Comedy and Tragedy

It's a good old-fashioned, post-puker of a Saturday morning here on Bonnie Castle Way. Justin got a little too bouncy at the Oneg last night - (for my non-Jewish friends, that's the cake and cookie spread after Friday night services at the synagogue). When it comes to packing in the snacks, J1 is a model of perfect self-restraint, but J2 usually loads up on enough sugar and carbs to go from perky to Type 2 in 0.5 seconds.

Last night was a little too much for the poor fella. After ingesting what I'm sure must have amounted to a Saint Bernard's portion of all of the above, he let loose with a vomit piñata that would have done Linda Blair proud, circa 1973.

I'm sure it didn't help that he bounces off the walls anytime he's within fifty feet of Temple Sinai. It's par for the course, but it's not so amusing for our congregational friends, who thought his hyperactivity-in-hyperdrive was cute the first couple of times they saw it, but now, judging from the complaints we got last night, is quickly growing old.

I don't know where this fits on the comedy-tragedy scale. Remember those big theatre masks? The two faces, one of them smiling, one of them distraught? That feels like my life right now. I watch my son - literally - toss his cookies all over the temple, and when I sit down to write about it, I don't know if I'm supposed to laugh or cry.

In retrospect, it's enormously funny. A night on the couch bed with soda crackers and 7-Up, and he's fit as a fiddle. No harm done and it makes a hell of a funny blog. On the other hand, I'm so incredibly sad his world includes this. 

He's got a laundry list of behavioral issues, and spontaneous regurgitation is just one more treat we get to throw in the wash. I don't care if it happens on me. He can blow chunks on his new dad's tie until the end of time. That's what I'm here for. I'm just so angry it has to happen in the first place. 

Justin has trouble with self control. It extends to his eating. His foster moms warned us well in advance, "if you don't watch him, he really will eat until he throws up, especially if he's bouncing all over the place." And, well, frankly, when isn't he?

So, last night was pretty unspectacular as far as upchucks go. He's done it before. I'm sure he'll do it again. I'm a little confused why, in the midst of his barfing, people kept handing me piles of napkins instead of the nearest bucket, cup or garbage can. I pretty much stood there looking helpless while he threw up in my hands, lined with a big stack of one-ply Scott brand. I rushed him off to the bathroom, while newdad 2 stayed behind in the sanctuary, helping the kitchen staff clean up his fallout. I'm sure it was a banner night to be working the food line at Temple Sinai.

It's too much too soon for him. Adapting, settling in to all of this. He's ADHD times ten, low-priority Medicaid-treated, and we expect him to sit calmly in his seat for 90 minutes, then walk-not-run when we let him out of his chair. I took him for a walk last night hoping he'd burn off some energy. Even that didn't do it. The new stains on the Temple Sinai carpet are proof-positive of that foray into futility.

So, I guess, refound Jewish world or not, we keep him home on Friday nights until we get his behavior under better control. We can't fix him there, and he can't fix himself. And all the adoption books warned us there quickly comes a point when your friends and family stop seeing you as people adjusting to a difficult transition. When your kids are still running wild two months down the road, people just plain see you as shitty parents. And believe me, we're getting plenty of those glares already.

So, there you have it. Justin's on the couch, still asleep. I wish you could see him that way, because he's an angel straight from heaven when he's stationary. He's beautiful and he's perfect and if Botticelli were still here to paint him, I'd beg for the honor. But sadly, most of you just get to see him in action, Friday night services, or in this blog, overactive, running wild, throwing up, and just being Justin.

The comedy and tragedy of my new little boy. 

And I'm so damn angry at the world that did this to him.

Working Without a Net

This has been an interesting week for Adam.

I travel for work quite often, sometimes a week at a stretch, and although my company has been kind enough to keep me close to home during the adoption placement and the months leading up to it, all good things must come to an end, and I found myself in Orlando this week at yet another trade show, while Adam stayed home with the kids, solo parenting for the first time ever.

Now keep in mind, Adam, much as we admire him, gets anxious if you ask him to pop over around six and let your dog out. It’s not that he’s incapable of diving into the deep end of the pool – far from it, he’s all heart – he just hasn’t been required, until this week, to take his floaties off and swim without a lifeguard.

Conservative, anti-gay, radio windbag Dennis Prager sneers at same-sex marriage as “the the most radical social experiment in modern history.” And while I carefully keep two out of ten fingers in close reserve for Mr. Prager should the two of us ever bump into each other in a dark alley, I have to admit how close he comes to describing Adam’s first week alone with the kids.

