Tuesday, August 28, 2012

Boy, the Way Glenn Miller Played

“It’s too late, Edith. My bus has sailed.”
– Archie Bunker, All in the Family

Adam and I are in a great state of bliss, a great state of shock, and a mild state of mourning.

Bliss, because who wouldn’t be? Our dream came true. The ink’s not dry on the paperwork yet and there’s still an entomologist’s wet dream worth of bugs to work out, but all in all, we got what we paid for. We got to have kids, and that’s quite an honor, considering as a pair we don’t have the reproductive parts to cook up a batch of our own. The fact that somebody read a bunch of letters about us and said, “here, take these two” still fills us with a sense of grateful wonder.

We’re in shock because as much as we thought we were ready for this, who in the name of heaven and earth could really be ready for this? This, with all its exhausting surprises. Wow. We were so not ready.

And curiously, more and more as the shock wears off, we find ourselves in an almost puzzled state of mourning because we don’t get to be who we were anymore:  Hoovy and Hoovy, the mind-reading wonder twins. Now we’re Dad and Daddy, and some days not only are we not on the same page, we’re not even shopping at the same Barnes and Noble.

I lost my candy rights 40 days into the fray. It was decided I was far too generous with the bribes and the candy, so Adam and the therapist cut me off. Now when the kids ask for fun stuff, I shake my head and say “go ask Daddy.” Who can make the sunrise? Sprinkle it it with dew? Apparently not me anymore. Honey badger don’t do Willy Wonka.

Adam feels equally outvoted when the kids come into our bedroom at night with the sniffles or bad dreams. He’d just as soon boot the little darlings back to their own rooms, no holds barred, where I’m more of a “climb in and kick me” kind of dad, not overly concerned if I half-sleep through Justin’s squirmy bedbugs if it means I feel him close to me, something he otherwise doesn’t volunteer for. I need that closeness. It keeps me going. And if scared-of-the-dark night visits are the only way I get them, I want them. Adam wants a good night’s sleep and kids who learn to stay in their own beds. And logically he’s right. But the need to be loved is a strong counterpoint, and I win this one.

Snacks and candy, midnight wakeups, where to have dinner, how to eat dinner, what the rules at the dinner table are…all this stuff is brand-freaking-new to us, and it’s stuff we didn’t even think to discuss in advance. We were too busy building bunk beds and congratulating ourselves for our awesome humanitarianism. Now, pan back from the forest and look at the trees, and where Adam says “A,” I say “B.” I say "yes" and he says "no." It’s no different than any other couple’s parental missteps; ours just seem magnified because we didn’t get any ramp-up time leading up to it.

Unless you adopted a six and seven-year-old too, most of your kids started out as babies and clay. You got to mold them into seeing their parents as a duo. You got to work out the bugs in your parenting style before they learned how to talk and they weren’t sitting there debating it with you. Ours showed up on day one fully conversant and tap dancing on the tabletops, and we never thought to pre-arrange the hand signals for who tackles them down again. Or which offenses need tackling. We’d play good cop bad cop, but I’m such a hopeless good cop, my badge already comes with hippy beads and peace signs. As my sister Erin said before we got them, “I picture Adam being the dad and you being Mrs. Doubtfire.”

It’s weird not to be on the same page as Adam. We’ll get there again, we’re starting to gel, but it’s been an astoundingly difficult two and a half months, realizing for the first time in our 15 year relationship, we’re really not the extension of the same heart and mind we always assumed we were. We were raised by two exceedingly different sets of parents and the conflicting styles we bring into this endeavor are painfully clear to us every day, as we scratch our heads at our mismatched efforts and try to learn to come together again.

We used to finish each other’s sentences, read each other’s thoughts and move through life together with the grace of Baryshnikov tossing Nureyev up in the air. (Okay, I know that never happened, but it’s hard to find a male-male ballet couple. On stage, anyway). Now we clunk through the early days of parenthood like Forrest Gump before the braces came off doing a square dance with Stan Laurel carrying a two-by-four.

Sigh. Cue the music. Our synchronicity used to be such an effortless brotherhood.

Like Archie and Edith sitting at that old piano bench in Queens via Burbank, Adam found the tune and I screeched out the high notes. You guys enjoyed it. You howled your approval (and you knew who you wurrrrrr then!) and cheered our theme song because it ended in happy two-part harmony. Now you watch Justin beat the crap out of his sister and you’re not quite sure what to think of us. Our 21st century version of All in the Family, turns out, is still filmed before a live studio audience.

We were trying to think the other night of things we miss the most. Misty water-colored memories and what-not.

We decided buffets were on top of the list. Those of you who knew us well knew that Adam and I were uncontested Las Vegas buffet champions. They were closer to our heart than some of the relatives we know, and three times a week, rain or shine, you could find us gorging out at Fiesta, Texas, the Suncoast, Santa Fe, or – bow your heads for a moment of silence – Red Rock Station.

We mourn the loss of familiar habits and places that just don’t fit in the new family schedule. We miss driving down Decatur to Red Lobster for trout when enough gift cards build up from those silly consumer panel surveys Adam’s always doing. We miss hopping down the street to Chili’s for a piece of salmon and a black bean burger, still muttering under our breath about how they took the tuna sandwich off the menu, even though that was seven years ago.

We miss movie night on the couch with movies starring grown-ups who shoot people and use swear words. We miss Star Trek, the Sy-Fy Channel and sitting in the hot tub with no pants on. I miss Backyard Monsters and talking to Dawn every morning. I miss Skyping my mom on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.

We miss impromptu trips to the local bookstore for decaf, hot chocolate and a browse. Oh, we were shameless. We’d look at the shelves, page through best sellers, then order them on our Kindles and sit there and read them. Now my Kindle is just one more device that plays Stupid Zombies and Angry Birds and streams Netflix episodes of ninja cartoons.

I miss getting up in the middle of everything and saying, “You know what? I think I’m going to Cost Plus to buy a big bag of licorice and a big bottle of wine,” then sit on the couch, watch six episodes of Big Bang Theory and finish the whole damn thing, because there was no good reason not to. Now I have two impressionable kids who had a doozy of a birth mom who drank like a fish, and they don’t need to see it in their new house too.

Wine, wine, whine. What else have I got?

