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.