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