We can’t travel overseas anymore, at least until we’re settled. For the past three years we’ve gone to London two weeks out of the year and loved it immensely. Oh, sweet London.  Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, loose in the tube stations, people-watching in Leicester Square, kosher lunches in Golders Green. Walking down the High Street in North Finchley on the way to Sainsbury's for clotted cream and jam balls, not a care in the world. London is magical. For God’s sake, I got to read “Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens” in Kensington Gardens. Put that on your bucket list.

All gone. Sigh. Now we’re happy if we survive a trip to the athletic club.

Our friend Howard wants us to come along this winter when he takes his daughter Shayna to SeaWorld and Disneyland. SeaWorld? Disneyland? With our crew? We took our kids to Circus Circus overnight and nearly crapped our pants chasing them through Adventuredome. They were good in Wisconsin, but a lot of that time we had them trapped in lakes and boats and there was nowhere to run. The odds of hauling them to London and back on a ten hour flight feels like Richard Harris belting out a Don Quixote number. To dream the impossible dream.

Their case worker has to give us permission to take our kids out of state, did you know that? We can take them to three or four county-ordered therapy appointments a week, and nobody’s passing the hat for gas money, thank you very much, but if we want to take a cozy family trip across the border to the faraway mystic land of, oh, Utah, for example, we need a signed permission slip like we were going on a fourth-grade field trip. And it takes about three weeks and three requests to get one. Ain’t life a bitch til they take our training wheels off.

Oh well. No sense crying over spilled milk. Everything we used to be, we’ll be again someday. Kids grow up, logistics get easier, and we’ll all get used to moving together as a synchronistic unit of four, where once there were two. But we sure miss the twoness of two sometimes. For everything we gained, we never really stopped to think about what we’d lose overnight and for months…our sense of effortless unity, our sense of untouchable connectedness. The world is saying “I told you so,” but thank God it’s getting better and thank God it’s starting to come back now, because I still love Adam impossibly much, and it’s scary not being on his page anymore. Even though he’s a Grinch with the candy.

Meanwhile, back here in the real world, I just put a killer big meatloaf in the oven, which I know the kids will declare disgusting on sight. But it’s something Adam and I used to enjoy monthly and I haven’t made one since they’ve been here. Screw the frozen chicken nuggets, that’s what they’re getting for dinner tonight. Besides, Adam and I know better. My meatloaves are legendary. They’re the stuff dreams are made of. They’re genuine Monets in a world full of poster art.

So, that’s where I’ll leave you tonight, talking my bravest game, defiantly serving meatloaf, counting my blessings, and secretly missing London and pining for the easy breezy couple we always used to be.

Guys like us, we had it made. Those were the days.

Good Luck, Charlie

It’s 2:20 in the morning. The second day of school is bearing down like a freight train. Alarm clocks in our house will blare out their bugle call exactly three hours and forty minutes from now. You'd think we’d be nestled all snug in our beds, yet here we are, me at the laptop drinking chamomile tea, and the kids on the couch, cuddled up in blankets watching the Disney Channel at ultra-low volume.

The Disney Channel is what I put on when I want them to go back asleep. A.N.T. Farm, Suite Life and Good Luck, Charlie are just a notch too sophisticated for their cognitive taste buds, especially late at night, and will lull them into la-la land, versus the more ani-maniac offerings of, say, Scooby Doo or Wild Kratts, which would have them wide awake and bouncing off the walls in no time.

Both kids came down with a good case of the sniffles this past weekend. It’s their first week in a brand new school, and we were hoping for healthy, well-rested kids to tackle the transition, but fate, of course, had other plans. That would make an excellent descriptor of the past two and a half months, by the way – what we imagined versus what we got – “fate, of course, had other plans.” I sort of giggle, thinking when they finally have me committed for stress, migraine headaches and lack of sleep, that'll be the first thing they write on my chart.

I should note, since the kids moved in with us, the four of us have had the combined immune systems of one small albino rat. People keep telling me, “your immune systems aren’t used to each other yet…you’re not in sync,” and I sort of believe that on one hand, and sort of toss it off as silly pseudo-science on the other. The theory intrigues me. We’re not like regular parents and kids. We haven’t had a lifetime to build up a matching resistance to each other’s bugs, germs and creepy-crawlies. They came with their well-established line of crap, we had strains of our own, we hit the ground running and all hell broke loose, magnified by the stress level of the Category 5 hurricane our lives have been since we started this process back in April.

For tonight’s round of stuffed-up noses, the kids requested the following things in this order: 
·         Apple juice
·         Kleenex
·         Vicks under their noses
·         Grapes (don’t ask me how grapes got on the list at 2:20 in the morning)
·         One of those drinkable strawberry yogurts they like
·         Vicks wiped off from their noses because it burns
·         More Kleenex
·         Milk
·         The volume turned up

What they haven’t wanted, of course, is the cough and cold medicine that might conceivably send them back to bed with less-congested nasal passages. There is exactly one palatable flavor in the world to Justuce and Justin, and that is Children’s Dimetapp Cold & Cough grape elixir. And when I say palatable, I use the word in its loosest sense because honestly, they’ll engage in a five-minute stare-down with each offered capful like they’re about to do battle with rattlesnake poison.

“That’s ‘scusting,” declares Justin, every time closes his eyes and slams it back like a shot of tequila, the quicker the better. Justuce sips hers in milliliters. In drams. In atoms. Eyes winced shut and nose curled up the whole time.

But at least they drink it. Anything else, anything goopier, is projectile gagged across the living room floor, all over carpets, all over pajamas, all over the coffee table, all over me, all over everything. In our new world that comes complete with sensory and textural issues, it’s watery-thin Dimetapp grape or nothing. If pharmaceutical companies had half a brain, all children’s cough and cold medicine would come in the form of gummy vitamins or Chicken McNuggets. And there better not be an aftertaste.

It’s the first week of school here, and Howard Nemerov’s beautiful poem has been haunting me for days.

My child and I hold hands on the way to school,
And when I leave him at the first-grade door
He cries a little but is brave, he does
Let go. My selfish tears remind me how
I cried before that door a life ago.
I may have had a hard time letting go.

My child has disappeared
Behind the schoolroom door. And should I live
To see his coming forth, a life away,
I know my hope, but do not know its form.

May the fathers he finds
Among his teachers have a care of him
More than his father could. How that will look
I do not know. I do not need to know.
Even our tears belong to ritual.
But may great kindness come of it in the end.

