We Should Go for a Walk in the Snow

Dear Future-Kids,

A long time ago, I wrote these poems. I'm going to put them here for safe keeping in case you ever want to read them to your kids someday, too.

Remembering Then

Once upon a paper sky
And once upon a butterfly
We laughed the days by, you and I
We danced around the sun

We whispered secrets in the air
And told them to a teddy bear
Who promised he would never share
Our words with anyone

The world was full of magic tricks
When I was seven, you were six
We had some things we had to fix
But growing up was fun

But then we grew and closed the door
And couldn't go back anymore
To seven, six, or five and four
When days were never done

Once upon a moonlight glow
And once upon the falling snow
We never knew
How could we know
We danced around the sun

Mail at Six

Today I am six and the mailman might bring
Me a bag full of presents and every good thing
Like a card from my Grandma and packages too
Or some tickets to games or else maybe the zoo
Or a new set of trains and a couple of cars
And a mask that would look like it came down from Mars
Or a big alligator with rosy red cheeks
That was kept at the post office several weeks
Or a pitcher of lemonade, maybe a cake
And some toys and some boys that I met at the lake
And a big box of things that are wrapped in a bow
And a bike and a map so I know where to go

And just how will he carry them all, I should ask
'Cause I think it would be an impossible task
Will he drive a big bus? Will he fly a small plane?
When he comes with the mail? When he comes down the lane?
If the dog bites his leg will he take them all back?
Will he not let me see what he has in his sack?
There's just nothing to do but just sit here and hum
When you're six and you wait for the mailman to come.

A Man to Mow

Floyd employed a man to mow
Every other month or so
He filled the mower up with gas
And told the man to cut the grass

Instead of that, he mowed the trees
And moved a hive of honey bees
He mowed a stump, a stick, a log,
And almost mowed the puppy dog

And over where the roses grows
He mowed in half the garden hose
He mowed some twigs and stones and rocks
And almost mowed Floyd's purple socks

He mowed into the living room
And mowed the mop and dusting broom
He mowed upstairs and mowed ahead
And mowed apart Floyd's double bed

He mowed the stairs a little more
And mowed right through the kitchen door
And then he mowed a bad mistake
By mowing into Shadow Lake

Floyd employed a man to mow
But finally had to let him go
Grass and leaves and weeds still show
But being safe, he lets them grow

Busy Shoes

There's a zoo in my shoe
A rhinoceros too
And an owl named Sue
Turning rapidly blue
And a pandally bear
With no hair is in there
And my father, I fare
Is beginning to stare

There's a fox in my socks
And he's wiggling so much
That my toes in their rows
Are refusing to touch
And that bird that I heard
Seems a little absurd
But he's in there, I bet,
Either second or third

There's a snoot in my boot
And I don't find it cute
Since it's owned by an elephant
Playing a flute
And the bees, if you please,
Started making me sneeze
But they're not quite as bad
As the three chimpanzees

"Get them out!" I could shout
But I'd still have a doubt
If they'd move or approve
Of me yelling about
So I'll stay here and play
For the rest of the day
With a zoo in my shoe
That will NOT go away

Quiet Cat

When you're a cat
And think of that
It's always nice
To talk to mice
But what if now
I don't know how
You caught a cold
And had a bold
Meow that won't come out

You'd try to sing
But not a thing
Would leave your lips
And even sips
And little drinks
From kitchen sinks
Do nothing to
Your little blue
Meow that won't come out

You'd be quite sad
And think you had
A lousy day
And not one way
To speak your mind
Until you find
An answer for
What's left of your
Meow that won't come out

Thinkable Thinking

Think of a hug and I'll think of a song
Dream a good dream and I'll dream right alone
Think of the sun and the grass and the trees
And the buzzing of buzzering bumbally bees

The taste of an ice cream cone melting away
And the clouds when the puff up and come out to play
And a kiss from your dad and a laugh and a smile
And a puppy dog licking your face for a while

Think of all the best things that you ever could feel
Then close both your eyes and pretend that they're real
And you'll find that you're happy, you'll never be blue
When you think the way thinkable thinkerers do

Reasons for Hugs

So you won't let me hug you to make you feel better
You'll sit there and cry and your eyes will get redder
Before that sad frown turns your face a deep blue
Let me tell you of some of the things I could do

I might pull and tug you from out of your chair
And explain to you that we were going somewhere
But upon our return you'd be sad once again
And ignoring the wonderful places we'd been

A pull is a pull and a tug is a tug
But a person who's sad is the best kind to hug

A jar and a jug could help store up your tears
We could keep them well hidden for several years
But the chances are good that they'd start leaking out
And I think that you know what I'm talking about

A jar is a jar and a jug is a jug
But a person who's sad is the best kind to hug

A spider or bug might run over your hand
And it might make you tickle and that would be grand
But when they go away you'd be back to square one
And you wouldn't be happy, that wouldn't be fun

A spider's a spider, a bug's just a bug
But a person who's sad is the best kind to hug

Now I know that you'd rather be happy than not
And believe me, this answer's the best one I've got
So just stretch out your arms and come here, you big lug
'Cause a friend who needs love is the best kind to hug