Tuesday morning when I woke up in my suite at the Peabody (and let me say if you’ve never rolled out of bed in a suite at the Peabody, put it on your bucket list), I couldn’t help myself. I texted Adam and said, “Not to brag, but I’ve got a TV built into my bathroom mirror, pancakes on the way from room service, and soap in the shower shaped like little ducks.” He fired back, “Glad to hear it. I’ve got Pop Tarts smashed all over the carpet and diarrhea.”

I went back to look at his Facebook statuses for the play-by-play, almost anticipating them to be written in crayon by a shaky hand that got shakier as the week went by, but other than a second day tattle on Justuce for not brushing her teeth, it was total radio silence. Poor man was too busy to complain about anything else.

Let’s see. Justuce got the week off to a hoot and a holler by not getting into bed the first night. She just stood there with that special, frozen “no” look she reserves just for Adam and me. After a 1-2-3 count that resulted in the loss television for the next day, Adam simply turned on her nightlight, closed the door and left her standing in the middle of her bedroom, staring at her wall. Sorry folks, that’s how we roll. Justuce’s defiance is carved in marble. Sometimes when you've looked at the statue long enough, you just shut the door and back away from the rope line. Museum closed. Come back tomorrow.

Let’s see. What else. Justin refused to get out of the car at day camp, not one, not two, but all four days. I’m not sure how this was resolved, gentle coaxing or Jaws of Life, but eventually Adam got him moving.

They ate about three boxes of Pop Tarts and had fits when the chocolate ones ran out, since blueberry and brown sugar cinnamon in this house are apparently akin to child abuse.

There was the usual whining, fighting, punching, kicking, crying and telling, but that’s a regular week, so I’m not awarding any bonus points for those.

And then there were plenty of those super slow-motion freaky-deaky moments Justuce does when she doesn’t want to cooperate, which is often. Ask her to pick up a toy or a shoe and she doesn’t just ice you out, she turns into a bottle of Aunt Jemima after an all-nighter in your freezer. NASA is currently studying the speed of her body movements as they prep the first Mars astronauts for the nine month transit time.

All in all, Adam did an excellent job. When I got home, everything passed the “b” inspection (nothing was broken, bleeding or barfed on). The kids were happy, they greeted me with hugs and happiness (wonders never cease), and Adam still has what’s left of his hair. None of the furniture was scarred, charred or smoldering, which is somewhat of a surprise, because you should see these kids jiggle when they light the Shabbat candles.

The most radical social experiment in modern history, passed with flying colors.

Just don’t tell Adam I said that. He’s still hiding in the bathroom taking his anti-seizure meds and waiting for his digestive system to recalibrate.

Happythankyoumoreplease

Random notes from the early days of parenthood...

Holy cow, look at the toilet paper she goes through. I thought it might add up, but by the looks of the skid marks in his underwear, what we spend on her, we'll more than make up for on him.

Synagogues make you pay a building fund.  You pay x amount for five years, and then if you switch temples, you don't pay a building fund again. You paid your dues and your dues travel with you. I thought of this when I was making her bed this morning. She'll never appreciate it, but she's already earned it. These kids paid life's building fund a long time ago at someone else's temple and it was a big one. If they piss me off because they don't pick up their socks, sometimes they get a freebie.

Justuce says "puzzurt" instead of "dessert" and "prize" instead of "surprise." This makes me happy.

Justin can dribble a basketball between his legs, yet he'll walk straight into a tree. Fascinating.

Thank you, Mom, for giving up a day of work, once a month, forever, to take me to the orthodontist. I had no idea how much medical appointments mess up a working parent's life. Thank you.

Justin, in the car, out of the blue, offended: "Hey! Why Justuce gots more shoes than me?" I think the correct answer is "because she's a girl." Did I get that one right?

There is nothing more beautiful than watching them breathe while they're sleeping. I watch their chests rise up and down and I pray along with the rhythm, hoping they'll always know that kind of peace.

Where do all the goggles go? I could give two shits about single socks in the dryer. Socks are six bucks a dozen. You want to save my sanity, tell me where they lose all their freaking goggles.

Keep your gum in your mouth, keep your gum in your mouth, keep your gum in your mouth, keep your gum in your MOUTH.

Just when I think she doesn't like me, or at the very best, simply tolerates me, she'll ask me to pick her up and she'll wrap her arms around my neck and she'll nestle into me with such a perfect, puzzle piece fit, I feel foolish, needed and utterly confused. I hope that feeling never goes away.

What is that smell?

I wish my dad were here to see this. Parts of this would amuse him very much.