I doubt myself all the time. I don’t know how to take care of sick kids in the middle of the night because I’ve never had to do it before. I’m trying my hardest, and I’m sure I'm not supposed to do it with grapes and the Disney Channel, yet here I am. Justin is stretched out on his tummy, arms on the coffee table, legs on the couch. Justuce is propped upright, legs outstretched in the other direction. They both look drowsy. Please, God, let them be drowsy.

Between the two of them, they’ve used half a box of Kleenex, and the evidence is all over the floor. But nobody is sniffling, and in ten more minutes, after Wizards of Waverly Place ends, I’m carrying everybody up to bed so they can get a few more hours sleep before they have to be up and rolling for day two of the new school year.

It’s late, I’m tired and I don’t have the first clue if anything I’m doing here is right. But I love them when they’re sick and I hope they get better. Physically, mentally, I hope they get better.

I’m so new at this. And I’m so tired.

May great kindness come of it in the end.

"September, First Day of School" by Howard Nemerov, from "Good Poems" by Garrison Keillor, Penguin Books, 2002.

Saturday, August 25, 2012

Joostoocia

Buttercup, of course, knew none of this. What she liked to do, preferred above all else really, was to ride her horse and taunt the farm boy. The farm boy did what she told him to. “Farm Boy, fetch me this”; “Get me that, Farm Boy – quickly, lazy thing, trot now or I’ll tell Father.”

"As you wish.”

That was all he ever answered. “As you wish.” Fetch that, Farm Boy. “As you wish.” Dry this, Farm Boy. “As you wish.”

"You haven’t once said you loved me.”

“I’ve been saying it so long to you, you just wouldn’t listen. Every time you said ‘Farm Boy, do this,’ you thought I was answering ‘as you wish,’ but that’s only because you were hearing wrong. ‘I love you’ was what it was, but you never heard, and you never heard.”

    - William Goldman, “The Princess Bride”

If Justuce knew how easily and completely she could wrap me around her little finger, I’d be in a world of trouble. It’s only her natural tendency to keep reminding me how rotten I am that keeps me from becoming, hopelessly, her slave. Even with her pouts, defiance and stubborn dislike, which is increasingly pretend and just for show, I’m already halfway there. If she ever figures out I’d wait on her hand and foot even more than I already wait on her hand and foot, I’d be completely screwed. She'd get away with murder.

She is a wonder. She is remarkable. She is frequently kind and she's suddenly cruel. She can do as she pleases, she's nobody's fool. Billy Joel had nothing on this girl. And we’re having a very interesting journey, coming together as father and daughter.

For weeks now, I’ve been trying different nicknames for Justuce and nothing seemed to stick. Justin was easy. From Day One, he’s been my Scooby, or much to his annoyance, Bieber-Fever.

For Justuce, I couldn’t make anything work. I tried the mushy ones way too early and she wasn’t having any of it. I tried “Bug,” my sister’s nickname growing up. I said, “Bugaboo, I love you,” just like my dad said to Erin. How can you go wrong with Bug? That one practically repulsed her. “I’m not your Bug!”

I tried “Sweetheart,” (“I’m not your sweetheart!”), and “Baby” (“I’m not a baby!”), and, well, “Pumpkin” drew daggers, so what’s a dad to do?

Then, thank heavens, along came Joostoocia. It started with Danny, an Israeli counselor at her day camp this summer, who pronounced her name with an accent on the second “U,” something we both thought was kind of giggly. “Joostooce!” he’d yell at pickup time, “Joostooce, your ride is here!” So, after teasing her with “Joostooce” for a few days, it sort of morphed by itself into a robust and healthy “Joostoocia!” delivered with a kiss of my fingers and a thumb to my lips, like the old spaghetti sauce commercial. “That’s Italian!”

So, after many false starts and missteps, I'm pleased to report Joostoocia is allowed by Justuce 100% of the time. Sometimes she even says it back to me, equally Italian. “Joostoocia!” she’ll mimic, in her hardiest, happiest little girl voice. And, hallelujah, wonders never cease, a nickname is born.

I know very little about Justuce. She’s only been my daughter for two and a half months. My Daughter’s Name is Justuce loops in my mind like a mantra, like a future book title. It seems important to keep saying that to myself, because I still know so little about her, and in many ways, in spite of the paperwork, we're still such strangers to each other.

I know she likes to stick her finger in the Nestle’s Quik container and lick the powder off the counter, even when I tell her not to.

I know she likes nail polish, really red lip gloss and the most outrageously frilly skirts money can buy.

I know she likes Flaming Hot Cheetos, My Babysitter’s a Vampire, and sometimes her brother, in that order.

I know she’s wet the bed twice since she’s been here. One time she told me about it and one time she didn't.

I know she can’t tell time, doesn’t know the value of coins, and can’t tell a one dollar bill from a five dollar bill. I know she’s repeating first grade this year.

I know she’s incredibly kind to other children and goes out of her way to help them. The camp sent a note home saying they found her helping other kids in the lunch line without being asked.

I know she has the capacity for great compassion.

I know she loves her foster moms and misses them. She’s starting to legitimately like me now, but given one-eighth of a chance, she’d go back to them in a heartbeat. Adam and I would be the summer diversion she may remember fondly for a few moments (or maybe not), but she'd glady forget us to go back home again.

I know she’ll always ask for two Pop Tarts even when she’s only going to eat one, but all things considered, that’s not too much to ask for. When she tells me to make her two, it’s “as you wish” for my Princess Bride. The extra one will sit on her plate untouched every day, and I'll quietly pick it off and eat it later before Adam comes down on her for wasting food. It’s more than a Pop Tart. It's one small Pop Tart's worth of extra dignity and control in a life where most every other aspect of dignity and control were wrenched out of her hands years ago. And if that doesn't earn you an extra Chocolate Fudge you can leave untouched, well then, what the hell's wrong with the world?

I know she has a hypersensitivity to fairness. She has an unyielding perception of what’s fair and what's not fair. What's not fair is anything that doesn’t benefit or favor her immediately.

She wants to unlock the door every time we come home. She wants to push the garage door button every time we come home. She wants to enter a room first and leave a room last, every single time. She wants everything to be her privilege, property or prerogative first. We had to invent “Kid of the Day,” to give Justin some chances too. He has sibling rivalry issues of his own, but not like hers. Not like hers.