We Should Go for a Walk in the Snow

We should go, we should go
For a walk in the snow
On a lavender night with the moon shining down
With a cinnamon wind blowing snowflakes around
As our feet find their way through the hills of the town
We should go for a walk in the snow

We should go, we should go
For a walk in the snow
Let our feet crunch along as they wind down the track
Let our shadows go spinning and dancing in black
There'll be love and hot chocolate as soon as we're back
We should go for a walk in the the snow

A Prayer for Justuce and Justin at Bedtime

Moonlight whispers
Bedtime's here
Toys and sunshine
Disappear

Morning's walking
Far away
And somewhere
There's a shiny day

For four of us
And butterflies
To ride the wind
And hug the skies

And God will take
Your hurts and harms
And wrap them
In His loving arms

And toss them gently
To the day
And make your sadness
Go away

Slumber's watching
Close at hand
There comes a dreamy
Wonderland

Where once upon
A sleepy head
And once upon
A cozy bed

We dream of family
Love and light
We close our eyes
And now, goodnight.

All our love,
Dad and Daddy

Backbone

“What makes a king out of a slave? Courage.

What makes the flag on the mast to wave? Courage.

What makes the elephant charge his tusk

In the misty mist or the dusky dusk?

What makes the muskrat guard his musk? Courage.”

     -The Cowardly Lion, “The Wizard of Oz”

I met Adam Lance Reisman in 1996, and because of that, my life was immeasurably changed for the better.

Finding me in a place and time where my world and reality were moving so fast and so dramatically that most days it scared even me, he enfolded me in his arms, he took me into his heart and his home, and nothing has ever been the same. In Judaism we talk about tikkun olam, repairing the world. Overnight and in every way, Adam fixed mine.

Kids of mine, I’m speaking to you in the future again...boy, did you get lucky. You may not be aware of how courageous your daddy was in those early days, turning his world around for you on a wing and a prayer. And you may not remember how difficult things were for him back then, but I want you to know someday when you’re all grown up how quickly he was willing to upend his world and how he reinvented himself overnight to make us a family.

In We Belong Together, a children’s book that used to sit on your bookshelf, Todd Parr writes, “We belong together because you needed a home and I had one to share. You needed someone to help you grow healthy and strong, and I had help to offer. You needed a friend, and I knew where to find one. You needed someone to say ‘I love you,’ and we had love to give.”

That’s your daddy. Simple as that.

Your daddy was so unassuming about the enormous, instinctive and readily apparent courage it took to do that, if you would have asked him back then, he would have denied it. He would have modestly blushed and changed the subject. I think it’s wonderful that those who have the greatest strength and most solid foundation often don’t know it's within them. It’s a deep well they draw from, it’s courage to spare, and to their own surprise, the waters keep coming up pure and unlimited.

It was courageous business adopting you kids. There wasn’t a single lesson of guidance or preparation before we jumped into the deep end of life with you.  The case workers talked us out of the ten weeks of foster parent training courses we asked for before they placed you in our home. They were already a year behind in finding your forever family and they were trying to make up lost time. They told us if we waited for training and financial assistance, we’d lose you.

So fearful, we forged ahead, untrained and unprepared. You arrived in our home, two special needs children, with no stipend, no financial foster subsidy, plenty of unique new needs and two dads who largely had no idea how to pay for you. Addressing that takes courage.

But your daddy went right to work. On one income, and not a large one at that, he juggled and balanced and scratched his head. He applied for grants and scholarships and walked down every narrow avenue he could find. He put his pride on hold and his hat in his hand. He stayed up late at night after he tucked you into bed and listened for the hundredth time as you told him, “I don’t like you, get out of my room,” and then he swallowed back tears, left his ego at the door, and silently went back to work, diligently, lovingly and always unceasingly, for tikkun olam, the unbelieveable, precious chance he'd been given to repair your world.

When you grow up someday and think of who he is as a person and wonder like grown-ups inevitably do about how he affected your life back then, I want you to know in those early months, he silently fought to make your life better without a single, hopeful hug in return. Just like you, he was enormously new at this and enormously unsteady. He was flawed and imperfect. We all were. But he was also incredibly strong, and emulating him gave us all the ability to love each other better. We learned how to take care of each other by following his lead. Through him, we learned how to provide for each other, and that's a remarkable gift.

Your daddy kept me brave. Neither of us ever raised children before, and I didn’t always believe in myself enough to do it. During the times I doubted myself most, your daddy was my backbone.

In your life, you’ll hear people say, “He was my rock.”

And rocks are good, and rocks are necessary, but backbones are different.

It would be easy to call your daddy my rock, but rocks are immobile, and rocks are stationary.

Your daddy is my backbone, and a backbone is movement and change and adaptability. A backbone is the center of our being. Every move we make, every step we take, depends on it.  Sometimes it’s a stationary anchor, but sometimes it’s the very miracle of fluidity, ability and grace.

I hope life gives you many people who are your rocks, but I also hope life gives you that single, remarkable person who will always be your backbone, like your daddy is to me.

Whenever I feel confused, pep talks are of no use,

I know your love surrounds me.

Whenever I’m feeling lost, and the price is not worth the cost,

I know your love surrounds me.

