Well, my house is continuing to be more clean than it’s ever been before. After finally talking with our case worker, we learned about a potential adoption situation. I don’t want to provide details here, but there is a lot for us to think about. We were curious enough that we wanted to learn more and actually met with the expectant mother this weekend. Since we never had the opportunity to meet Seven’s birthmother before he was placed in our care, this was a new experience. We were pretty nervous before the meeting, but it went well.
We are trying to decide if we want to move forward. Of course, she may decide not to move forward with us. The funny thing is that my husband seems to want to move forward more than I do. It’s not that I don’t want to, just that I have some concerns. The main issue that we are trying to work through is the importance of our second adoption also being transracial so that Seven is not the only non-White member of our household. We were originally thinking that is what we would do. And then this situation comes into our laps and I feel like it’s not our place to refuse children who need a home.
Most of my evenings start out with good intentions. As I drive home I think of the laundry I will do and rooms I will organize. And then of course nothing gets done. Once we get through dinner, Seven’s bedtime routine and tuck him in, my motivation to do anything around the house is completely gone.
But today I happened to check my voicemail as I was making dinner and noticed a call from our caseworker. All she said was to call her back because they have a potential adoption situation for us. She didn’t answer when I called her back. It’s been about an hour. And the laundry is folded, clothes are put away, and floor is swept.
Many years ago, there was a late night comedy sketch (I think it was on In Living Color–I loved that show!) about a mother who was overly attached to her grown son. When introducing him to someone, she described him as about 422 months old. That she still counted his age in months was part of the punch line about how much she babied him.
I find myself thinking of that sketch whenever I hit a boundary for how I count Seven’s age. I started counting in days. Two days old! Now he’s 8 days old! But slowly (or rather, quickly), days turned weeks. And weeks into months. Should I say 11 days or 1.5 weeks? 7 weeks or almost 2 months?
And now we find ourselves at yet another milestone. 22 months. It is hard to believe it has been that long. But it is also beginning to feel a little embarrassing to say 22 months. When each new person asks about his age, I find myself stumbling about how to answer. “22 months,” I’ll say, and quickly add, “He’ll be 2 in March.”
It’s not that I’m eager for him to move into full-fledged toddler-hood and growing independence. It’s that I see the changes in him everyday and marvel at how much he is learning. His speech has exploded. He is becoming so polite with his “thank you, you’re welcome” and “please” and “bless you” that it is hard to think he will soon hit the terrible-twos. It is really amazing how he remembers things and can tell us stories about what happened–even if most words aren’t quite intelligible yet. Last week the hubby was getting him dressed when the garbage truck rolled by. They stopped to watch it through the window. Seven was so excited when he came downstairs that he had to tell me all about it. His mouth was going a mile a minute, mostly things we couldn’t decipher but there was a “truck” or “garbage” or “vroom” every once in a while. It was the cutest thing.
He is all boy. Despite our attempts to not pigeonhole him into gender stereotypes, if it’s a truck or a train or anything transportation related, he loves it. Fire trucks are just the most exciting thing ever. He also loves to be outside, taking walks, swinging, playing in the park. He likes to have us read to him and has memorized his favorite stories. Singing and dancing are also big hits.
So that’s my toddler. My 22 month old. My almost two year old. I love you.