Justuce immediately tantrums when Justin gets more. She doesn’t tantrum when other children get more, only her brother. And I don’t mean “more” in the sense of any real value. I mean “more” in the sense of anything. Justuce cried in a restaurant the other day because when the Cokes came out, Justin’s had two more ice cubes than hers. That's disturbing sometimes. That's scary.

Justuce, in the lingo of the textbooks, is inflexible, irrational and overly sensitive to change. She has poor adaptability. She has difficulty making transitions from one situation to another. She doesn’t modulate well. She is difficult to “rev up” when she’s lethargic, and she obeys in super slow motion. She’ll go to her room when told, but climb the stairs like she’s made of cement. I’m not trying to be funny. Her therapist witnessed it on a home visit once and said she’s never in her years of practice seen anything like it. That's scary, too.

Justuce is fiercely her own person. She’s not intimidated by parental authority. She’s had too many parents to give a shit, and there are times when, believe me, none of us are impressing her any more. She doesn’t care if you send her to her room, and she'll stare you down after your strictest discipline, casually combing her doll’s hair, looking up with an unbothered shrug as if to say, “Is that all you’ve got? Bring it on.”

Sometimes, when I really get under her skin and make her lose her cool, she says the most delightful thing when I yell her into action. “You don’t have to be rude!” I love that line so much, shhhh, secret, between you and me, sometimes I raise my voice a little extra when I don’t really have to, just so I can hear her say it. “You don’t have to be rude!” I’m giggling just typing it.

For the first month and a half, I was angry at Justuce and she was angry at me almost all the time. She hated me so much and wasn’t shy about telling me. This perplexed me. Astounded me. Pissed me off. I’ve never been angry at a child in my life. Kids are like cotton candy to me. I adore them so much, I’ll find the silver lining in the grouchiest cloud. But Justuce made herself so entirely unlikeable, it was all I could do to remember how much she was hurting inside. She has a great penchant for rubbing her hurt off on others. On me. And that’s a sobering reality to face. You don't expect one so young to have such a hurtful skill. But she does.

I have to remember, it’s not her fault. She didn’t ask for this life any more than we anticipated her anger. It's up to Adam and I to love it back out of her again. That might take years. And until it happens, I hope I never forget the title of that country song that's suddenly not so corny anymore. Don’t blame her, life turned her that way.

But that's to be expected and she's coming along fine. One step forward, two steps back, she's adapting to us and we're adapting to her. And honestly, even when she's grumpy she’s still loads of fun, and more and more, we’re getting to see that side.

She’s a hoot-and-a-half in the swimming pool. She climbs all over Adam like she’s known him all her life. She likes us to throw her up in the air so she can do back flips. She has Adam so well-trained on handing her the right brushes, combs and barrettes in the changing room when her hair is wet, I almost imagine him being her private surgical nurse, slapping the next scalpel into her palm. “Scrunchies…stat!”

Last week, and here’s a paternal miracle for you, when given the choice of staying home with me and Justin or going to Friday night Shabbat services with Adam, she picked Shabbat with Adam. More than one time this past month, when Adam was out of her sight, she worriedly asked out loud, "how come Daddy's not here?" So see, Hoovy, she loves you too. She’s just sneaking it in under the radar.

Yesterday on the couch, after examining herself with the precision of a mammogram manufacturer, Justuce announced happily, “My boobs are growing." That would be quite a feat, since at seven-years-old and 42 pounds, the biggest thing growing on her are her feet, and those still fit in baby socks.

I hope she doesn’t grow up too fast. I hope we can be the kind of home where a little girl, lost in limbo far too long, knows she’s safe and loved and it's okay for her to let her guard down and just be a child again. That would be my greatest wish for Justuce. That she could just be safe here now and be a little girl again before she has to grow up for real.

“You are a necessary part of a long story. Your parents and grandparents should have helped you feel your place in the story when you were yet a young child. But a while back it seemed as if everyone forgot the story. So you grew up wondering about your value and your worth. You have searched for a place where you can belong. Now, when you are older and it is harder, you must learn that your value is in being you and you belong here.” – Tolbert McCarroll, “Notes from the Song of Life.”

Look at her, everybody. She’s in her beanbag chair, watching Meet the Robinsons, wrapped in a fuzzy green blanket, eating a big spoonful of peanut butter. It’s one of the “sensory foods” The Out of Sync Child tells me is calming when kids are overly stimulated. And after an afternoon TV blackout, punishment for naughty missteps, and the resulting stir-crazy hours bouncing off the walls with her brother, it’s a round of Jif for the whole damn house. Set ‘em up, barkeep, and keep ‘em coming.

She’s utterly unaware of how perfect I think she is while I sit here watching her right now, how my love wells up, pours out and finds wings every time I look at her. Her cheeks are flushed, too much sun at the splash park this week. Her brown eyes dart back and forth from screen to spoon, a giggle at the dialogue, a little taste of peanut butter, back and forth. I just stopped typing this, got up and leaned over and smiled at her. She smiled back. She pretends to dislike me, but it’s starting to be a game. We both know we’re on a different level now and there's no turning back.

“Pick me up,” she says, a familiar request. I do, and I hold her. I sway back and forth for a minute with her head on my shoulder.

“Never put me down,” she sighs.

That will be easy, I think as I hug her even tighter.

It’s me and Justuce, coming together, and for a while at least, she wants more of my love.

“As you wish,” I whisper in her ear. “As you wish.”

Thursday, August 23, 2012

A Rose By Any Other Name

"How could I have been anything else but what I am, having been named Madonna? I would either have ended up a nun or this." - Madonna

So, I'm sitting here this week waiting for my newly-revised State of Nevada driver's license to arrive in the mailbox. 7-10 business days, they told me last Friday when I went down to apply.

My name has legally been Ryan Aaron Reisman for 16 days. District Court Judge Gerald W. Hardcastle (thank you, Your Honor) signed my Order for Change of Name on August 8, 2012, and presto chango, I'm a Reisman.

Well, that's not all it took really. The rolls of red tape required to change a name are preposterous. Not tricky by any means, but weary, archaic and silly, especially in the dead of Nevada summer, where "one more" 105 degree drive across town to the family courthouse turns into two, then three, then four, then...ugh.