I bet they would have been really cool to hold as babies. Somebody really messed this up. If I ever meet that person, the first thing I'm going to say is thank you.

The confident, five-word assurance "I don't have to pee" has yet to materialize as fact.

They like In the Night Kitchen by Maurice Sendak, not so much for its intrinsic literary merit, but because Mickey's junk hangs out when he falls out of the cake batter. They point to his wiener on every page and say "ewwww" and giggle. And of course, this only makes me want to read it to them more often, which I do.

Oooh, does he get pissed when he's trying to ask me for a do-over of something mysterious he liked a couple days ago and "that thing we had that other time" doesn't ring any bells.

Dimetapp folks, you get four stars for your watery grape elixir. PediaCare folks with your gooey cherry syrup, I suggest a retooling. You get projectile gagged all over my couch.

It's amazing how quickly "I hope they like me" turned into "I don't care if they like me or not, they will do what I say." This took about six days, in case you were wondering.

I think I know why kids have to wear socks in the McDonald's Play Place. It's the only way the plastic ever gets cleaned. Have you seen your kids' black socks when they get out? They're not so much playing in there. They're dry mopping.

Under no circumstances should you ever, ever let Justin pet your chihuahua.

They both like to be carried to bed upside down by their ankles. I'm going to need a chiropractor.

We have a big "family love" poster in the hall upstairs. "In this house, we do love." Every night, they each get to put three stickers on it. A smiley-face because they make us happy. A heart because we love them. And a star to have sweet dreams.

Early on, I said to them, "You know what you get if you're good in the store? Two happy dads." And we repeated it a few times on other occasions. Now when we ask them, they grumble the answer, "two happy dads," with a snarl. This makes us particularly happy.

And maybe most importantly of all – and I almost don't want to say this out loud because it's too soon to tell and I don't want to jinx it – I think they like Star Trek.

Our Cuties' Booties

Urban Dictionary: Drop Trou - to lower one's pants down to one's ankles, often in a sudden, impulsive manner, thus exposing one's nether regions.

We do a little song here when the kids drop trou. We stole it from my friend Dawn, who sings it to her daughter Cayti.

I see a hiney, it's nice and shiny. If you don't hide it, I'm gonna bite it.

We also added a second verse we wrote ourselves:

I see a tushy, it's nice and mushy. I see a booty, it is a cutie.

Both verses get immediate giggles, a cheery sing-along, or a grumpy "stop singing that!" depending on mood du jour.

We wondered if the kids would arrive with any modesty issues when they got here. We figured they probably wouldn't, being six and seven, but really didn't know what to expect for kids of that age, particularly Justuce, who was used to sharing her birthday suit with two moms and four sisters, not two dads.

Didn't faze her a bit. On their first sleepover, still transitioning - that in-between time where they adjust from foster home to permanent life - the kids decided they wanted to swim in the back yard pool. I barely said yes before we had two naked kids in the kitchen. Justuce covered her bare body with half-hearted bikini hands for about five seconds, then realizing that was just slowing her down on her way to wiggling into her Disney Princess one-piece, figured, screw it, in for a penny, in for a pound.

The kids aren't old enough to worry about who sees them naked yet, which is handy for quick costume changes here at home, but a real challenge at a public pool, where Justin will drop trou for God and Country in a heartbeat, onlookers be damned. Justuce is a bit more discreet, although she did get out of the pool at the athletic club the first time we took her there, announced she had to pee, and before we could point her to the ladies room, simply stood up next to the nearest chaise lounge and did it down her leg. No time like the present.

I've got a great picture of Justin in the shower, wearing his sister's shower cap. Justuce washes her hair every other night. On odd nights, she gets to cover it up to save on snarls and drying time. Justin got wind of that, and fair's fair, wanted to wear one himself. So, in the category of "photos that'll never make it to Facebook for fear of a Department of Family Services inquiry," there he is in all his glory, shower cap puffing off his head like a giant pink mushroom, smiling to beat the band and letting it all hang out with great enthusiasm. I texted it to my sister in Wisconsin and she said, "poor boy, I haven't even met him and I've already seen his junk." C'est la vie, kiddo, and welcome to Bonnie Castle Way. I'm going to love showing that to your prom date someday.

The most adventurous spotting of a hiney that's nice and shiny occurred last week at Bonnie Springs Old Nevada, the wild west town out past Red Rock. Justuce was having a leisurely pee in the old town saloon when along came a spider who sat down beside her, and before I knew it, there was a piercing scream, a scramble of limbs, and she shot out from under the stall like greased lightning. Didn't even open the door. Just scrambled out from underneath in two seconds flat, shorts around her ankles, fanny in the breeze and halfway down the hall before it occurred to her she was a bit underdressed for getting out of Dodge.