Whenever I’m feeling scared, to go places I never dared to go,

I know your love surrounds me.

And I’m not alone, I’m not alone.

You are my backbone, you are my home.

And I shall not wander away from thunder.

You are my rescue when I go under.

Your daddy was, and is, my strength and my joy. My partner in parenting, my tikkun olam and the fixer of my world. My rescue, my love, and my backbone.

I met Adam Lance Reisman in 1996, and because of that, my life was immeasurably changed for the better. Yours was too.

 

You're an incredible father, Adam, and we love you. You are our backbone.

You are our home.

“Backbone” by Yael Meyer from the album “Everything Will Be Alright,” ©2011 KLI Records

The Wizard of Oz, music and lyrics by Harold Arlen and Yip Harburg, ©1939 Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer

We Belong Together: A Book About Adoption and Families by Todd Parr, ©2007 Hachette Book Group, Little, Brown and Company

The Too Rough Fingers of the World

INSTANT FATHERHOOD

Ryan Reisman – D’var Torah on Korach

Friday Night, June 22, 2012

I delivered this sermon at my synagogue, Temple Sinai of Las Vegas, during Shabbat services on Friday night, June 22, 2012. At that point, we'd only had J1 and J2 for a couple of weeks.

My sermon, or "D'var Torah" as we call it in Judasim, this "thing, stuff, or word of the Torah," was our way to introduce Justuce and Justin to their new congregation, to explain their background, and to explore our hopes and dreams for them as we try to reestablish them as members of the Jewish community they were born into, but have been absent from for many years.

Thank you, Rabbi and Cantor. Our kids already love their Rabbi and Cantor. Rabbi and Sarah had us over to their house last weekend, and we had a cookout, and we swam in their pool, and I have to tell you, I think Elijah has finally met his match. Next to Justin, Elijah actually looks serene.

And the kids love their Cantor Mariana, too. Last Friday, Cantor took them on a special shopping spree and bought them both beautiful clothes. Justuce won’t stop wearing her favorite new Shabbat dress. It’s the same one she wore last weekend. We really do have more clothes for her. She just happens to like the pink and white one right now. Don’t be surprised if it’s back again next weekend.

I’d also like to thank Cantor for buying my daughter five different kinds of acrylic nail polish, which I didn’t discover until an hour before Shabbat services last weekend when I was helping my son get dressed and I discovered his sister had painted all his fingers and toes alternating shades of black, white, and sparkly pink.

And while you’ve all been very supportive and liberal about same-sex adoption in general, I figured if the two gay dads showed up with a son wearing pink sparkly nail polish the first time you met him, we’d all be having a meeting with Child Protective Services. So, thank you, Cantor Mariana, for getting my children off to a very colorful start in life, and thank you Temple Sinai, for promising not to call our case worker if Justin shows up to services wearing L’Oreal #504, Hot Bling Pink.

Rabbi and Cantor asked me to talk to you tonight about our instant fatherhood, and what it’s been like these last two weeks just starting to raise Justuce, who is 7, and Justin, who is 6, and how we’re settling in, and how we’re adjusting to our new life and our new world together. They’re playing with the other kids in the supervised child-care area right now, so it’s safe for us to talk about them behind their backs.

First of all, let me say how quickly I’ve turned into my own mother and father. In the past 15 days, I’m embarrassed to admit, I’ve actually said, out loud, all of the following phrases:

·         “Do what I tell you.”

·         “Because I’m the dad, that’s why.”

·         “Can we please say excuse me when we make that noise?”

·         “How do you know you don’t like it if you won’t even taste it?

·         “Stop hitting your sister.” “Stop hitting your brother.”

·         “Get in this house right now.”

·         And two days ago, I actually said, out loud, that perennial favorite, “I will turn this car around.”

This week’s Torah portion is Korach. He was the guy who led a rebellion against Aaron and Moses, challenged their authority, started an uprising, and thought the whole wandering-through-the-desert thing might go a whole lot easier if he could just be in charge of everything. I think it’s pretty appropriate that my d’var Torah on instant fatherhood tonight happens to coincide with one of the most famous biblical characters who pouted, stomped his feet, and told God, Aaron and Moses, “you’re not the boss of me.” And since the earth opened up and swallowed him whole, I think it’s safe to say, he got a pretty awesome time-out.

Adam and I have been dealing with our own uprisings and challenges for authority these past two weeks.  The textbooks call this period in our lives, and in our children’s lives, “the honeymoon period.” Adopted children in our kids’ age group are usually on their best behavior for 2-3 weeks after placement in their new home. They’re learning their new environment, they’re learning new rules, expectations and structure, and much like Korach and his followers, when they’re faced with the determined direction of Moses and Aaron, they start out compliant, not wanting to rock the boat, then little by little, they test the waters, push the boundaries, and finally, try to turn the tables, dig in their heels and attempt to establish control of their own. The textbooks say Adam and I were supposed to get 2-3 weeks of this wonderful, mythical, idyllic honeymoon period. I think we got about a day and a half. When it comes to testing the boundaries of new parents, it turns out Justuce and Justin are already enthusiastic over-achievers.

