@ Home in the World

"Are you sure he's not autistic?"

This photo of Pumpkin and me was taken in the first few minutes of our first meeting. If you don't know the situation, it might look to you like any mother talking to, or even comforting, her child.

What you may not see, at least until you've read this,  is that I am trying to look into the eyes of this child and will them to tell me the answer to the question "Are you okay?"

Now you might see the fear in my eyes as I know this question essentially can't be answered. Not by him, not by the Russian medical records, not by the doctors at NEMC who specialize in international adoption and the associated medical concerns.

In this photo, Pumpkin is about two weeks shy of his third birthday. He is tiny, except for his head. His eyes are two different sizes, and the bridge of his nose and philtrum seem flatter than normal. These could be signs of fetal alcohol syndrome, or they could be nothing. I've been stressing about the possibilities for months; concerned about his health, concerned about my ability to handle whatever his issues are. I'm terrified of accepting him and I'm terrified of turning him down.

Later that afternoon, when I express my concerns to our facilitator and the orphanage director, the room suddenly fills with people. I've probably offended some of them, but that's not the point. They assure me that I'm wrong, that the mother was not a drinker (the director apparently met her to get her to relinquish rights), he is small, but his development has been consistent (a good sign).

On the ride home, our facilitator is frustrated, not so much with me, but with the FAS stigma, at the drawing he says that has been published in America to represent FAS children, he says that reports of FAS are much greater than the reality. Viktor is characteristically blunt and honest, but I have no way of knowing if what he is saying is only opinion.

That night at the hotel involves a lot of crying. Piper thinks the child will be fine, I am not sure. I go down to the hotel's business center to contact the doctor at NEMC, but I look at the facts of Pumpkin's medical exams and I realize they are not going to be able to tell me much more than I already know. A part of me is worried that they will discourage us from adopting him, and that I wouldn't be able to handle that either.

There is a certain amount of fatalism in the adoption process. You grow to believe, rightly or wrongly, that a child is meant for you; that the long and meddling fingers of the Universe (or God) put you together and you do what you have to. I tell myself that night, that if my plans for the future had to change because this little boy's needs turned out to be greater than we expected, then so be it. I mentally cross my fingers, and we move forward.

We return to the baby home the next morning and tell Viktor that we would like to proceed with accepting the referral. Members of the staff come out and smile at us; indicating approval across the language barrier.

Not until we are home, awaiting an adoption court date, do I see it. We have video tape that we are playing for Piper's parents, and on it Pumpkin is stacking blocks. They are new blocks for him, nesting cardboard boxes really; but he knows, without hesitation, to stack them biggest to smallest. When his tower is four or five blocks tall, he is left with the biggest block of all. He knows exactly where it goes and picks up the entire tower to place up on its new foundation. In that moment, I realize there is something special going on in his brain, and that it is good.

-----------------------------

Pumpkin has been with us four years this month. In his first year with us, he grew 5.5 inches, and the texture of his hair changed. The shape of his face has changed, and his eyes are no longer markedly different sizes (I've read this sometimes happens to babies who spend too much time lying on their backs - consistent with orphange life). This year gave us a huge growth in his communication skills, though we still struggle to get what's going on in his brain out in the open where he can use it.

He draws produces entire studies on things, designs cars, and car parts, and bridges. He can tell you that 4+4+4+5=17 without thinking much about it; facts are easy, as are things he can see and touch. Concepts are harder, and his social skills and adaptability to new situations are far behind his age group.

I've had more parents than I can count ask me if I was sure he was not autistic, and there are some days I wish I could say yes. At least then there would be more understanding on their part, as if the label was explanation enough. Instead we wade through a world of non-diagnosis and unexplainably quirky behavior, not always sure what he really knows.

-----------------------------------------------

Pumpkin's first drawing for the cover of the church bulletin was printed for the Mother's Day service this year. Although I explained to him that what he drew would be reprinted for everyone to see, he didn't really understand what I meant until he saw it for himself. At the end of the service, our priest held him back from the children's recessional to introduce him to the adults in the congregation as a new artistic contributor. As he stood there waiting, he reached out to trace and retrace the cross carved into the side of the pew with his finger in a perfect illustration of how he interacts with the world.