No matter. It's done. Published, printed, notarized and signed after finding, filing and re-filing about 20 pieces of paper. It was a ginormous pain in the ass, but it's done. The judge signed the order, I immediately took it down to the social security office, waited seven days for that new card to arrive - you can't get a driver's license without one - and now when that shows up, I'll finally have ID to match my spiffy new Ryan Reisman credit cards.

Incidentally, here's a piece of checkout trivia. I've been using the name Ryan Reisman for two months now. All my credit cards say Ryan Reisman. Credit cards don't give a shit what name you put on the card as long as you pay the bill. They don't even ask for proof you exist.

Anyway, point being, my credit cards all say Ryan Reisman, but my driver's license still says Ryan Malone. I've now shopped, spent, charged at what? A hundred stores and points of sale? Each time I hand over my Reisman credit card to a clerk on auto-pilot, they dutifully say, "Can I see your ID, please?" To which I hand over my Malone ID, a mismatched red flag to be sure, but not a single clerk has even remotely noticed the name on my license is different than the name on my credit cards. Not one. Not a peep.

Conclusion? "Can I see your ID" is actually just store-speak for "Can I ask you to inconveniently wave your license in my face so I can not really look at it." Happy to. Done. God bless American consumer protection.

Almost effective as TSA at the airport. They let me through with my mismatched ID on my recent flight from Las Vegas to Green Bay. Reisman on the ticket, Malone on the ID. Didn't even flinch. Come on down. As long as you take your shoes off so we can play security theatre and wave an occasional wand under an old lady's armpits, we're apparently well-protected from travelers with identification discrepencies like me.

Anyway, where was I?

Oh yes, names.

So, for those of you who are scratching your head, wondering why a guy changes his name to another guy's name - even for us gay guys, that's not a customary procedure - I figure I should explain it's for family consistency and Jewish identity.

It doesn't mean I'm "the girl." Thank you, friends, for your continually sophisticated analysis. "If Ryan is taking Adam's name, and Adam's not taking Ryan's name, that most certainly must mean that Ryan is 'the girl.' Mystery solved." You'd be amazed at how much time our friends have spent through the years wondering who's on top and who's on the bottom. Good Lord, people, give it a rest. We're both guys. Things go everywhere and everybody shares. Nobody takes any boob injections. After 15 years, pick a new topic.

Actually, I just wanted the kids and the family, as a unified whole, to have a Jewish name. The kids were born Jewish, raised outside of the Jewish community for many years in foster care, and now they're coming back into their original faith and culture. With that, and our new family identity in mind, I wanted my name to be Jewish, their name to be Jewish, and our family name to be Jewish. And for that simple reason, Reisman beats Malone, nothing more gender bending than that. Although, small admission, I do like it when Justuce paints my nails.

The kids' last name is legally [withheld for privacy reasons] right now. They won't officially be Justuce and Justin Reisman until our adoption is finalized halfway through the school year. But we already have them self-identifying as Reisman as much as possible, not so much to stake our claim, but to help them solidify into a recognizable family unit here as quickly as possible. It's hard for them to conceptualize belonging with us if their name tags keep telling them they don't match the team colors.

So, we introduced their new last name to them early. We registered them at summer day camp as Reisman. We wrote it on their water bottles and backpacks. We registered them at the athletic club as Reisman. It's the name stuck to their backs on their ID stickers when they run around in the kids' play area. Their library cards say Reisman. They're registered at Adelson for the new school year as Reisman. But technically, they are not. Their medical records, Medicaid cards, case files, etc., are still under the legal name, [withheld].

They're a bit ambivilent about being saddled with the Reisman brand so far. They may or may not be able to spell it once the school year starts. They usually don't mind it an awful lot, although Justuce, when angry, will defiantly yell, "My last name is not Reisman, my last name is [withheld]!!" In other words, "screw you Reismans and the horse you rode in on." We expect she''ll continue to adapt to it and be more warm toward it six months from now when she's legally stuck with it, but you never know with Justuce. Come to our finalization hearing. You and the judge might get an earful.

One thing that Justuce is looking forward to is a new middle name. Can't say I blame her. I dropped mine like a hot potato. I used to be Ryan Eugene, which I hated. When I changed my last name, I picked a new middle name, too. Now I'm Ryan Aaron, my Hebrew name, and a loving homage to my sister Erin.

Justuce's birth mom wanted her to be doubly unique. So she spelled "Justuce" unconventionally, with a second "U," which confuses people and makes them think we're all dumb and can't spell, and then, dear woman, sealed the deal by giving her the bizarre middle name "Unique." I kid you not. Poor kid's name is "Justuce Unique." We weren't crazy about that one right off the bat, but after a while it grows on you. And we both believe it's hers to keep or cancel at her discretion. It is her identity and if she wants it forever, forever it is.

Justuce sometimes vaguely likes her unusual middle name out of familiarity, but mostly, as part of the adoption process, looks forward to giving it the boot. All of her foster sisters, you see, when they were adopted, chose new first names for themselves. So to Justuce, this new name choosing process is part of what makes adoption "real" and "normal." Picking a new name validates it for her somehow. The foster sisters' parents helped, suggested, and offered suitable nudges in the right direction, but long story short, the four girls with a mishmash of dissimilar names, became the orderly (and quite pretty) quartet of Ashlen, Jaeden, Kaelen and Madisen.

Justuce has been toying with the idea of a new middle name ending in "e-n" to match her four foster sisters' first names. To keep them with her, to keep them all connected, and that's beautiful. I floated the idea when it came to me this week, and she instantly lit up. We had Rachel on the table...Justuce Rachel...that's her Hebrew name, given to her by her birth grandma, and that's a pretty one, too. But only time will tell if Rachel beats Unique, or if a new "e-n" hybrid trumps them all.

Justin has no middle name. Not sure why, but his birth parents never gave him one. We'll fill in the blanks. We've asked him for his input, but seriously, Justin is not at an age or stage where he remotely cares. "La-la pee-pee poop head" was his last suggestion, and something tells me that wouldn't look good on his résumé, so we're going with Benjamin. Justin Benjamin Reisman. That'll be his Hebrew name, too. Binyamin. A good, traditional name. It means "son of the right hand." It also means "fortunate." I hope so. I hope we're giving him that good omen, at least.