About four days into our instant parenthood, we went to our friend Dawn’s house and as soon as our kids were out of sight, playing with her kids, we hid in her laundry room, collapsed into her arms, and just completely broke down in sheer exhaustion, crying and sobbing and wanting to hide in that laundry room forever, because all of this is so beautiful…and all of this is so hard.  It is love like we have never known before. It is difficulty like we’ve never known before. It is different like we’ve never know before.  And Dawn, who has four beautiful, wonderfully-behaved kids of her own – the kind of kids you’d all trade for in a heartbeat – just smiled and hugged us and let us cry, and she said, “it’s okay…you can do this…you’ll be fine…this is what being a parent is. Loving this much, and feeling this tired.”  That was so wise. We needed to hear that so much.

This is what we signed up for. This is how everything needs to happen. Like Korach and his followers, Justin and Justuce have been wandering in their own desert for a long time now. They’re just trying to find their way in this world…a new life they probably never envisioned for themselves, with two dads instead of a dad and a mom, full of all the love in the world, but also full of new rules, new traditions, new expectations, new structure, and new direction. Whether we’re talking about Justuce and Justin, or whether we’re talking about Korach, we’re talking about displaced children. Children in new circumstances. Children on a journey. Children trying to comprehend what became of their old world and how they can possibly fit into their new one.

At any given time, there are 3,500 children under the age of 18 in foster care in Clark County. 40% of them will be returned to parents or other relatives. 40% of them, like Justuce and Justin, will be adopted into new forever families like ours. And 20% of them will just be lost. They will “age out,” as the system calls it. They will grow up, turn 18, and never find a home.  They’ll be on their own with no steady, nurturing parental presence, ever.

The poet Langston Hughes wrote a poem about dreams once. He said, “hold fast to dreams, for if dreams die, life is like a broken-winged bird that cannot fly.” We have way too many broken-winged birds in Clark County today, wandering the desert, trying to find their new homeland. Hughes said…and this makes me cry, thinking of my own children and what Adam and I hope to give them…

“Bring me all of your dreams, you dreamers. Bring me all of your heart melodies, that I may wrap them in a blue cloud-cloth, away from the too-rough fingers of the world.”

My kids have known the all-too-rough fingers of the world for too long already. At six and seven, they’ve lived through things kids should never know.

We try not to talk about their birth parents in too much detail. We know all we need to know, but in a lot of ways, information about their birth parents is very much their private history. At some point, when they’re older, they might not want everyone who knows them to know every bad thing that ever happened to them. But here’s what we would like you to know. If it takes a village to raise a child, here’s what our village should know about ours.

Justuce was born with alcohol and crystal meth in her system. She’s scared of loudness, of closeness, she tantrums easily, and she doesn’t quite know who or how to trust yet. In her life, she’s been hit and she’s been hurt, and now it’s her time to be healed. Women of Temple Sinai, please be the mothers and sisters and the good strong women in her life, her two dads can never be. She will need you.

Justin was left alone and neglected as a baby. Even today at six, he has a permanent flat spot on the side of his head from being laid down and left alone in his crib, and not moved and not cared for. He has impulse control issues, low frustration tolerance. He’s scared of the dark, he hits, he pushes, and he reaches out desperately and needfully and lovingly like you can’t imagine, with open arms and perfect hugs, to anyone who will love him. Men of Temple Sinai, be his uncles, his brothers, his cousins and friends. He needs strong boys and men in his world. He needs you.

I don’t say these things for sympathy, or dramatic effect, or to violate our children’s sense of privacy or history, but only because you guys are their village now, and if you see them after Shabbat tonight, being a little too wild, or a little too unruly, or having problems with politeness, or focus, or paying attention to what you say, it’s not their fault. They try hard, they work on it constantly, they have hearts full of love and determination, but they need your help.

Every week, Adam and I and their therapist work through the scars of an early life of unspeakable difficulty, as we try to wrap them in a new blue cloud-cloth, away from the too-rough fingers of the world. Please help us wrap them in your love and patience, too. And if they get out of line, correct them. Tell them how they need to behave. We don’t know how to do it alone yet, and it’s okay for you to help us do it. They need that consistency from all of us, and you have our permission to help us. We ask you to help us.

Here’s something else I can tell you about our children: they are incredibly brave. Adam and I didn’t rescue them from a Charles Dickens novel. Thank you, to all of you, who keep telling us what a wonderful thing we did, what good people we were to save them, but it’s not like that. By the time we arrived, they didn’t need saving. The rescuing had already happened by the time we showed up.

Justin and Justuce have been living for three years in the same foster home. And it was a good foster home. It just wasn’t a forever home. The foster moms they had were incredibly good to them, but they had four other girls of their own. They just couldn’t keep Justuce and Justin together. They didn’t have the ability, the room, or the means. They had to give them up.  And as much as my heart aches for what those two good women had to lose, I thank God every day, Adam and I were in the right place at the right time to find them wandering in the desert of the Clark County child care system, right here in our own back yard. That was an amazing twist of fate that makes me believe in miracles again.