We're trying to condition them now to dress and undress away from each other, but it's harder than you'd think. They shared a bedroom in foster care these past few years, so changing in front of each other was all they grew up with. They goofed around, wrestled and played, clothed or unclothed, dressed or not. They took baths together. Got ready for bed together. All acceptable then, but not so much now.

Now it's one of our early jobs to remind them "privates are private," and what used to be perfectly fine in foster care, isn't allowed here. One of the rules of foster care in Clark County states that once a boy reaches 5 years old, he's required to have his own room, separate from his sister, or any other girls in the house. Clark County was a year late in making that happen, but here they are, and now it's our task to fix it. They do have separate bedrooms here, and that's where we patiently encourage them to change their clothes. There, or separate bathrooms.

Not an easy feat. Say "let's swim," and Justin has his pants around his ankles and his goods hanging out in half a heartbeat, whether his sister's on the viewing stand or not. Corraling him into the downstairs bathroom before the jewels start shining is an exercise in patience and repetition. Sharing a room with his sister for so many years, he came to us inclined to drop trou and wag his willy at her out of sheer, silly goofiness, and believe me, you don't want to tell THAT to your case worker, or you'll have two or three DFS experts climbing up your tree with a flashlight investigating your "alleged occurance of sexualized behavior." Welcome to the big leagues, folks, where even pure, harmless, little kid silliness is up for massive, legal interpretation.

Not surprisingly, our yucky, grown-up dad bodies don't get rave reviews. My first swim in the back yard with them drew an enormous "ewwww, that's disgusting!!" the first time Justuce realized I had armpit hair, and Justin was equally unimpressed with my manly physique, pointing at me with a horrified, drawn-out "ewwww, you got big boobs!" before bursting out in hysterical laughter.

Adam is required to put on a t-shirt in the morning or Justuce won't come near him. No longer is his hairy chest a thing of beauty.

And Justin, bless him, the first time we showered together in the men's locker room at the athletic club, took one look at me from the waist down and broke out into even louder hysterical laughter, screaming out to everyone within a three-mile radius, "Ha-ha-ha-ha! You got a big hairy pee-pee!" A little too loud, but thank you, son. I do what I can.

So, the next time you find your way to a swimming session with J1 or J2, be advised. You'll see a hiney, it's nice and shiny. If we don't hide it, you're gonna see it. Avert your eyes, my friends. Modesty doesn't live here anymore...but two cute little booties do.

A Prayer for Wings

My favorite author is a man named James Matthew Barrie, who wrote a book you all know called Peter Pan, and another book not many of you know called The Little White Bird.

In The Little White Bird, the narrator is a man so enchanted with David, a little boy he meets in Kensington Gardens, he inexplicably worms his way into the family's life, just to make sure the boy is taken care of, going so far as to invent, then bury, a fictitious son of his own just to to offer toys and clothes David's proud parents otherwise wouldn't be able to afford.

J.M. Barrie was much the same in real life. So in love was he with with other people's children, he kidnapped five of them. Kind biographers say he "unofficially adopted" George, Jack, Peter, Michael and Nico Llewelyn Davies, the boys who inspired Peter Pan, but truth be told, he stole them.

Calling himself "Uncle Jim," he all but took over the role of father, even before the boys' natural father, Arthur, died of cancer. And when the boys' mom, Sylvia, died three years later, he simply assumed parental rights. Just moved them in, no red tape and no questions asked. No Clark County Department of Family Services for this guy. You wanted to "adopt" four kids in 1910? Step right up. Yours for the taking.

Justuce and Justin come to us with considerably more red tape and an approval process that won't be made court-official for another six to eight months. That's a long time coming before His Honor the Judge signs on the dotted line.

They also find their way into our home after our long history of loving other people's children, something you'd think would have left us well-rehearsed for our new role as Dad and Daddy, but it turns out, no. There's really no rehearsal that prepares you for this. Shit, no.

Infatuated as I've always been with Peter Pan and the sweet idealized concept of never having to completely grow up myself, Justuce and Justin are the first two children who've forced me to do it.