I lost it then; sat in my own pew and cried for him. It hit me how hard it was going to be for Pumpkin in the coming years. I'm reasonably sure he'll come out okay on the other end, he's incredibly smart, but the road ahead will be rocky and full of potholes.

I've been where he is in my own way - different from the other kids, socially immature but still wiser than my years. It's a lonely place. One thing I know though, that my mother didn't, is how important the emotional support will be - for him, and maybe even for me.

The meaning of that promise I made in a St. Petersburg hotel room four years ago is becoming clearer. It extends, of course, to both boys, and I am relieved to find myself increasingly at peace with it.

This is not news!

Dear Boston.com,

If I never read another headline about Tom Brady's supermodel wife, it will be too soon. It''s not that I don't like her or don't wish them well. I do. I just don't want to hear about it, or read about it. Their relationship or the overpriced places they went shopping are not news. It makes me sad to think that someone is getting paid to write about this when it matters so little in the grand scheme of things and real stories from places around the world do not see the light of day.

I realize that these stories are relatively cheap to publish compared to what's going on in, say, Afghanistan. Just because you can buy a lot of cheap crap at WalMart doesn't mean you should, or that it is worth what you paid for it.

The only thing I really want to know about Brady is what impact last year's surgery had on his ability to play.  Save the gossipy stuff for the tabloids.

Thank you.

Signed,

I don't read People Magazine for a reason

27 million

I'm using that number as a title because I just can't fathom it.  27 million people, Soviet military and civilians, died in WWII.

Boston.com just released a collection of photos from this year's Victory Day (May 9) celebrations commemorating the end of WWII in Moscow and other places in the former Soviet Union.

I happened to be in Moscow at the time of the preparations for the 60th Anniversary of the end of WWII (2005) and got to see some of the parades and ceremonies (we left a few days before the actual Victory Day), and rehearsals. I have some pictures from the trip but nothing like those in the collection linked above which are just stunning.

Russia and WWII are two topics I have studied quite a bit and so watching the ceremonies was a bit like stepping back in time. It was really strange to hear military exercises associated with the era that were not in German.

As we make preparations for our own Memorial Day commemorations, let's try to remember that it's not just Americans who serve and die in wars, or fight for something they believe in, or defend their own sovereignty. War is sometimes necessary, but it should always be a last resort.

Zut, Alors!

Yesterday I found myself driving behind a car with a vanity plate that read OHMERDE.  That seemed to me to be the perfect response to the traffic jam we were in and I marvelled that the owner had been allowed that particular wording. Of course, probably no one at the DMV knows French.

One of the publishing companies I worked for printed a book of all sorts of English slang, colloquialisms, and perjorative usage intended for the English language learner who tends to be overly literal in translation and confused by idioms. I don't remember where the objections came from, but the finished product was deemed so controversial that it was never released. I can't imagine what it would be like to do all that work and have nothing come of it. The hazards of being a writer, I suppose. I guess it's entirely possible that the book was published somewhere else under a different title, but if that's the case, I don't know what it is.

I always thought they would have made a ton of money off of it. Nearly everyone who goes to learn a new language in school looks up the swear words first.  

I suspect that's still true.

How do I know?

The Number 1 Google search that brings people to my blog and gets at least one hit a week:

"All the bad words in the world."

Test post from iPhone

Now if I could just get used to this keyboard!

New Dinosaur Species!

Scene: The boys are watching How it's Made. The people on the screen are making fake dinosaurs for museums displays. Tigger (my Mr. Know it All), turns to his brother and  says:

"See, Pumpkin, that's an ASStodon!"

I think those are omnivorous.

Green Day

Green Day brought me my first friend in this little town.

I was on the commuter rail headed home from my publishing job when this guy sat down next to me. When he took out his train pass, I realized he lived in the same town as I did and would be accompanying me for much of the ride. Bummer. I liked having my own space.  The train was still in the station so we spent the next few minutes in silence watching a different train unload cars full of punk kids.

I thought that not for their behavior, but because they were all dressed badly and many of them had green or other colored hair which I hadn't seen since the mid-80s and which I tend to associate with punk music even if that's not entirely accurate.

My seat mate leaned over and said "Do you have any idea what's going on?"  (Oh, no, was he going to talk to me too?) No. I did not know what was going on but I had seen lots of other kids like this on my way over to the station from work and I thought maybe it was some college event, because it was September and the kids all seemed to be about college-aged.