The foster parents were not Jewish. Justuce and Justin were born Jewish…their birth mom was Jewish…their Jewish grandmother pestered, cajoled, petitioned and begged Family Services until they didn’t even want to deal with her anymore to have these children placed in a Jewish home…and Baruch Hashem, here they are…but you should know that these kids are brand new to being Jewish again.

They’ve been raised in a Mormon home the past three years. Justin got dressed for Shabbat last weekend and asked me if he could wear his new church shoes. When I was being particularly strict the other day, he told me if I didn’t shape up, he was going to tell Jesus on me.

We’ll get them back to their Jewish roots and nurture them back into their rightful tribe. But in this case, it really will take a village. Be patient if they think they’re still in church. I know they’re both going to appreciate that Moses, Noah and the Old Testament Greatest Hits are still here, but I’m fairly certain at some point they’re going to wonder where J.C. went.

The Saturday morning after we got them, we brought them to morning services here at Temple Sinai. We’d only had them in our home for 24 hours, but there they were with us, right here. Right in that first row. And Cantor started singing her first niggun of the Saturday morning service, and we looked over, and they were both singing along. And then the next prayer came, and they sang along. And the next one. And the next one. And they didn’t even know the words, but there they were, moving their lips, stumbling over the Hebrew, lifting their voices, trying to keep up with us, trying to sing with us. Trying to pray with us, like Jews.

And I looked over at Adam and he was crying. Tears were running down his face. And I said, are you okay? And he said, “Yeah. I just never thought I’d ever have anyone to pass my traditions down to.”

 And now he does. Now we both do. And if anyone thinks there are no miracles left in this world, just watch our children grow here. Adam and I never dreamed we’d get to have this opportunity in a million years worth of dreams. This is our lifetime miracle. We don’t have a clue what we did to deserve this. We don’t have a clue how we will educate them. We don’t have a clue how we can afford it. But yet, here it is. And we will never stop daring to dream big for them. And we will hope you can dream with us, because they need you all, and we don’t have the means or the experience to do it alone. But we’re so very, very grateful we have the opportunity to try. Thank you, God, for this beautiful chance. Thank you, God for this beautiful world.

Thank you, Temple Sinai, for putting clothes on their backs. What you see them wearing tonight, is because of you. They came to us with clothes from their old world. Many of them very worn out. Many of them way too small. But you guys threw us a shower. And when we said, hey, we don’t know their clothing sizes yet, gift cards from Target would be nice…you responded with such amazing generosity, we not only clothed them for this year, and the winter  ahead, we have enough left over to put aside for the clothes they’ll wear out and the inches they’ll grow next year. That was amazing. That was a village. Our children have clothes because of you. They’re warm and cozy in pajamas at night because of you. They swim and play and spill all over themselves and have something new to put on because of you.

I hope you understand how incredibly loved and protected and supported that makes us feel. Before we were even able to physically have our children in our home, you were already taking care of them for us. We’ll never forget that.

I think I should stop crying now and end this with laughter and tickles… Justin and Justuce let us know when it’s time to be tickled. One of them will come up with a mischievous smile on their face, and announce, “tickle time,” and Adam and I will, of course, lay down flat on our backs on the living room floor, and we’re instantly pounced on, and little fingers dig into our armpits, and we do the same back to them, and the whole living room erupts in such a joyful chorus of laughs and sunshine and rapturous giggles, it’s like God Himself has opened up His heart to sing to us.

It’s a sound we’ve been missing all our lives, and we didn’t know how much we needed it until it was actually here, and now that we have it…it’s the most beautiful sound in the world, and we can’t believe it’s ours.

It’s music. It’s a niggun. It’s a prayer without words. It leaves us breathless for its beauty and its power and its simplicity and its joy. It is the laughter and joy of four people learning how to love each other and I wish you could all know what it sounds like and how it feels in our hearts. It is amazing.

This started out as a d’var Torah on rebellion, power struggle, setting boundaries, learning how to adapt to a new world, challenging authority, but maybe it ends right here, rolling on my carpet, being tickled by four new lives and brand new laughter.

Adam and I got to be fathers for the first time for Father’s Day this year. A whole temple of wonderful people played a great role in starting us off. For what you’ve already done, for what you will be, we love you and thank you for finding us wandering in a brand new desert with all it entails…rebellion and challenge, hope and possibility, and a beautiful new homeland in front us.

We’re a week late in our Father’s Day wishes, because we’ve been so busy falling in love.

Happy Father’s Day, everyone. Shabbat Shalom.

Reasons for Hugs

So now I come to you with open arms,
Nothing to hide,
Believe what I say.
Here I am, with open arms,
Hoping you'll see what your love means to me,
Open arms.
   - Journey

Back in my 30's, I wrote a book of children's poems called Once Upon a Butterfly, and absolutely nothing ever came of it. I probably half-heartedly sent it to one or two publishers and sighed at the rejection notices before tucking the whole manuscript into the lower file cabinet in my office, a fate worse than death, taxes or the Island of Misfit Toys.

One of the poems, "Reasons for Hugs," has been flashing through my mind this month because of its opening line, "So, you won't let me hug you to make you feel better."

