So, Susie, What Brings You Here?

Well, it’s like this: Cricket is coming to visit next Friday. It’s not a long visit—part of Friday, all of Saturday, and gone the next morning—and Nora and I have carefully talked things out. I’ll get to meet Nora’s girlfriend. I get to take Cricket (and Nora) to Big Hero 6. I like our plan, and I like that Nora is talking about a slightly longer visit next time, and I am just so sad about the loss of adoption all over again.

I guess this is just what my brain needs to do before a visit; during the visit, I need to be friendly and cheerful and supportive of Joey and Kit, and then after the visit I can be sad again. I miss Cricket, and I also feel as though I am not allowed to miss Cricket—I don’t know him that well, and I signed away my right to miss him the day after he was born. But I do miss him. I see him so much in Kit, too: not just in looks, but in sense of humor and silliness and other tiny things. I wonder whether that resemblance is as clear or as uncomfortable to Nora as it is to me, and I can’t ask.

I don’t have much more than that to say. But I keep wanting to send small messages to Cricket (“I am making pan de muerto on Sunday, and I wish that I could send some to you”; “I hope you like Kit more this year than you did last year”; “What does it feel like to have brothers in the way that you do?”; “I just saw a movie that maybe you would like”), and I can’t, so this is my message in a bottle. I miss you, Cricket.

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My Great Big Gigantic

Joey is about to turn four. His birthday is on Thanksgiving this year, poor lamb, which means that we will be serving soy orange “chicken” alongside the more predictable holiday fare; the dessert options will include Skittles. I started planning a pirate party for him last month—and then I started thinking about a guest list, and got tense. When Mister Book visited last week (which was lovely, and I hope to write about that), I put it before him: Should I have a birthday party for him? I don’t know that anyone would come. If I were confident that at least three kids would come, I would go for it. But. Mister Book and I agreed that we won’t have a party this year, and Joey will neither notice nor care—but I feel crummy about it.

 

Joey’s doing well. One of my most painful memories from the time in which we started to worry about it, got him assessed, and started receiving services is of a conversation with a speech therapist who asked what Joey calls me. Nothing, I said. “Well, what does he do when he wants to get out of bed? What does he say?” Nothing, I repeated. He rattles the doorknob. I hadn’t even realized that this was a problem, and there were a lot of those, and I started to cry—the therapist realized what had happened and hurried to her next question in a not unkind sort of way. I tell you this so that you will know what a big deal it is that he now comes up to me a few times a day and says “Hi, Mima.”

 

I’ve started to pick out Christmas gifts for the kids; usually I’ve got that done by now, but this is the first year that it would be wholly inappropriate to give Joey gifts designed for kids his age, and that’s slowed me down more than it probably should. Joey is not making the progress on his school goals that anyone would like to see, but he loves school—today his class took a field trip to a pumpkin patch, and he had a ball.

 

I’m sorry to have been so gone for so long. I think about blogging often, but that feels miles away from actually sitting down and writing about what’s happening.