Monday, October 8, 2012

happy and scared

This coming Sunday, October 14th, it will be the two year anniversary of seeing B's face for the first time, hearing his name, knowing that we had another son.  In honor of our very long wait for B I'm dragging over some of my old posts.  This post was written 3 months and 12 days before we received B's referral.  

reposted from the old 'new spontaneous delight' written July 2, 2009.  

It is 5 AM and the rain is pouring down outside. The light is low, grey and flat. The light is deep. I could sleep for 5 more hours and not wake feeling totally rested. However, it is 5 AM and so Q is at the side of my bed asking me if he can go downstairs. No, your body needs rest. Lay here with me until the alarm goes off. For the next 59 1/2 minutes he lays in bed doing his best to remain horizontal but unable to stop all the muscles of his body from moving. His legs are aching to start running, jumping, hopping. His arms are ready to throw balls down a field. His hands ready to hammer, or draw or dazzle me with their elegance while he dances his latest creation. He moves constantly although never jarringly. Thank goodness because he must always be laying against me. His breath is either in my face or on the back of my neck. His arms are around my waist or his elbows are poking into my back. His feet climb my legs then go back down. None of the movement is intentional. He is laying still, for him. His is the stillness of a shallow creek in August. Slow and quiet but always shifting, left, right around and forward. The clock is a meaningless thing to a six year old boy on an early summer morning. One day before we leave for vacation, little could be more painful than staying in bed after you are awake.
"Mom, can I get dressed?" he whispers to the back of my neck.
"No, it is not six o'clock."
"Yes, it is" he replies.
"No it is not, the alarm has not gone off, the alarm is set for six o'clock"
Just as the words six o'clock leave my lips Jack Johnson starts singing "It's better when we're together" and Q lays finally and truly still as the music fills the room.
I roll over and look at my sleepy head boy laying on the pillow beside me. I could lay here all day on this rain drenched morning looking at my still-six-almost-seven-boy who listens deeper than any person I have ever known.
He rolls over on his side to look at me. I love this song, he says.
Me too, says I.
And then there is something about his little brother or sister from Ethiopia. He asks if he was my first born are we going to call them my non-born.
No, we will call them my second born. They were not born in New York, like you were, but they were born after you. You are the oldest, born in New York, they are our youngest born in Ethiopia. They were born with a different Mom and Dad who loved them very, very much. Their birth was very, very special just like yours was.
We are not looking at each other. We are laying in bed hugging. And then I feel it. The little shudder and I know his feelings are about to spill over. He is crying.
I stroke his hair, "oh my lovey? What? What is it?
"I don't want them to miss their Mom and Dad" he whispers softly as the tears fall sideways and make a little puddle on the pillow. Again, I am caught up fast by the depth of his understanding and his compassion. I have to hold back my own tears, my own emotion as my mind rushes to find the right words to help him over to a better side. We still have a year, perhaps, to go before we even travel.
I look into his eyes. Yes, they are going to miss their Mom and Dad. Of course they are. But imagine this. Imagine they are playing with their friends in a yard. Friends that they know have also left their mom and dads. Friends who have this in common. Friends who are just like them. But those friends already have moms and dads in America that are waiting for them, getting ready. And they think about this. And then one day, the teacher comes to them and hands them a photo book and shows them that there is family that wants them, too. The photos show their mom and dad and their big brother. They show their house and the school they are going to go to.
Which school? he asks.
Your school. Imagine what it would feel like to them to know that they have a mom and dad in America that is waiting for them. And that they have a big brother that can't wait for them to come to New York. Imagine how that would feel.
His face is wet with tears that are still coming.
What do you think? I ask him. What do you think they would feel when they find out they have a Mom and a Dad and a big brother who are ready to love them. Who want them so badly?
His tears are slowing but his sadness is still deep and he looks at me with those huge lovely soft brown eyes and tells me with the corners of his mouth still turned down, fighting back the emotion.
"I think they would feel happy and scared."


Sha Zam- said...

Oh my lovelyness. And you deal so much better with the constant 'being still' movement than I do. not sure I'll ever be at peace with it. need to channel some you... hugs (and miss you on fb)

S said...

On this fall cool day...this is beautiful to read at the end of day with my girl and her "stillness" ahem next to me.

Waiting for Zufan! said...

Just wanted to say, sorry I didn't get to see you in Evanston this past weekend. I should have asked for your phone number. Next time! I will be there again.

Anonymous said...

This is killing me. I can hardly hold it together over here. Beautiful boy, and so close to Eva's age, and such a deep caring soul like hers...I am starting to get these kinds of talks about her brother in Haiti. And it's so different from our 1st adoption, when she was 3 when we brought Macy home. The 6 yr old is a miracle of a child.