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.
No comments:
Post a Comment