"Let's see if the Globe has any idea," he suggested. In fact the Globe did mention a Green Day concert, but neither of us had ever heard of them. One of us, I forget who, speculated that Green Day must be something like Earth Day.

Once we pulled out of the station Green Day was quickly forgotten because he was off and running talking about other things. He didn't move even as the train emptied and other seats became available. I later discovered that he and his wife lived within walking distance of Piper and me. Our families are still friends today, though neither of us still takes the train.

From the TV news that night in 1994, I'd learn that Green Day was in fact a band whose Boston concert had been broken up by the police because the kids were moshing. Moshing! Back then, I still remembered what it was like to be a teenager, and thought the whole thing was ridiculous. The incident piqued my interest in the band and I started to like them even though they probably wouldn't fit in with many of the rest of my tastes.

It's nearly 15 years later and I am now reading about Green Day in the New York Times. I'm surprised to find that the band members are not that much younger than I am and amused that because of the NYT style guidelines, the paper refers to them as Mr. Dirndt, Mr. Armstrong, and Tré Cool. I'm happy that there are a few bands out there still doing social commentary in their writing, because I think we'll always need it and I don't hear enough of it these days. If it's there, it's lost in the pop nausea of American Idol and corporate radio.

Or maybe I'm missing it, because I am older but my kids are not yet teenagers with tastes of their own, and there are means other than the radio to grow and audience.

What about it? Are there other bands out there with a message worth listening to today? Are they on the radio or did you find them some other way?

Baseball, Hot Dogs, Apple Pie, and Chevrolet

You might need to be over 40 to remember that jingle, but that pretty much describes my weekend. Except the Chevrolet part; unless you count listening to the news.  

Tigger’s introduction to Little League started with a parade; one that he was in along with 100 or so other boys and girls who are about to have the next two months of their lives consumed by baseball.

 

We all met at the fire house and as we were standing around waiting for things to get more organized,  I had the familiar sensation of realizing that all the dads I knew said hello to me and almost all the moms I knew ignored me. I stood around feeling like an idiot watching Tigger fall in with his teammates and begin chattering away, until I realized that the fireman standing behind me was someone I knew and an adoptive parent to boot and at last I had someone to talk to.

 

Eventually, led and followed by fire trucks, the players  marched ambled from the fire house to the baseball field, held a small opening day ceremony where the need for kids and their parents to sell gourmet cookie dough (at $15 a pop!) was emphasized along with the need to place one’s cap over one’s heart for the National anthem.

 

And then there were hot dogs. A few of the parents ran a small concession stand at the ball park. After lunch and before dinner we bought hot dogs and ate them, because they were there, and the grill smelled wonderful and it seemed like the thing to do before we trooped over to the bleachers to watch a round robin of one inning games.

 

And this is where being the parents of two cantsitstill boys becomes a huge challenge. We were forever trying to get Tigger to stay with his team and trying to keep Pumpkin from climbing around under the bleachers (eew!), and I felt like I was corralling children more than I was watching the game and omigod they are 7 and 8 and we should be past all this.

When it was finally Tigger’s turn at bat we watched him swing a dozen times while Piper said things like, “he’s early, he’s got to get that back elbow up, and the pitcher (one of the coaches) is throwing too slowly, they should have had the pitching machine.” Thankfully, Piper was saying these things quietly to me and not yelling them because we are not those kinds of parents, oh no, we are not.

 

When it was our team’s turn to field, we watched one of Tigger’s  female classmates and remarked on how she repeatedly knew what to do with the ball once it came to her (always a problem for me), and how this tiny little girl was going to be a sports powerhouse in some capacity because we’d seen her in several different sports and she always seemed to have what it took right away.

 

It occurred to me that this seemed like a very American way to be spending the day; sitting on the bleachers of a small town ball field watching a game and nibbling on a hot dog and chips. It was at that point that the jingle in the title popped into my head and I started to think “Mmmmm, pie.” 

 

 

Unfortunately, though we had plenty of fruit of both the fresh and frozen variety, we had no pie crusts in the freezer so instead of pie, I made a modernized (read, not fried) version of fish and chips. Amazingly both boys ate it all even though I thought they were going to balk at the balsamic vinegar and garlic sauce, and they’d eaten hot dogs only a couple of hours earlier. Except for slicing my thumb on the mandoline (I’ve had it for years this was the first time I’ve used it, ouch!), the meal was a success. Not as good as pie, but good enough to eat.

