Slipping Through My Fingers

A few weeks ago I allowed my oldest son to walk to a new friend's home to play. Even though he was in our neighborhood and I was watching him from the upstairs window the whole time, he did have to cross two streets. I watched him skip off, stooping down to check out a rock or pick up a leaf, looking first right, then left, then right again before running across the street. He arrived in his friend's driveway and I watched his friend's mother smile at my son, taking over my watch.

Last month my oldest son arrived in the kitchen after exiting the bus all a twitter with the news that he and a few friends from the bus were forming a singing group. He spent the next few days writing songs, the bulk of which was actually pretty good. Two weeks ago he was working with a different group of friends to clean up the playground for Earth Day. He made flyers, created a list of what needed done and recruited helpers. I have no clue if he actually picked up any trash. But he looked good on paper!


He can ride his bike without me standing in the driveway,watching. He isn't allowed to cross the street or go all the way around the block, and he has to come back and check in every so often, but he is out there, alone. And I am in here, totally freaked out. I hover in the kitchen, hoping to catch a glimpse of his bike helmet over our back fence. I pace to the front door, watching for him to ride past the house. I pray. "Please keep him safe. Please help him to make smart choices when he is out there without me."

There are times now, in just the right circumstances, that I will let my Soaring Seven Year Old go to the bathroom by himself in public. Not everywhere. (Not at, say, Walmart. NEVER at Walmart.) I have taught him how to speak to a server and order his own meal. We have given him lessons in manners and purposely provided him with opportunities to use his newly acquired skills. We have modeled and praised and gently corrected. Yes, we are raising a super smart, very inquisitive, straight A student, but raising a man, raising a person of substance, is what is really important to me.


Last night my husband's extended family got together at a nice restaurant for a Mother's Day dinner. My Soaring Seven Year Old sat at the other end of a very long table, laughing with his cousins. I sat with my sweet husband and sisters and brothers in law, with my newly minted and very sleepy five year old on my lap. It took every ounce of strength I had to stay in my seat and not hop up to make sure all was well down there. He sat in his seat, wearing a bright yellow golf shirt and khaki shorts, his black hair somewhat spiky and his dark brown eyes sparkling. I watched him chatting with his cousins, all around his age, give or take a few years, all boys. I watched him order his drink, and then read the menu, ordering his own meal. I wanted to ask if he had said "please" and "thank you", but I stayed quiet. I wanted to leap up and move his cup of chocolate milk away from the edge of the table, but I didn't. And the cup stayed in place. I watched him eating a fruit salad and then pizza. I wanted to jump up and cut his pizza, reminding him that the plate would be very hot. But I didn't. And he was fine. He waited for his food to cool and then he did just fine pulling the pieces apart. He laughed with his cousins and grandfather. He stayed in his seat. He came over to me to ask if he could use the restroom and, once, just for a hug. (dear sweet boy, he missed me!)

The server complimented us all on our well mannered boys. This is what it can be like, I thought to myself. This is where our future is going. And it was nice. I was able to eat without the weight of his seven year old body pressing into me. I was able to talk to other adults. But as nice as it was, and as proud as I was of my oldest son, a part of me was sad. I am watching my baby boy slip through my fingers, as he grows into the man I had prayed he would be. I held on to my youngest, my tiny Frustratingly Fantastic Five Year Old. He will not go so easily into independence. He will need more guidance, a watchful eye for much longer. It is exhausting to think about, really. But last night, as I watched my oldest son navigate his world without me, I held on a little tighter to my youngest. Before I know it, he will be slipping through my fingers as well.

want to know how much you love someone? leave them for a month.

written while out of the country finalizing the adoption of our son.


The hotel has been very noisy today, which is odd, since it is a Monday and the weekend crowds have packed up and gone back to work. I suspect there are a lot of little ones inhabiting the little studio type suites, creating that noise that just follows children around. Vibrations of television sets turned to cartoons, which apparently are good in any language, combined with hair dryers, microwave ovens, crying babies. The babies have been crying a lot today, including my own. But right now it is very quiet in our little room. I can hear the birds singing in the beautiful purple flowering tree outside the window. I can hear the slow rhythmic breathing of my son sleeping in his crib ten feet away. It is peaceful. Soon my little guy will wake up, yawn and stretch and roll around in his crib for a moment before popping up and lifting his arms in that universal "pick me up" sign. He will immediately find his shoes and take my finger, leading me to the door and demanding that we leave the room. He doesn't like to be trapped in this room any more than I do. We'll walk the hallways up and down, and then maybe walk outside, looking for the birds or cats that my guy loves. He will point at them and yell "da!" in his sweet baby voice. He will test his independence as he lets go of my finger, determined to walk on his own. Which he will be successful at, until he reaches a step, where he will stop and start to whine, softly, a threat of the tears to come if I don't hurry and pick him up and help him down the step. Then he will be off again, pointing at the birds and occasionally reaching up to grab my finger.

Soon I will have to put on my tennis shoes and coat and head outside. I am tired today because I didn't sleep well last night. My new son, he slept fine. But I don't do so well when my husband is not with me, and he went home a few days ago, leaving me alone with the baby. The baby I can handle. It's the night noises, the hushed whispers in a foreign language, and the late night footsteps in the hall outside my door I do not like. Last night was especially bad thanks to a mysterious stranger banging on my door at three a.m. while yelling loudly. I have not idea who it was or what he was yelling, but by the time I got to the door he was gone, apparently having figured out that the 41 year old American woman in room 113 was not who he was looking for. Which is good. I doubt I would have been very good company. I couldn't have even offered him a drink, unless he was in the mood for purified water or a bottle of toddler formula.