It was so incredibly easy to interact with Koltin and Jaime, Jordan, Camry, Jared and Cayti, because they required nothing from me, and I required nothing from them. We just loved each other reciprocally for the sake of the love itself. The attention, the laughter, the games and the fun. Very few rules. The lawless love of childhood. Everyone should get to be that person for a child at some point in their life. It's a very special role. I hope one of you will be that person for my kids someday. It's a gift all children should have, and one all adults should aspire to give. Grandparents get this to some extent, but cool, irresponsible, Peter Pan uncles get it the best.

Parenthood, I'm finding out early, is not the same thing as loving the children of others. It's boundaries and behavior, it's corrections and time-outs. It's way too many doctor visits. And to two new children who've only had three months of knowing us and a month and a half of living with us, "like" is the best we can hope for right now. "Tolerate" is common. "Putting up with us" is a good day. "Love" is still a journey, as it should be.

Even though that makes perfect sense in my mind, it's still hard on my heart, knowing our kids don't quite love us yet when we're used to being the guys who are loved right away. It's definitely a splash of cold water in our face. It takes the old ego down a notch, to say the least.

Love wasn't reciprocated so quickly by all those kids-of-others because of anything remarkable Adam and I did. It was given freely because they already had good, solid, steady homes to go back to, and Adam and I were just the icing on a cake they already had. We were loving and attentive, but the kind of empty calories kids go wild for. He was chips and I was soda. If I were their age, I would have loved us too. Now we're brocolli. Now we're bedtime.

Now we have two beautiful kids who, on some level, love us. Maybe it's Stockholm Syndrome, maybe it's genuine affection. I don't know yet, and it's too soon to tell. This could take weeks, or months, or maybe even years. Sometimes there are signs that lift me so high, I want to sing. Justuce came home from day camp today, and ran up the stairs to jump up and hug me. I didn't see that coming in a million years. It was so out-of-character, I don't know whether to call it a first or a fluke. But it sure felt good.

And then tonight on the way home from her grandma's house, she told us again how she really doesn't like us, and she wants to go home to Bonnie and Beeba and blah-blah-blah, we're terrible and awful and dumb. And she sounded pretty chipper about it. She sounded happy to say it and leave it hanging in the air like every other schoolgirl stilletto taunt she's so damn good at slicing me to the quick with. She was probably just teasing and enjoying a good laugh at my expense, because honestly, they've both been good as gold this week, and very affectionate. But Justin, being her little brother and sing-song playful, repeated her sentiments with gusto. And even understanding that this is just the way it works, what can I say. It still hurts to get two in a row. I don't like you Number 1, and I don't like you Number 2. Dr. Seuss never wrote about those two Things.

We're in that awkward in-between stage. Little signs of affection everywhere, interrupted by vast reminders that they'd rather live with almost anyone else. They raise us up with hopes and glimpses of what they might give. Then they take it all away again with the ruthless, reckless honesty of childhood...sometimes out of genuine sadness, sometimes out of boredom, and sometimes just for sport. And it's our job to man-up and take it.

God, grant us the strength to never, ever, ever tell these children they're in our home because nobody else wanted them. Let us never be the ones to lay that burden on their already heavy hearts, not for pride or dignity or plain, hurt revenge. Because when they hurt me like that, inadvertently and without remorse like children do, like hurt, scared, adoptive children of this age are entitled to do, I feel it on my lips sometimes, and I'm so scared I'm actually going to say it.

Let them reject me for sport, out of sadness or boredom or confusion, but please God, don't let me ever be the one to tell them that we stepped in because everyone else they loved stepped out. They'll grow up and realize that soon enough without hearing it from me, and maybe someday, future-far, they'll look back on all the early, cavalier "I hate you's" and maybe then we'll be their heroes. But until then, God, don't let us be their martyrs.

I tucked Justin in tonight and I told him the same thing I told Justuce earlier this week when she was crying about losing her foster home. "I love you a lot, and you don't even have to worry about loving me back yet, because I just want you to be happy, and I've got love enough for all of us right now."

"S'okay," he whispered quickly. "I love you."

And then he was gone. Head buried under his covers like he always does. A little lack of focus, a little scared-of-the-dark, but that's the way he always goes to sleep. And I sat there stunned, like a hit-and-run had just happened. A drive-by "love you." So quick. So beautiful. And like their love right now, so heartbreakingly fragile and fleeting.

But something anyway. A glimpse. A hope. A little white bird to believe in, even though it's not really flying yet.

Poor little Peter Pan, he sat down and cried, and even then he did not know that, for a bird, he was sitting on his wrong part. It is a blessing that he did not know, for otherwise he would have lost faith in his power to fly, and the moment you doubt whether you can fly, you cease forever to be able to do it. The reason birds can fly and we can't is simply that they have perfect faith, for to have faith is to have wings. - JM Barrie, "The Little White Bird, or Adventures in Kensington Gardens."