I don’t have any Chevys to offer to the story, but we did have a fire truck, courtesy of Pumpkin who walked alongside the pumper all the way to the ball field and studied it carefully and drew it in fine detail the next day. And if I had a scanner, I could share it with you.

What we've been up to

Well, there’s a lot going on, but not really anything I could make a whole post about. Here’s a sampling.

Vacation

Sort of. My grand plans to go to VA Beach, Colonial Williamsburg, and Busch Gardens began to disintegrate when it became clear that the timing was bad for our relatives in the area. All too quickly, “maybe we should get together” turned into “maybe we shouldn’t go at all.”  So instead of taking the whole week off, I worked Monday and Tuesday, thinking that I would get lots of projects done on Wednesday and Thursday before we left for my niece’s Confirmation ceremony in upstate NY.

Instead, I collapsed; didn’t get more than a few loads of laundry and a couple of errands done. One day I slept until 9:30. I can’t remember the last time I did that. Friday, we had every intention of leaving at 8 AM, but didn’t get out of the house until noon.

The five hour trip was relatively painless, but I didn’t pack enough “summer” clothes and we were sweltering in the heat of a place it’s hard to remember is actually south of us. Much warmer, much greener. And so much more rural.

The Catholics are now bowing before Communion. It’s been a while since I’ve been in a Catholic Church, so I asked my MIL about it. She said it was new. You know, I try to be respectful, but I couldn’t help it. “You don’t like that,” she said.  “No, I don’t.”

Yes, we all bow before the altar, and genuflect before entering the pew, but this looks for all the world like we are bowing to the priest. “Don’t worry,” my MIL assured me, “the priest knows you’re not bowing at him.” 

I’m not buying it.

Work

OMG, I have five projects and I’m getting reviewed at the end of the month. I’m mentally exhausted.  I like the job, but there are particular challenges about the culture to which I am struggling to adapt. That’s true of any place, really, this is just a bit more hierarchical than I’m used to. I’m a professional, I’ll work it out, I’m sure.

Therapy

One of the outcomes of the neuropsych testing is a recommendation for therapies for the boys; very different therapies for very different issues. We met with the first step this week and it looks like there’s going to be a “team” involved. I’m not sure how much I’ll write about this because this borders on an invasion of the boys’ privacy, but I’ll just say that while I remain intimidated by the whole process, I am encouraged by the goal setting/strategy approach the therapist talked about. I know people who have been in and out of therapy since childhood with little change. I’m hoping that’s not going to happen to us.

Baseball

Tigger starts baseball this week. Piper and I were looking at the schedule the other night and holy crap, this is quite a commitment. Next weekend he has games on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. What have we done?

Pumpkin will start T-ball in another couple of weeks. I’m hoping he has a little more sticktoitiveness than he showed last year. I’m also hoping he gets the same coach he had for kick-start soccer. The guy is a family friend and also the parent of a kindergartner. He knows the deal with Pumpkin and has shown patience, sometimes more than I have.

Aporkalypse Now

It’s official, the Swine flu makes you crazy. Two kids in Lowell have made the news because they contracted the virus, stayed out of school and so far are not thought to have infected anyone else they came in contact with. You have to love the comment on that article referring to the boys as “yuppy (sic) students” and urging people to call the health department and insist that they release the names of the “culprits.”  And, lest you think that the poster is joking, in my own community someone set off a panic by posting on a local message board that the Board of Health was up at the High School testing students for Swine flu.  NOT true. But a friend of mine who was in Mexico with his family last week was called by other parents and told not to send his kids to school in spite of the fact that they were not sick and the school had made no such stipulation.

My father died from the flu almost 30 years ago, I do take it seriously, but people seem to be acting like this is the plague that’s going to kill in 48 hours. There seems to be no recognition that the people who have died come from a place where the medical care and culture is substandard compared to what we have and expect in the States. The one child who died in the U. S. was from Mexico and had prior health complications. And that’s not even addressing people who want to close the border. Get a grip, people! And lots of fluids.

 

That’s life on the island these days.  I’ve been mucking around with a political post, but I haven’t had time to finish it yet.