So, there you have it. All our names in a nutshell. Adam Lance Reisman is keeping apprised of the situation, but he really doesn't have to do diddly squat on his end, lucky duck. He was born a Reisman, fair and square, and I can hardly fault him for his free ride through all this hubbub, since he was a good enough sport to keep me company during my my 75 days of paperwork and five fun trips to the family courthouse to get one judge to sign one slip of paper. He even put up with my whining and grumbling while we sat in endless take-a-number lines, killing the time playing games on his iPhone and eating Reese's out of the vending machine.

Now, one new driver's license in the mailbox is all I need, and it's smooth sailing from this point on.

Except, crap, I have to figure out how to re-register to vote.

Monday, August 20, 2012

What Must People Think?

A friend's status on Facebook tonight...

"Just saw the most ill-behaved children in Best Buy. Sorry, but there is zero excuse for that lack of discipline. Have parents become so afraid of their children that they allow them to do what they want? I got a good whack on the tush and I think I turned out just fine."

I had to learn a new word this week. Proprioceptive.

"Proprio" means "one's own" in Latin, and "ceptive" means "awareness." One's own awareness.

Your awareness of yourself tells you where your body is positioned in relation to yourself, to others, and to the world around you. It's your alignment, if you will. Your internal GPS.

When you sit in a chair, you don't have to keep one eye on your ass the whole time to keep from falling out. Your proprioception does it for you. When you button your shirt, you don't have to look. Proprioception looks for you.

Justin falls out of chairs and can't button his shirt. He isn't well oriented to the world around him without some rather aggressive compensation on his part.

For you and I, proprioception informs us
  • where our body or body parts are in space
  • how our body parts relate to one another
  • how much and how quickly our muscles are stretching
  • how fast our body is moving through space
  • how our timing is, and
  • how much force our muscles put forth (1)
Justin doesn't do any of those things very well. He has a neurological condition in which his nervous system doesn't work like yours and mine.(2) 

You and I can sit on a couch together and know how much space we need to remain comfortable and appropriate in relation to one another. Justin's brain doesn't work that way. For Justin to judge distance, he will more than likely bump into you on purpose, especially as he grows more comfortable with you. He might head butt you. He might reach out and hit you. Like a bat bounce-sending radar so it doesn't hit a wall, he's trying to compensate for what you and I take for granted in a very annoying, but very effective manner.

Read these two paragraphs, because this is what's going on with Justin:

Proprioceptive Seeking - "More!"

The sensory seeking child is a "bumper and a crasher." He craves active movement, pushing, pulling, making "crash landings" by throwing himself to the ground, and lunging into walls, tables, and people. He craves passive input to muscles and joints as well, such as strong bear hugs and being pressed, squeezed or pummeled while roughhousing.

Always seeking more proprioceptive input, the sensory craver may bite, kick, hit and behave in a seemingly aggressive manner. Some sensory cravers will engage in self-stimulation, such as biting their own skin or banging their head against a crib or wall. These children benefit from sensory integration treatment with ample opportunities for vigorous proprioceptive input to decrease their high arousal." (3)

Justin has physical therapy twice a week to work on his "high arousal" state. There are exercises we do at home with him. Things for practice and relief. We roll him up in a Justin Burrito with an afghan from the couch and encourage him to press against it and break free. This is great, giggly fun for him. We do deep pressure movement exercises on his arms, legs and joints. He doesn't like that one quite as much, but he'll let us do it if it means we'll skip a time out. And when he's getting too wild, seeking more, more, more sensory input, sometimes we just have to pick him up and restrain him. That's a bear hug. He doesn't always like that either, but he needs it. It calms him down.

Justin bumps, crashes, head butts, kicks, hits and laughs while he does it. To friends like the one I quoted at the beginning of this blog, (who is not talking about Justin, by the way, I should make that clear, my friend, you were not aiming your comment at us...you're just caught in the crosshairs of my explanation), Justin must look like an awful, awful child. Adam and I must look like awful, awful parents. I'm sorry about that. We didn't build him that way. It came with the package when we volunteered to love him.

You're not narrow-minded at all, my friend, but "have parents become so afraid of their children that they allow them to do what they want?" No, not necessarily. We're not afraid of Justin at all. We love him. We correct him and tell him to shape up all the time. You can't begin to imagine. But as we continue to do that, he is still a special needs child who is out in public exhibiting difficult internal challenges that may look like simple disobedience to you. Simple naughtiness. We could keep him at home 24/7, and shelter him from the quick-to-judge eyes of the world, but then how would he ever learn? Where would he ever practice? That may have been going on with the parents of your Best Buy kids too.

"There is zero excuse for that lack of discipline." Not always true. Sometimes there's every excuse. Sometimes there are two loving parents, one incredibly beautiful child who is trying and learning, and they're playing the hand they were dealt. The fact that you have to see it five minutes in the checkout line is nothing compared to the hours, days or years they've cried about it at home, I promise you.

To the "good whack on the tush" crowd, I'm not against corporal punishment at all. I grew up with a good swat on the ass every now and then, and it was effective for my learning and not at all traumatic. But you may not know this: until our adoption is finalized, it is illegal for us to spank our kids in any way. If we were caught spanking them, they would be taken away from us. That's part of the package, courtesy of your Clark County and State of Nevada lawmakers.

I get it completely, and I don't resent you for thinking it. People like order, and Justin's wiring is out of order. Behaviorally speaking, he's a disorderly child. Some of my friends have flat-out told me they could fix him in five minutes if they could just knock some sense into him. Sorry, you can't. On paper, I'm still his half-dad and he's still a ward of the county. You'd go to jail and I'd lose my son. That's too much to lose to let you spank the disobedience out of him.

There's an additional problem, this is not a little boy ramming his head into my stomach because he's ill-behaved. He's actually a very well-behaved boy for all he's been through. We discipline him appropriately and consistently when he strikes out with malice. He loses privileges, sheds plenty of tears and gets sent to bed early just like your kids when they mess up. Nobody's giving him a free ride, but if you think I should yell at him every time his neurological deficiency makes your Friday night Oneg or your shopping unpleasant, I'm sorry I can't do that. Again, I apologize to you for our sometimes messy public rehearsals as we deal with this one step at a time, but I can't sequester him away until he suddenly turns magically delicious, and you won't see me disclipline him for what you think is "bad behavior" any more than you'll see me yell at a blind girl for walking into walls.