Thank you, God, for this beautiful chance. Thank you, God for this beautiful life.

Adam and I still believe we can do this. We still have faith in our wings.

We're Off to See the Wizard

We're taking Justin to a pediatric neurologist this week.

Silly me, I thought neurologists were just neurologists...a dime a dozen, serving the masses age 1 to 100. But nope, it turns out some are just for kids. And, of course we need one (I say with a sigh). Why wouldn't we? Join the doctor club, oh, new neurologist of mine.

Both of our kids see a therapist once a week. She helps them with their behavioral control issues, cooperation, competitiveness, tantrums - all the stuff you normal moms and dads deal with. I'm sure you wouldn't mind sending your little angels off for a little tinkering once a week to blow the cobwebs out. No harm in that.

Ours is ordered by the Clark County Department of Family Services. Technically, they still own our kids and get to tell us what to do with them for another six-to-eight months until our adoption is finalized and a judge hands over the keys to the car. We have a contributory say in picking their doctors for ease of location, but their case plan is very much laid out in stone for us. If they say jump, we say how high. If they say pediatric neurologist, we're off to see the wizard.

We have to see the neurologist, you see, to rule out sensory or brain-related issues, before Justin can see another team-ordered piece of the pie - an occupational therapist - who will give him treatment for impulse control problems, lack of frustration tolerance, and whatever else is lurking under the woodwork.

I have a sneaking suspicion Justin is already looking at ADHD in the rear view mirror, but the therapist isn't technically allowed to diagnose it, so it's off to the neurologist who can clear us for the occupational therapist, and, well, at a certain point, the whole thing just turns into a Tom Lehrer song. In brief bouts of hysterical mind laughter as I comtemplate the myriad of doctors appointments this boils down to, a little voice inside me is quietly singing, "There's antimony, arsenic, aluminum, selenium, And hydrogen and oxygen and nitrogen and rhenium..."

And that's just for Justin, who's been in therapy for a while now. Who knows what snowballs will start rolling down the hill once Justuce is up and running. She's been sharing therapy sessions with her brother since we've had her, but her therapy intake assessment for her solo work just got underway last week.

I don't even know how this is supposed to work once the school year starts. We...what? Take them out of school early once, twice, three times a week to see all their various doctors? Will we have follow-ups that lead to other follow-ups? Criss-crossing referrals that lead to other referrals? Why didn't anybody tell us about any of this? Not that it would change our love for them. Not that it would stop us from wanting them. But come on. Really? Three specialists right out of the ballpark? Truth in advertising, people. Truth in advertising.

Sometimes the frustrated taxi driver in my head says, "You know what? Maybe they fight, growl and whack the crap out of each other because they're siblings at six and seven, and that's what siblings at six and seven do. Lighten up, people. Kids will be kids." Because, frankly, their list of doctors this year is starting to look like the menu at the local Chinese takeaway. I'll have the number 3, no noodles.

But of course, I know that's not logical. These kids are indeed classified as "special needs" on their DFS bio sheet - although to DFS marketing credit, they cleverly water it down a bit during recruitment, saying anytime kids over 2-years-old are adopted, or anytime they're in a sibling group needing same-home placement, they are automatically classified as special-needs - as if that makes their "needs" a little less daunting to prospective shoppers - but yeah, no doubt about it, these kids truly did get off to a rough neurological start, and here we are, the new guys, doing our best to pick up the pieces with a tank of gas a week and no instruction manual provided. Some assembly required.

We don't talk a whole lot about the kids' birth parents to our friends. That information is on a need-to-know basis, and, well, frankly, a lot of you don't need to know. It's our kids' private history, and someday when they're older, they may not appreciate the fact that Dad-1 and Dad-2 told everybody in their universe what a shitty start they had in life.

But then again, it frustrates me that I can't tell you all about it. That I shouldn't tell you about it. That I shouldn't shout it from the rooftops and help you understand them. Or at the very least, when well-meaning friends are giving us countless tips on how to discipline our kids - and don't get us wrong, we appreciate you sharing all the cool, logical tips that worked with your children - but we also need you to understand that the playing field is probably a little uneven. Your kids likely weren't born with alcohol and crystal meth in their systems, and, well, not to put too fine a point on it, but if your kids simmered in a broth of ice in utero, which tends to whack out the part of the brain that runs cognitive functions like judgment and reasoning, you might get a little extra cranky when your brother calls you a dumb poopy-pants la-la fart head, too.