I went back to bed angry and sad. Earlier that night I had talked briefly to my four year old son, who had been staying with Grandma and Grandpa while his parents were off in a foreign land adopting another baby. My husband had arrived home and picked him up, and even though I had spoken to him nearly daily since we left, I still felt as though he was very sad last night. He seemed to understand that I was not coming home yet, but he sounded disappointed anyways. I hit the disconnect button on the Skype screen and pulled off the headset with tears in my eyes. I picked up my newest son and lay down with him on the bed, outright crying now. He looked at me somewhat confused and began to play peek a boo with the pillow. Such a tiny little guy and already uncomfortable with a woman's tears, doing everything he could to turn them off and make me smile. Which he did.

Even though this trip has been wonderful- after all, the sole purpose of this adventure was to bring home our son, which is exactly what is happening. Everything has gone according to plan, and while it hasn't been easy, it has been exactly what we expected. Even with all that though, I am homesick. You want to know how much you love someone? Leave them behind for three and half weeks and you'll find out. I miss my son more than words can express. I am terrified that he will be grown up when I return, the result of too much time away from me. I worry that he will no longer need to be glued to my side, or always sitting on my lap. I worry that he suddenly won't care if I need to run an errand alone or if Daddy picks him up from day care. I worry that I am missing something big, or somehow doing harm to his little psyche by leaving him for this long. Four days short of a month without him, by the time I make the three day trek home.

This morning I got to see him for the first time since I left him in Cleveland. With Brad home we can now video chat, and so I could see for myself that he was fine. He no longer sounded sad. He seemed interested in what his new brother was doing and he signed "I love you" to me. He even asked  if we could touch our "I love you" signs together, like we do at home, so I made the sign and touched the screen. By the end of the call he had already wandered off to another room, satisfied with his mommy fix. Me? Not so much. I could have stared at his beautiful little face all day.

I know people who have more than one child will all say that it is hard on the older one when the new baby comes home, and of course I know that this is true. But this, this leaving your home and your life and your child, to travel to a foreign country, where your delivery room is a hallway, where nothing is private, where you often feel judged and misunderstood, where your most cherished moments of becoming a family are lived out loud for all the world to see and comment on; this is different. This is not easy. Worth it, yes. But easy? No way.

update: my husband and son were waiting for us in Columbus when we got off the plane. There was my sweet little boy, holding his Grammy Trish's old stuffed cat to give to his new brother because he knew that he loves cats. He was also holding a giant welcome home sign that his daycare class made, complete with a hand drawn picture of me and Alex. In the picture my hair was a little wild and my eyes were a bit bulgy, which, truth be told, is exactly how I felt after all that travel. And most of my worries about leaving my son for so long were, of course, unfounded. But I have to say, he is taller. He is harder to pick up. I swear his face looks different, older. Even his hair seems more grown up. Sounds crazy, I know. But when I left the country he had that baby hair, all fine and wispy. When I returned he had little boy hair, sturdier. Even now, a week after returning home, I am still taken by the difference in him. Maybe I wouldn't have noticed the change if I had been here to see it happen slowly, but now I can't stop seeing it. My little boy grew up a little while I was away.

can't let my passion cloud my vision

My baby is growing up. In my eyes, he is my baby still. In my eyes he still needs his bottles, his pacifiers, his crib. In my eyes he is not ready for potty training. In my eyes he needs to sit in his high chair, not at the table, and he needs his banana cut up; my baby can't hold the banana and eat it. When I look at my son, I see my son. My baby son.

When my husband looks at his son, he sees a little boy. A little guy who can safely play with matchbox cars and can sit at the table to eat his banana. Not just that, but he can sit at that table and eat that banana without Daddy hovering over him, waiting for him to topple out of the grown up chair while choking on the too big bite he just shoveled into his mouth.

So who is right? Certainly my husband is the more reasonable one here. He is not letting his emotions stand in the way of raising his son. But that doesn't make me wrong either, I don't think. Is it wrong to want to hold on to my little baby as long as I possibly can?

We have seen a few people recently who have not seen Matthew since he was about 17 months old. Back then, he was tiny, wearing 12 month old clothes and not able to handle a sippy cup. He stuck close to his mommy and fit perfectly into my arms. Now these people are seeing Matthew again, at 24 months old. Now they see a little boy who is confident enough to run all over the house, coming back to mommy every so often for encouragement and a hug. They see a little guy who can drink out of his cup and who can put the older child puzzles together with no problem. And they all comment. They all say things like "wow, he is so grown up." and "he is no longer a baby." He is still a baby! I want to shout this at them. He is still my baby!

I know that it is a good thing that my son is developing so well. I am proud that he is so smart. I applaud his desire to learn and explore. And I know that all of that comes with a price. The price of growing up. The cost of growing up seems to be charged directly to me though. Does the mother always pay? Do we pay for the loss of our babies? Does every move towards independence cost the mother dearly? Probably.

Of course it is worth it. I have this vision of my son as he grows. Of a boy who is confident, smart, independent. But my passion is this baby. I am already starting to miss my little baby.

I have to be sure that as we continue on this journey I don't let my passion get
in the way of my vision.