Hugs are a rare commodity here in our early life with Justuce and Justin, even when they need them, even when they're hurting. Adopted older kids don't arrive with love built in for their new caregivers, which is a perfectly normal but nonetheless painful reality for parents who adopt, because by the time children are placed in the home, the adoptive parents have already ridden a roller coaster of ups and downs, hopes and anxiety, wishes and fears, and complete, maddening unknowing that finally culminates with the beautiful words, "Yes, they're yours."

By the time the kids take the first step into the home, the parents have been ready to hug them for months. But in the true reality of four different souls, styles and personalities coming together in one home, as one family, for the very first time, hugs are few and far between.

For the first month, we didn't hug the children at all because they wouldn't let us. The books all recommended frequent, light physical contact at first, and even though our hearts wanted more, hugs overwhelmed them and any attempts were shunned. That utter refusal was right and natural and par for the course. Didn't make the rejection feel any better, but that's exactly what was supposed to be happening. Technically speaking, it wouldn't be unusual if that sort of rejection happens our whole first year, God help us.

In the second month, we saw some small steps forward. Justin would allow himself to be comforted, albeit rarely, if hurt or crying. Justuce started saying, "pick me up," which quickly became her code phrase for "hug me, hold me, but don't make me admit I want a hug." And I'm fine with that. "Hug me but pretend you're not hugging me" is way better than "get away from me and don't come near me at all." 

Both kids let me hold them more than they let Adam hold them. Affectionately, they favor me. Part of me wants to celebrate that. I'm connecting with them in visible ways and I'm overjoyed. But joy on one hand is devestation on the other. Seeing how much this early favoritism has led to tears and sadness and low self-esteem for Adam, it's hard to take any joy from their added affection. I don't know how to stop our children from turning our marriage into one winner and one loser. The discussions, the worry, the hurt feelings over this are already immense.

Adam loves them just as much, but doesn't quite have the instinct or persistence for "in your face" affection like I do. I'm ruthless and ridiculous. I will try and try and try again. I will pick them up and laugh and growl and tell them in a funny voice, "You're going to love me whether you like it or not," and then I steal a quick hug or a kiss on their disgusted, scrunched-up noses, and then I put them down. And when the rejection comes, like it always does, when the sneers come, when the scowls come, when the outright disgust comes, I just try harder the next time. I don't care what the textbooks say. They will not not love me. Even on nights like tonight when I stand in the shower and cry for ten minutes as the hot water washes away yet another one of my connective failures, I cry until the tears run out, then I just reboot my ridiculous hard drive of hope and I try it again.

"This is a nightmare," I said to Adam tonight. "A nightmare punctuated by hope."

And I'm not embarassed to admit that, because many days, it is.

Many days.

Adam and I are both stumbling blindly right now, waiting for a connection that doesn't always come. It's not that I'm any better or more clever at it than he is. I don't have any secret trick for drawing out their extra favor. They're no moths and I'm no flame. I just have the tenacity or stupidity to get punched in the heart ten times a day and keep coming back for more. I don't know how to admit defeat in the emotional arena, so there I am, always in the fray, usually getting the shit kicked out of me, but my persistence has earned me their comfort, if nothing else. They don't love me better, Adam. I'm just down on the floor more often and they're more used to seeing me down there. This is where our life is now. Down on the floor, on their terms. We have to spot the openings for love and ruthlessly worm our way in. Get down on the floor and be worms with us, Adam. I'll make you their favorite, too. I will teach them that. God as my witness, I promise I can do it, but you have to meet us down on the floor. Every day. Even when they kick you.

Both kids ask to be picked up and carried. This is partly age-regression, which is common in adopted older kids, and partly their safe way to express their craving for human contact. It really is amazing when you think about it. Even hurt kids who've had the world pulled out from under them still look for human contact and affection wherever they land, even if they're far, far from admitting they want or need it. It's built into everyone and it relieves me greatly to see it's still built into Justuce and Justin. They want to be carried. For moments, in flashes of need, they ask us to hold them. Bonded or not, attached or not, they're learning to make due with what they've been given. This is a start. This is a win.

Now well into our third month, Justuce lets me pick her up and hold her with little reservation. As long as I don't verbally use the word "hug," we're fine. I kissed her cheek today and she kissed mine back. That's a first. I could have fainted with joy.

Justin still runs hot and cold with hugability. If he falls down and hurts himself, which is often, he will sometimes let me pick him up and hold and comfort him when he cries. If he is tantruming, or angry, or ashamed of being disciplined, he will absolutely not let me hold him and try to settle him down. Shit out of luck, Dad. A fish on a hook is downright docile compared to J2 in a tantrum. His slippery fury is awesome to behold.

We had a twenty minute tantrum after dinner tonight. I was trying to make him look into my eyes while I talked to him. We still have a huge problem with Justin's eye contact, focus and attention to direction. His body, his face, his head, his hands...he's all over the place, all the time, and it's difficult to draw him into our voices, our authority, and our simple need to have him listen, process and respond. It sounds crazy, perhaps even cruel, but I'm starting to insist he practice looking in my eyes while I slowly count to thirty. He doesn't like it. It makes him cry. But he needs to learn to stop, slow down, focus and hear me. I'll have to practice this over and over and over with him before it's a skill he can manage. It's not in the textbooks, but I'm doing it anyway because it just feels right. It's a kick in the heart for both of us, but it's one he needs. And like it or not, it's one I'm going to do.