All, I'm saying is, thank you for your parenting tips. I don't mean to be rude or ungrateful, but a lot of times, you guys are speaking Japanese when we require Korean. To the untrained ear, they may sound a lot alike, and I'm sure you're thinking if one worked for you, it certainly must work for us, but, well, no. Let's all just cool our jets until we hear what the Great and Powerful Oz has to say.

"The sum of the square roots of any two sides of an isosceles triangle is equal to the square root of the remaining side. Oh joy! Rapture! I got a brain! How can I ever thank you enough?" said the Scarecrow to the Wizard.

Thank God special needs kids come with Medicaid cards.

Justin's Panties

Justin calls his underwear "panties."

That's really not such a bad thing. Being two gay dads, you'd think we'd be the last people to force gender assignment on the poor kid's vernacular.

See, here's the thing. Justin has lived with seven women for the past three years of his life. There's Bonnie and Beeba, his two foster moms...Justuce, his own biological sister...and then there were four other foster sisters in his house...Ashlen, Kaelen, Jaeden, and Madisen, ranging in ages from 7 to 12.

All girls. All the time.

If any boy strolling by a laundry room door ever had occasion to overhear a big basket of underwear generically called "panties," ours would be the boy.

Justin says lots of funny things. Panties are just the frosting on the cake.

For starters, "Oh-my-gossshhhh!" with a long, frustrated, drawn-out "gosh," that we try so hard not to laugh at, because it's so damn cute, the way he respectfully replaces the standard OMG with a Mormon-approved "gosh." (Justin's foster family were LDS).

So, as much as it tickles us every time we hear it, we have to really try to bite our cheeks. Laughing at it would be salt in an open wound, since Justin primarily uses "oh my gosh" when he is Grade-A pissed. It's his go-to expression whenever he's frustrated with his sister's behavior, or not getting his way, or not getting to go first, or any other perceived episode of severe inequality or unfairness. And believe me, life deals out a dozen or more of those transgressions a day in Justin's world.

I wish you could hear how funny it is. In fact, in moments when he's not tossing it out as the real McCoy, even he knows it's cute, and isn't afraid to chew up the scenery with it. He'll perform it during meals if we ask him, with all the over-the-top gusto of $49.95 dinner theatre. "Oh-my-gossshhhh, more broccoli." "Oh-my-gossshhhh," no butter." Whatever we tell him to say, he'll parrot it back with his patented "oh my gosh," along with a few creative ad-libs of his own, "Oh-my-gossshhh, pee-pee, poo-poo, poopie."

Next on the list is "actually."

Justin changes his mind a lot. He's six, so that sort of comes with the territory, but chronology aside, his mind is usually elsewhere and he's just not too steady on the helm when it comes to making snap decisions.

"I don't want popcorn." Followed by a micro-second pause, then, "Actually, I do."

Only Justin talks a little fast sometimes, and his "actually" comes out a little slurred. It sounds more like "Ashley." So, we get all sorts of cute waffling:

"I want a bath tonight. No, Ashley, a shower."

"I want a yellow glow stick. No, Ashley a purple one."

"Justin, do you want some more salad?"

"No. Ashley, yes."

In private moments, Adam and I now mimic Justin's "Ashley."

"Hey, Dad. The kids are in day camp. Are you going to finish that second bottle of wine?"

"No, I've had enough. Ashley, yes. Keep pouring."

And finally, Justin transposes "you" and "didn't" with the marvelous charm and agility that only a six-year-old can pull off. "Why didn't you?" becomes "Why you didn't?"

The Anglophile in me wants to correct him, but the new parent in me hopes it lasts forever. We didn't get to baby Justuce and Justin. We adopted them at 6 and 7. We're catching the very tail-end of their little-kid-talk, and it's magical, and we'll only get to hear it for another half a heartbeat, and then it'll be gone. We need to savor it while we have it, because in the truest sense of the word, this one's here today, gone tomorrow.

So when Justin says wonderful funny things in the utmost sincerity, like, "Why you didn't tell me Scooby Doo was on?" or "Why you're not wearing your flip-flops?" it's all we can do not to giggle again. The questions, after all, are dead serious...it's just his syntax that needs a tweek. And we hope it doesn't come too soon.

Which brings me back to Justin's panties.

We prep them for day camp in the morning with a packet of clothes already downstairs. We stumbled onto the coolest trick in discovering they'll get dressed like a flash if we pre-roll their morning clothing packet for them...shorts, camp t-shirt, socks, underwear. Right after breakfast, before the TV goes on, we set the kitchen timer for ten minutes. If they get dressed, brush their teeth and comb their hair before the timer goes off, they get a Monopoly dollar and TV time. Five Monopoly dollars buys a chocolate coin. We are not above buying our new children's love and obedience with chocolate and the Cartoon Network. Not even up for debate.

