“I love it! You’re brilliant!”
We then found out it was taken as a blog name, proving someone else’s brilliance. So we tweaked the name and settled happily on A Typical Son.
“I think we should have a quote on the blog that unifies our intention. I think it should be . . .”
“Whitman!” we spoke in unison.
We started scouring Leaves of Grass for the quote that would define our philosophy. One night in bed, Ward passed me the book opened to “Song of Myself.” He ran his finger over the text he wanted me to read: “. . . I exist as I am, that is enough.”
“Yeah, Baby! That’s true for everyone!” I cheered.
“Exactly,” Ward said as he turned off the light.
I did believe in “that is enough,” but there were times it was tested. Thorin was three and a half years old. He was sitting on the coffee table in the living room, looking at a Curious George book.
“Where go?” he asked as I walked through the room.
“I’m going to the bathroom.”
“I’m going to read book.”
I stopped dead in my tracks.
“Ward, did you hear that!” I yelled.
Ward ran into the room, “I did! Buddy, that was fantastic!”
“Thorin you said a complete sentence!”
“No!” shouted Thorin.
I thought maybe some communication miracle had happened. I hoped Thorin was free to express himself. As days passed without that kind of communication happening again, I first felt disappointment then I meditated on Whitman. I was thrilled about Thorin’s sentence because it was how I communicated. I valued it more and certainly not as “enough.” There is no lesser or greater communication; there is only “communication.” I made the mistake of sharing Thorin’s sentence with the speech therapist.
“Have you ever heard of that sort of thing? Is it spontaneous speech?”
“No, I have never heard of that.”
Of course you never heard of it. Dashed hopes is your forte.
It would be almost four years before Thorin would spontaneously say a complete sentence of that length.
Seven months after Thorin’s mother had surrendered her parental rights, we were notified of our adoption date. It would take place the following month. After that we would be parents sans the state of Maine.
When I contacted Linda, she asked if the caseworker who had physically removed Thorin from his home over two years before could come to the proceedings. She explained the woman had been hoping the best for Thorin since then and wanted to see him on the big day. A few other staff members who had interaction with Thorin also asked to be included. I realized how much of an impact not only Thorin but also all the children in the system had on the professionals who mostly saw the anguish of their young charges and not the celebrations. Aside from DHHS staff, family members, friends, Karen, Jade, and Jade’s foster parents attended. Twenty people squeezed into the judge’s chambers.
Thorin was wearing the outfit I purchased a few days before: a white oxford shirt, a striped tie, a navy blazer, grey slacks, and black dress shoes. I wore a charcoal skirt with a white linen blouse, and Ward wore gray slacks, a white shirt, a tie, and a navy blazer. We looked dapper and ready to graduate to being a fully legal family.
The judge’s role was brief, mainly reading legal texts and asking for signatures. He did ask if anyone wanted to say anything. I looked at Ward holding Thorin. Thorin had a wide smile on his face. Ward and I had already decided I would say something on our behalf.
As I looked at everyone who brought us to this moment and those who were sharing in our rite of passage, I could feel the lump in my throat before I started speaking. I blinked away my tears and nodded to indicate I was ready to start.
“Ward and I want to thank Thorin’s parents for creating him; Jade for saving him; Sherry for caring for him; Linda for knowing he was for us; and Thorin for making us the luckiest parents in the world.”
The day we adopted Thorin, we launched the blog a typical son: April 1, 2010. My opening post explained why we chose the name a typical son, and I related our first IEP meeting. From then on, Ward and I traded back and forth between posts. The early posts were a non-linear telling of the ways of state adoptions and our experience as new parents. Our readership was mainly family and friends.
One of Ward’s high school classmates left a comment that expressed the sentiment we hoped to convey: “I used to feel bad for people like you. I thought it must be so awful. Now I’m ashamed, you are like me.”
Adoption Day
CHAPTER FOUR
How I Earned the Privilege of Being Called Mommy
Thorin’s health did improve when the weather changed, but not as dramatically as we would have liked. I thought we should be more proactive, so I found a pediatrician who had several children with Down syndrome as patients. She was a doctor of osteopathy (DO). Her focus was on using osteopathic manipulation to stimulate a child’s immune system. It seemed perfect for Thorin.
During one of his sick visits, I asked his pediatrician for a referral. First he snorted, which I took to mean he didn’t respect DOs. Second he said, “If he were normal, I’d say no. But because nothing can help him, I will grant that request.”
Did he just fucking say that? I didn’t know how to respond. I turned to Thorin, and he reached inside his diaper then brought his hand back out and wiggled his fingers, all the while staring at the doctor. Good grief, Thorin did have balls! I hadn’t seen that kind of male domination since Joe Pesci in Goodfellas.
The doctor’s face turned blotchy red. He told me to pick up the referral from the receptionist then