He just came up to me right now as I was typing this and began poking his fingers all over the keyboard, giggling, trying to interrupt me. I couldn't get him to stop. "Justin, look in my eyes. Look in my eyes. Look in my eyes." I said it ten times, slowly, evenly, and got no response. I said it with a raised voice, and still nothing. No response. Just more giggling. More poking at the keyboard. There are times when he is absolutely unreachable, and short of screaming, yelling, or turning the world into one massive time-out, there's nothing I can do. To paraphrase Lloyd Bridges in Airplane, I guess I picked the wrong parental lifetime to stop sniffing glue.

Justin's a tickle hugger. Just like Justuce sneaks her hugs in under the radar with her "safe" "pick me up," Justin will occasionally pounce on me or Adam or sometimes, delightfully, both of us for a hilarious round of giggly tickles. This is as close to a hug as it gets in Justin's world right now, which is incredibly sad for me because I grew up in a family of huggers. Our arms are outstretched before most folks get around to the handshakes. And if ever there was a little boy who needed hugs, it's Justin.

I guess that's why my old poem has been haunting me this month, written long before I ever dreamed I'd have a son and daughter of my own.

So you won't let me hug you to make you feel better?
You'll sit there and cry and your eyes will get redder.
Before that sad frown turns your face a deep blue,
Let me tell you of some of the things I could do.

I might pull and tug you from out of your chair
And explain to you that we were going somewhere,
But upon our return you'd be sad once again
And ignoring the wonderful places we'd been.

(A pull is a pull and a tug is a tug,
But a person who's sad is the best kind to hug).

A jar and a jug could help store up your tears.
We could keep them all hidden for several years.
But chances are good that they'd start leaking out,
And I think that you know what I'm talking about.

(A jar is a jar and a jug is a jug,
But a person who's sad is the best kind to hug).

A spider or bug might run over your hand,
And it might make you tickle, and that would be grand,
But when they go away you'd be back to square one
And you wouldn't be happy. That wouldn't be fun.

(A spider's a spider, a bug is a bug,
But a person who's sad is the best kind to hug).

Now I know that you'd rather be happy than not,
And believe me, this answer's the best one I've got.
So, stretch out your arms and come here, you big lug,
'Cause a friend who needs love is the best kind to hug.

I used to dream such impossibly big dreams, always about me, always about my life, always about my own success. Now my fondest dream is the one where I say to Justin or Justuce, "Do you need a hug?" and in my mind's eye, in that impossible hard drive of hope, they nod their sad heads, wipe away tears, and step softly into my waiting, open arms.

Holy Crap, Look at the Homework

I do wish you'd listen, Wymer, it's perfectly simple. If you're not getting your hair cut, you don't have to move your brother's clothes down to the lower peg, you simply collect his note before lunch after you've done your scripture prep when you've written your letter home before rest, move your own clothes on to the lower peg, greet the visitors, and report to Mr. Viney that you've had your chit signed.

    -Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life

Justin is six this year and repeating kindergarten. He’s a bright kid, but life and behavior got in the way of learning last year. For starters, it was a time of great anxiety for him. He was hovering in that strange, unsettling limbo-land between foster care and forever family, and for a full school year, he knew he was going to get the boot from his current home and "soon" would be moving into another. Of course, what he didn't know was "soon" is a relative term when you factor Clark County Family Services into the equation. They're not exactly endorsed by Speedy Gonzalez. Needless to say, with all the anxiety in the world crashing down on him 24/7, Justin's behavioral issues in the classroom abounded.

In other words, his first stab at kindergarten wasn’t emotionally-conducive to suckling up the milk of learning. He was too busy having 30-minute tantrums and whacking the crap out of the other kids in his class to give the old college teat a try. He was a boy displaced; just beginning to internalize his foster home was not forever, and as his therapist and public school teacher kept each other on speed dial, it was no easy task to get him to sit still and listen, much less worry about how many sight words he was ticking off the old clipboard.

Justuce is seven and repeating first grade. Like her brother, her emotional upheaval during the past year made learning low priority. Imagine and empathize. You’re seven, you’re in a home full of moms and sisters. You really like it. Your little brother is the only thorn in your side, but because of safety in numbers, you and the four other girls can team up and pleasantly, deliciously make his life a living hell. You are Alpha Wolf Numero Uno until along comes a case worker who says, sorry little lady, see that rug you’re standing on? Yank. Whoosh.

So, Justuce too, came to us in a state of academic disarray. When our kids were assessed at their new school back in June, a week after they came to live with us, they were rated low for their age. And even understanding “low” is a dangerous and largely unfair word to use for kids so young, there was no denying their past year in public school was a wash.

We were surprised to discover that neither could tell time, not even at the most rudimentary level. Big hand on the twelve, little hand on the two means two o’clock? Nope. Blank stares.