Be patient, friends, when you see an out-of-sync child acting up or acting out in a store or a checkout line. There's almost always more to the story than meets the eye. In two short months, Adam and I have already found solace (and progress) through the help of an early childhood therapist, a physical therapist, an occupational therapist and a neurologist. And it's still incredibly hard on us. Terribly, heartbreakingly, frustratingly hard that Justin doesn't just snap out of it and "work" like other kids do. And most parents of "problem children" don't get the team intervention that we get at all. They have to deal with it completely on their own and they don't even know what "it" is yet.

So, don't be quick to judge. But for the grace of God, there goes your child. Or your friend's child. Or your grandchild. Already in my world, people line up every day to tell me what's wrong with Justin and how easily Adam and I should be able to fix it. Just do this. Just do that. Here's what my dad did to me, and by God, I shaped up pretty damn quick. There are stares and glares from people who are strangers, and that's to be expected, but even sadder, there are plenty from people who are also our friends.

Justin is six. He's good, he's smart, he's bright and he's my son. Crashing, running, hitting and learning, he's doing his best to smash his way through the odds he was born with. It's a confusing life, a constant rehearsal, and it doesn't always look pretty. If you can't watch, look away, but don't paint him bad.

He'll make it work, we'll make it work, one bumpy day at a time.

(1)(3) The Out-of-Sync Child, Recognizing and Coping with Sensory Processing Disorder (Revised Edition), Carol Stock Kranowitz, M.A. Perigree/Penguin 2006
(2) The Out-of-Sync Child Has Fun, Carol Stock Kranowitz, M.A. Perigree/Penguin 2003

Sunday, August 19, 2012

You Ain't Nothin' But a Hound Dog

You ain't nothin' but a hound dog,
Cryin' all the time.
You ain't nothin but a hound dog,
Cryin' all the time.
Well, you ain't never caught a rabbit
And you ain't no friend of mine.

It was 35 years ago this week that Ginger Alden found Elvis Presley face down in the shitter, with a copy of "The Scientific Search for the Face of Jesus" in his hands and enough pills in his system to start a new pharmacy. I was 11. Steve Trinrud ran across the field to tell me the news. I didn't believe him until I turned on WDUX and heard it for myself.

Flash forward 35 years, and here I am, 46-years-old - that's four years older than Elvis when he bought the farm - and I'm dancing in the kitchen with Justuce, singing her "Hound Dog."

I'm not sure how we settled on "Hound Dog" as our bonding song. Before we got them, I always envisioned "Come and Get Your Love," the old 70's song by the Native American one hit wonder band Redbone.

Hell (hell), what's the matter
'Cause you're fine and you're mine
And you look so divine and
Come and get your love...
Come and get your love...

But nope, Justuce wasn't having any of that. I even tried tickling them during the fast parts...

Com'n gitcher love, com'n gitcher love
Com'n gitcher love now...

Still no go.

I slowed it down with Loggins and Messina's "Love Song," another pre-arrival fantasy favorite of mine (I liked it so much I named my blog after it)...

Like my brother, the wren and I
Well, he told 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


Both non-starters at our house. I tried singing it on the piano to them and they ran for the hills. Shit, I thought, DFS stuck me with two kids who have no taste in music whatsoever.

Turns out I was wrong. I picked up Justuce the other day, cradled her in my arms like a baby and started bopping out an a cappella "Hound Dog," and I'll be darned if the clouds didn't part, the sun came out, the giggles started and we were off and rollling.

At least three times today she came up to me. "Do the dog song! Pick me up!"

So, not to look a gift hug in the mouth, that's what I do...I pick her up, I cradle her tight, I dance around the kitchen and I sing "Hound Dog." Every three or four lines, I toss her up in the air and I catch her coming down. She giggles like crazy and that's music to my ears.

Justin got an eyeful of our impromptu choreography and got in line right away. Now I rotate back and forth between the two of them until I'm hot and sweaty and I have to sit down. She's 42 pounds, he's 52 pounds, toss those numbers up in the air nine or ten times in a row and you'll be panting too. We ain't never caught a rabbit, but I've got two happy children. Thanks, King.

Quarter after midnight and all is well on Bonnie Castle Way. Splash pad park in Henderson today. Happy Meals for lunch and a buffet with Shayna for dinner. They played Mario Kart on the Wii and took turns having tantrums when they lost.

But I love them.

And they let me sing "Hound Dog" to them, and pick them up and dance.

And for that I say thank you, Elvis.

Thank you. Thank you very much.





Tuesday, August 14, 2012

Baby's First F-Bomb

Dear Future Justin,

You were six when you came to us, and being your adoptive dads, we missed a lot of your "firsts." Your first steps, your first words, all went to someone else. Your first lock of hair, your baby book, if there was one, wasn't turned over to us. Even your first tooth came out two days before we got you and nobody sent it along.

What happened in your life from birth to age six is partially a mystery to us. We have DFS records based on speculation and frustration as they dealt with your birth parents, and secondhand reports from your foster moms and others, but we don't really know whose version is right and whose version is sour grapes and emotional heresay. And I'm sorry all those voices don't form a unified chorus yet. That'll confuse you in later life as much as it confuses us now. And we love you, and we wish it didn't have to be that way. Everyone deserves their history.

In the years ahead, we'll try to piece it together the best we can and record and remember as much as we're able, because some day it's going to be important to you. We're not detectives and we don't have very much to go on, but we'll do our best. You won't know how hard we worked on it, but you shouldn't have to. You're our son, and whatever we can do, we'll do it gladly.

In a way, these archives and these stories are a way of remembering the firsts we did get to have with you, and the things we can document for you, good or bad.

One of the firsts that made me so happy I actually cried (and tried not to let you see me crying) was just last week, on our trip to Wisconsin. Daddy and I took you on your first plane ride, and when the plane took off from McCarran, you had the most amazing, excited, anything's possible look in your eyes. You clenched your fists together, looked out the window and giggled and said, "Oh, wow! Here we go!" And that's sort of what Daddy and I feel like every day since you and Justuce moved in. Two months later, we still feel that same giggly excitement mixed with feeling very, very tired, mixed with sheer, 747, roller coaster terror. Wow, kids, here we go. Where she stops, nobody knows.

