat, and again to sleep.

Got so much to do today, going to pediatrician, meeting with social worker, picking up all the additional things didn’t have time to get tomorrow.
Hopefully, he’ll get to stay with us, because we’re smitten.

Close Call and Call Waiting

Another near miss with getting a baby. I was on the phone having a business call, and Ian was in a meeting as well, and when we got off, we both had voicemails telling us to call our social worker right away. I got to them first, and was told about a two-day-old baby boy, born positive for cocaine, but with no medical issues. His mother was incarcerated, his father was unknown. This was an emergency placement where someone needed to pick him up right away.

We were second on the list, and the people ahead of us were supposed to be calling back in 5 or 10 minutes to give a definite yes or no. 5 or 10 minutes turned into 30, and I impatiently called back, and was told our social worker was on the phone with them and would call me back. Another half an hour, and she called to tell me that they had decided to say yes.

In the meantime, I had straightened up the nursery, and Ian and I separately had gotten our hopes up. It made the frustration more painful when it didn’t happen, but the truth is that it was just bad luck. No one at fault. We hope he ended up in a good family.

And we hope the next one will be ours.

If I’m on the phone with you, please understand if I have to hang up if another call comes through. Heh heh heh.