We had to learn not to react to alarming actions he made, if we didn’t want him to do those things again, such as pretending to choke. He had quickly figured out choking scared the crap out of us. Do you know how hard it is to act calm while your son pretends to choke—or at least you’re 85 percent sure he’s pretending?
As new parents, we also got tons of advice, sometimes unsolicited, including advice we could not easily object to as parents of a child who was a ward of the state. The most adamant directive we received from Linda, Karen, and Sherry before Thorin moved into our home was “You are not allowed to have your foster child sleep in your bed.” It wasn’t like I wanted him to sleep with us; in fact, it never occurred to me. But, it was the first of many distinctions we would learn between being a parent of a foster child and an adopted child.
“It’s not a good idea in general anyway,” said Linda. “You could roll over and accidentally smother him.”
Smother him! I wanted to say if I was going to accidentally smother anyone it would be our then aged mini-dachshund, Coco, who had halitosis and incontinence and farted nonstop. But, we did solemnly agree: no sleeping in our bed!
Three hours and twelve minutes into parenting, our solemn oath flew out the window. Thorin woke up screaming. We stood over the crib trying to soothe him, but he kept bouncing back up and yelling.
“Ow! Ow!”
“I think he means out,” Ward said looking at me.
Vigorous head nodding and a big grin from Thorin confirmed that was correct.
“Well, it isn’t like he can tell anyone we let him sleep with us, right?” I offered.
More positive head nodding came from our coconspirator.
Without further encouragement needed, Ward lifted Thorin from the crib, and the five of us piled onto the bed—two adults, one kid, a mini-dachshund, and a German shepherd—and slept through the night. From that moment on, we treated our foster child like he was our child.
The next morning upon waking, I realized, Holy crap! We’re parents! I was beyond thrilled, but we now had an awesome responsibility. Seeing the rest of the bed was empty, I discerned Ward had gotten the household in motion already. When I came downstairs, I found Thorin sitting on the couch. He stared at me as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. He was wearing a onesie with little yellow fireman’s hats on it that zipped from his left leg up to his neck. He sat in the lotus position, which impressed me because I was incapable of such flexibility. His chin rested in the cup of his hand, his elbow planted on his thigh. He gave an incredibly big yawn for such a small boy. I was on the verge of bursting into tears but knew that would be the wrong message for this auspicious morning, the beginning of our lives together.
Crap! I am going to completely lose it here. Think smaller. Think breakfast.
I turned my intense emotion of love into enthusiasm.
“We’re so happy you’re here!” I said, hoping I could keep it together.
Thorin offered a shy little smile.
Good grief! Everything this boy does is adorable.
After taking the dogs outside, Ward walked in the room. He looked at Thorin and asked, “You like eggs, right, Buddy? Sherry said you like eggs.”
Thorin looked up at us and smiled. We took that as a yes.
While Ward made eggs and talked to Thorin, I went upstairs and cried into a bath towel. The months of waiting for a child had been all consuming. There had been no space for the unknowing of what it means to be a parent, and, at that moment, it hit me. I’m someone’s mother. I do have an awesome responsibility. Not awesome meaning totally cool, but as it was originally intended: reverent, fearful, wonder. As the tears flowed, I pictured throwing myself in front of the proverbial bullet, car, or bear.
I heard Ward call for breakfast. I dried my eyes and threw the towel in the hamper. I walked down the stairs, secure with my new place in the universe.
The three of us sat at the table eating scrambled eggs. I had placed a miniature fork at Thorin’s plate, but he used his hands to put little piles of eggs in his mouth. Ward and I were finished with breakfast in about ten minutes. At that point, Thorin had barely put a dent in his. Thirty minutes later, he was just halfway through his breakfast. I didn’t want to rush him. Who knew what could cause him to choke?
As we waited for Thorin to finish, Ward and I ran out of conversation. Sitting at the table quietly gave me a moment to think about Thorin’s hair—the extent of my parenting ideas at that moment. He had a butch haircut, which I thought was a shame because his hair was a brilliant gold. Where Sherry must have seen a miniature Army recruit, I saw Laird Hamilton, the big wave surfer.
“I bet you would look great with long hair,” I said to Thorin. I turned to Ward, “Right?”
Neither of them said a word. Ward was minimal in his conversation, and I understood about four words Thorin spoke. I wondered if I would be talking to myself most of the time.
A knock came at the backdoor. I was grateful for my sister and Matt initiating the morning ritual of visiting Thorin. Three minutes later, the entire triplex was in our apartment to greet Thorin on his first
