I was told by staff every once in a while Jacob would play with Thorin in the sandbox, happy to hang out with his former foster brother. I asked Thorin if it bothered him.
“No, Jac-ub good.”
Thorin’s propensity to throw food, drink, and objects increased in occurrence and location. He was doing it at home, others people’s homes, restaurants, and school. We bestowed upon him the nickname Throwy Peck. Throwy was a bit of a misnomer. Aside from throwing, he could reach over and ever so lightly knock over his juice or milk.
My response to this behavior alternated between ignoring it, pretending it was an accident, yelling, and, while ineffective, crying over spilled milk. For a while, I thought maybe it was Pavlovian. What was troubling was my belief that he was training me with the unconditioned stimulus of throwing things to elicit a conditioned response. How frustrating for him that I kept changing my reaction.
Ward realized I was doing more than my fair share of parenting—after I told him every day for months. There were gaps in Thorin’s preschool hours, and I couldn’t fill them all. Four days per week, Ward started going into work early so he could take off Thursday afternoons to be with Thorin.
On one of their Thursdays, Ward and Thorin were downtown when a woman panhandler asked Ward for spare change. He handed her a couple quarters. What came next was wholly unexpected.
“Is his name Thorin?”
Ward was taken aback. “What?”
“Is his name Thorin?” she repeated.
“How do you know him?”
“I’m friends with his mother,” she answered. She then looked at Thorin, who was staring at her.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” she asked.
No acknowledgment came from Thorin, and Ward continued walking forward, cutting off any more conversation.
“It’s good you got him! You’re doin’ a wonderful job,” she called after them.
This encounter would not be the last time we would run into someone who knew Thorin before he became part of our family. People usually commented on how good Thorin looked or how glad they were he was with us. We never experienced hostility in these encounters, but it was always disconcerting. What did they know about Thorin we didn’t?
Another type of encounter—more like an intrusion—we continue to experience to this day is strangers who can’t get over the fact Thorin has Down syndrome. We found traveling with Thorin must be similar to being with a celebrity. Thorin is recognized by his Down syndrome in the same way Brad Pitt is recognized by his distinctive features. And the same way Mr. Pitt is just as likely to be lionized as condemned, Thorin is also the recipient of a continuum of opinions. In both cases, public people think they know you, and you must engage with them simply because they recognize you.
The first time it happened, I was at Target with Thorin. A woman inexplicably yelled, “I love the way Down syndrome babies look!” I ignored her. Her teenaged daughter looked like she wanted to dig a hole so she could disappear. The woman must have thought I couldn’t hear her so she yelled it a couple more times, running along our cart as I sprinted away.
I yelled in her direction before losing her in the housewares department and said, “Okay, that’s enough!”
Ward and I started comparing notes on our bizarre stranger stories. We both had encounters with the overly familiar fan who is completely tone-deaf to the concept of stranger danger. Over the years, untold strangers have asked Thorin to hug them. I’m guessing in their mind they think, I’m not some creepy adult. I just want to hug a boy with Down syndrome. Early on, Thorin would try to comply with their requests, but either Ward or I would intervene. Later, as Thorin developed a healthier concept of strangers, he would run to me. Insistence is a big feature of this type of intruder. I had one woman repeatedly insist.
“Please, please can he hug me?”
“He really can’t,” I said putting my arm around Thorin as we walked away.
“How about a high-five then?” she yelled.
Money givers are another fan who Ward has run into on several occasions. This person, without exception, is an elderly woman who presses a dollar bill in Ward’s hand and says, “For the boy.”
In preparing for Thorin’s third birthday—his first with us—I wanted to make sure everything was to his liking. I consulted him on the kind of cake, frosting, and decorations by showing him online photos. He wanted a chocolate cake with chocolate frosting, topped with dinosaurs, which I liberally interpreted as anything prehistoric. Ward’s mother and brother came from New Jersey for the event. The Burdins and McGirrs from next door came with their girls. And, Jade came.
Jade attended to Thorin’s every need and criticized almost everything I did. Her honeymoon period with Ward and me had clearly worn off, and she choose me as the target—similar to Thorin. She liked me and was happy Thorin was with us, but she treated me like the inept stepmother she would have to school in the ways of parenting, which made sense to me since she had sacrificed so much to care for him.
“The wooly mammoth’s tusks are too sharp,” she said, pointing at the cake.
“I think it’ll be fine.”
“I’m going to put it up, just in case,” she said removing the miniature beast.
I hoped she wouldn’t notice the little caveman’s spear—placing a third of the decorations in quarantine. In spite of my perceived safety deficits, Thorin had a great birthday. I wasn’t convinced Thorin knew what the celebration was for, though. I didn’t attribute that to Down syndrome but to the fact this was his third birthday in as many homes. Jade had been at his first birthday but not his second. At this birthday, there were people he had just met, and Sherry was not present. How could he grasp