But of course, the other day, as Justin dashed up the stairs with his clothing packet, ready to beat the timer for the fifth day running, he was more than a little annoyed with me because I remembered his shorts, socks and shirt, but I forgot to roll up the underwear in his packet of day wear.

"Oh-my-gossshhh!" he griped loudly from over the railing. "Why you didn't give me panties!"

And as much as I tried not to laugh, I couldn't keep it inside when I looked up at him. Justin was bare naked from the waist down, hands on his hips, pissed to beat the band, and there we were, making it worse, laughing hilariously, while the chocolate cartoon timer ticked on.

I promised myself right there on the spot, I wouldn't make it worse. I'd let my brand new son keep his dignity. I would never, ever tell the whole world he calls his underwear panties. I could never do that to him in a million years. No chance at all.

Ashley, yes.

There's a Wren in a Willow Wood

"There's a wren in a willow wood, flies so high and he sings so good, and he brings to you, what he sings to you. And the love in his lullaby, seemed to tell me if I try, I could fly for you, and I wanna try for you, 'cause...I wanna sing you a love song, I wanna rock you in my arms all night long. I wanna get to know you. I wanna show you the peaceful feeling of my home." - Loggins & Messina.

My daughter is seven-years-old, and she cried in my arms tonight because she doesn't want to live here. She doesn't want to be my daughter, and she wants to go home.

Home for her is the foster home where she's spent the last three years of her life, loved by two amazing moms, her own biological brother, and four great foster sisters, loved and protected, but a little bit lost and unlucky in the grand scheme of adoption timing. The wheels of progress in finding her a forever family (that's me), did not turn quickly, so Justuce, from four to seven, grew to love her foster moms and her foster sisters like any little girl would if she was placed in a home and left there for three years.

Three years is forever to a little girl. Why after all that time the world picked her up and dropped her in the lap of two new dads is beyond her comprehension. She was doing just fine where she was. She was happy. She had sisters. Two moms. And now they're gone. Now they've been replaced by a whole new life. And tonight she cried her first real tears -- tears of loss, despair and mourning -- hurt, painful, fearsome tears, because she's just a little girl, and she just wants to go back home.

All I could do was kneel at her bedside and stroke her hair and turn on her night lights - the turtle and the ladybug that light up and shine stars on her ceiling - and cry a little too. I told her I'm sorry she's sad, and it's okay to cry, and I will always be here to hold her, and that I don't know why the world does this to people either. I told her it's not fair. And I told her she's brave and strong; the bravest, strongest girl I have ever met in my whole life. And I told her how lucky I am, out of all the people in the world, I got picked to be her dad. How lucky, lucky, lucky that makes me. And that it's okay when she's too sad to want me. It won't change my love. I'm still the luckiest dad in the world.

Before I even met my new children, when they were just a photo and a bio sheet, when they were still just an idea, not the two beautiful, wonderful, frustrating people I now spend my days with, I sang to their picture every night. "I want to sing you a love song," I sang into two beautiful, but empty, brand new bedrooms. "I want to rock you in my arms all night long. If I try, I could fly for you. I want to try for you." I sang that promise to them before I even had them in my home. But now the bedrooms aren't empty anymore. Now they have two little owners, Justuce, 7, and Justin, 6. Here they are. All ours. Adam's and mine. Everything we always hoped for. Everything we could have ever dared dream. And everything is suddenly so beautiful. And everything is suddenly so hard.

One month, and five days. This is where our story begins. Love, tears, joy, sadness, and everything in between.

Some days are really, really good.

But tonight is sad because my little girl is seven, and she wants to go back home, and this isn't home yet.

This is just a dumb place they put her in.

And she's mad and she's sad and she has every right. That's what I told her tonight. If I were you, I'd be so mad, and so sad, and I wouldn't want to be here either. And I'm sorry the world works this way, I'm sorry she hurts, and I hurt with her. She looked up at me at one point, surprised, I think, to see me crying too. "I love you," I whispered. "Don't even worry about loving me back yet. Let's just try to build a new world together. A really good one, that someday might feel like home."

And she cried a little more, and I cried a little more, and then she fell asleep. Me stroking her hair, lullabyes playing softly on a speaker near her bed, and ladybug stars lighting up a sad, dark night in her brand new home.