Neither could they identify the value of coins. I’m pleased to report they can now pick a quarter out of my hand, since that’s the big one that buys the most stuff. Turns out you learn quickly when there's a gumball machine on the horizon. Otherwise, in spite of our coaching, they’re still a bit fuzzy. Three months later, a handful of coins is still counted by numerical tally alone. Both kids will report they have “five moneys” instead of two dimes, a nickel and two pennies. Adding that all up to 27 cents is like asking for a miracle.

So off we go to a brand new school and a brand new year, and may we slowly undo some of last year’s limbo and catch up with the other kids.

Which brings me to the meat of the matter.

Holy crap, look at the homework.

I thought of titling this column simply “Homework,” but honestly, that didn't do it justice. It needs, by all means, the accompanying holy crap.

We’re talking six and seven here, and as much as I appreciate the old academic choo-choo being firmly back on the fast track, by the looks of what’s coming home in their backpacks at night, we’ve already declared a double major in math and English. The catch-up train's not only left the station, it appears we're looking at the last three water towers in the rear view mirror.

I don’t know about you guys, but when I was in kindergarten, we had three jobs a day:

·         Don’t fight with the other kids.

·         Lay on your mat until you’re tapped with the magic wand.

·         Don’t piss yourself.

Holy cow, not anymore.

To start with, our kids need nightly computer access to do their homework. That's a far cry from my day when Texas Instruments was just getting around to making the abacus obsolete.

So, unless we were willing to endanger our own computers and have them tied up for hours at a stretch (and that’s a big not), Adam and I found it equal parts ridiculous, cool and scary that we actually went out and bought our kids their own laptops to get it done. Granted, we’re talking the cheapest model Wal-Mart can buy, but still…laptops? In K through 1? What in the world are we thinking? Good Lord, when I was six, my electronics collection peaked at the Goodyear Blimp Lite Brite, and that was the pinnacle of affluence.

There’s a site called “Raz Kids,” with “Raz” standing for “reading from A to Z,” and Justuce and Justin are expected to log on nightly to listen, read and quiz themselves on books. Then there’s another online doozy called “IXL,” where apparently Stephen Hawking and Archimedes teamed up to make sure the first-graders have plenty of math practice to chew on.

There are 153 different math curriculum subcategories listed under “First Grade Skills” on IXL.

153!!

When I was in first grade, I vaguely remember 2+2=4 flash cards being all the rage, but apparently it’s a bigger world these days. My daughter’s lineup will soon including juicy, titillating tidbits like “relating planer and solid figures,” “comparing sides and vertices,” and “location in a three-by-three grid.” I shit you not. If you think I’m exaggerating for the sake of a funny blog, go look it up for yourself. IXL.com. First Grade index tab. They’ve also got symmetry, fractions and Venn diagrams if you’re feeling rusty.

Justin is spared the horror of IXL for one more year, but he also does “Raz Kids” just like his sister. Justuce logs on with "Birds456." Justin's so little he doesn’t even have a password. He has a pass-picture. He clicks on the little picture of the spoon and away he goes.

In addition to the websites, the kids also have regular old-fashioned paper homework that comes home with them every night in a two-pocket plastic folder labeled “Parent Teacher Communicator,” with said pockets subdivided into “Return to School” and “Keep at Home.” Oh, how I dread fishing that folder out of the backpack every night. It's like Hanukkah in reverse.

They try to trick you into thinking it's fun stuff coming home:

• Ollie Octopus Loses a Shoe
• All Numbers Aboard!
• Counting Bears

But really, if you read the fine print, you see they're really sneaking in things like:

• Pearson Education Algebra Concepts
• Houghton Mifflin Phonics Patterning

I don't exactly know what phonics patterning is, but I'm almost sure I wouldn't want to do it in a dark room on an empty stomach.

Additionally, Justuce is supposed to read out loud to us for 20 minutes a night to “encourage her love of reading.” Oh yeah. It’s a fairytale romance. We write down the books she reads, sign the list, and return it to school once a month. No chance J1 will be sittin' in a tree with her book list anytime soon, k-i-s-s-i-n-g. The dowry is safe.

Justin also has assigned reading. He’s assigned a book bag each week and has to read from it nightly. He enjoys this activity approximately as much as a strained bowel movement.

Dear First Grade Parents,

Your children got the first homework packets today. We’ll prepare and send a packet each week. Keep it at home until the work is complete. Return it in the back pocket of the blue plastic folders that are used for regular homework. Most families choose to do the work as assigned. Others find that some days are busy with sports or family commitments and choose to do some work earlier or later than assigned. That is fine. Keep in mind that it is due on Fridays, unless otherwise noted. Most children will complete the work in 20-30 minutes each day. If it is taking much longer, please let us know.

-          Mrs. Medof and Mrs. Zoller

20-30 minutes? Holy cow, Mrs. M and Mrs. Z. Not to throw off your bell curve, but we need 20-30 minutes just to get them in the house, out of their school clothes and sitting at the kitchen table. 35 if we add juice boxes and trail mix.

We know it sounds complicated, but it really isn’t! We’ll establish a homework routine and soon they’ll be sailing off working on their own. Please be in contact if you have concerns.

That is, of course, after you move your own clothes on to the lower peg, greet the visitors, and report to Mr. Viney that you've had your chit signed.

Can't wait until they add the macaroni diaramas. My first one'll be shaped like a Valium.