When I first met Daddy, he drove me through Red Rock Canyon, and I'd never seen mountains that big before right up close. It was just before sunset, and we drove over a crest on the scenic road, and this huge mountain loomed in front of me, all bathed in red and orange and a million other dusty colors of sunset, and I just gasped and laughed and started to cry, and Daddy said, "Are you okay? Why are you crying?" And I said, "Because this is what my life feels like since I met you, Adam. This beautiful. This big." And I was absolutely right. It all came true.

And now, you and Justuce are even a bigger part of what finally came true for us. And we felt that way when we took off in an airplane with you for the first time. Here we go, and anything can happen. Second star to the right and straight on til morning.

In leiu of your first steps or your first words, I can at least chronicle some really interesting slices of your 6-year-old life, and someday you'll grow up and read them, and hopefully they'll make up for some of the earlier, missing pieces. Some are really fun and funny, like you and your Ashleys, and your panties and your silliness. When you're a teenager, you'll hate me for writing them down and telling everybody. When you're 30, you'll be happy I did.

Some are just real and lifelike, like today, like you calling me a fucker, and me washing your mouth out with dish soap for the first time. You threw up in the sink, by the way. Lesson learned...maybe. It's really just your first mouth-washing, so back here on my timeline, it's too soon to tell.

Before you think I was an awful father or jumped too quickly into barbaric mouth-washing mode, let me back it up and walk you through our early f-bomb history.

You called me a fucker the first time a few days after you moved in. That one was a freebie. You didn't seem too mean about it, and Lord only knows what baggage you came with or descriptive language you picked up in the system or in foster care, so after one of those logical, heart-to-heart, well-meaning "little adult" talks a lot of the parenting books like to promote, I gave you an appropriately friendly new-dad lecture, a great big hug and a get out of jail free card. Boy, was that naive.

You called me a fucker the second time a few weeks ago. Again, sort of harmless game play on your part. It seems to be one of those words that just slips out of you. You have low impulse control and ADHD. You don't seem to say it with any animosity or nasty intent. I think you understand it's a bad word, you just don't seem to aim it with any serious desire to damage. I honestly think it just comes out and surprises you, frankly, as much as it surprises us.

Let me mention, by the way, you came with that word fully installed. Daddy and I don't say it in front of you. In fact, we don't say it at all. You might be surprised to know this, but in our 15 years together, Daddy and I have never sworn at each other. Not even once. Not even little swears. It's just not something we do. And I want you to grow up into a person who doesn't do that to the people you love either.

This is one of the values I want you to learn - or since I'm writing to Future Justin - one of the values I hope you did learn, growing up with me and Daddy. Swearing at people, especially people you love, is not good, ever. It's not good and it's not right. It's for people who don't have enough other words.

So, the third time you called me a fucker, again in fun, and again with no nastiness intended, I was done hearing it. I said to you very calmly, "Justin. You've called me that word three times now. And I've been very nice and I've talked to you about it every time. So now, I'm going to tell you something, and it's very important that you believe me, because this is going to come true. If I hear you say that word again, ever, for any reason, I'm going to make you walk to the kitchen sink with me and I'm going to wash your mouth out with diswashing liquid. Do you understand me? Say, 'yes, Dad.'"

"Yes, Dad," you replied quietly.

And then I repeated the whole thing over again, ending with, "say yes, Dad."

I make you do this when I want to get something across, because otherwise, I can't always tell if you're hearing me. You still can't make eye contact very well. Most of the time, I just don't know if I'm getting through.

"Do you understand me, Justin? Say, 'yes, Dad.'"

"Yes, Dad."

So, today in the car on the way back from the pool, you were chattering away, and wouldn't you know it, once again, the word "fucker" popped out.

"Justin," I said, very calmly. "Remember what I told you about saying that word? When we get home, I'd like you to walk up to the kitchen sink with me, and I'm going to put dish soap in your mouth and you're going to hold it in there until I count to ten. You're never allowed to say that word, and now I'm going to wash your mouth out so you won't say it again."

This is primative. This is old school. All the new parenting books say this is not what to do. But you know what? This is what's going to happen in our house, because it sure worked the first time I was six and said the F-word in front of my mom, and sometimes you need to throw out the touchy-feely new stuff and get back to the basics.

You started to cry, but you didn't bargain or try to get out of it. You seemed to understand you messed up and I had you fair and square. The ride home in the car knowing it was coming was probably harder on you than the act itself.

When we got home, you halfheartedly tried to delay walking to the sink, but I calmly told you, "if you don't walk to the sink, I'll use twice as much," and to your credit, you walked over obediently and opened your mouth when I asked.

I squirted a small amount of Seventh Generation natural dish liquid into your mouth. Kids of my era didn't get their mouth washed out with biodegradeable, unscented dish soap from Whole Foods, so Future Justin, at least give me credit for being green and hypoallergenic your first time at the rodeo. The label says Seventh Generation is Dr. Seuss Lorax-Approved, which is ironic, because the last movie we saw together at the $1.50 discount cinema just a few days ago, was indeed, The Lorax. Talk about your crazy circle of life.

Anyway, one squirt in your mouth and you almost instantly threw up in the sink. Sorry for that, but you've lived here for two months now, and even though I already love you more than you'll ever understand, you're going to respect me, too. I'm going to insist on that.

Later the same night, I said you couldn't have pancakes and syrup right before bed and you called me stupid. That is a term you use with nastiness, and it is a term you use far too frequently. And it's next on my list.

"Justin," I said to you calmly. "Remember what we did with the dish soap today? If you ever call me stupid again, or if you ever call Daddy stupid again, we're going to do the same thing over the sink. Do you understand me? Say, 'yes, Dad.'"

"Yes, Dad," came your quick reply.

I love you, Justin.

I'm sorry life has treated you unkindly, and all of us are giving you a lot of free passes for that - me, Daddy, and a whole lot of other people - people you don't even know - and we'll likely do that for a long time ahead, because you've earned it. You've paid your dues in ways, thank God, most of us will never have to understand.

But the name calling is going to end tonight. Name calling is abuse, and that was part of your old life. It's not going to be part of your new life here.

You and the dish soap will meet again.

"Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It's not." - Dr. Seuss, The Lorax.

I love you, Justin.

Watch your mouth.

I love you.

Dad