I don’t quite know what to say about Cricket’s visit—he was here for two days, and within a few hours of his arrival, he was miserably sick with a temperature of 103.8. It was disappointing for all of us, and of course worst for poor sick Cricket; Nora kept mentioning that they hope to visit this spring, and for longer. But Cricket’s illness did take the pressure of, in some ways. We are not going to have the perfect visit. The boys are not going to play together in perfect love and understanding. So: let’s enjoy each other as best we can. If that means sitting in a hotel room with a miserable Cricket while he watches Sleeping Beauty, well, that ain’t nothing.
After Nora and Cricket left, of course, we got sick. And then Joey brought a bad cold home from school, and we’re still recovering from that one. And now today is Joey’s birthday; he’s four, and I can’t hardly believe it. That means that Cricket will be six in a few weeks, which is equally unbelievable. I don’t feel as unready for Christmas as I have some years, but there is a lot to do, and I’m still nursing that cold. That is my excuse for a small and unexciting update.
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.
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.
I keep waiting to have a really excellent post, but I’ve been waiting awhile, so instead I am just writing here in the middle of the night.
Kit has started to talk in silly voices a lot of the time—this is something that Cricket does. He cannot be pried out of his rain boots with a crowbar—this was true of Cricket for better than two years. There hasn’t been much of this sort of thing between Joey and Cricket, or even between Joey and Kit, because Joey is very much on a different path. But Kit and Cricket look alike, and seem alike in some other ways, and I will be interested to see them together later this year. Kit is mad for puzzles; I am planning to ask Nora whether Cricket is or has in the past been into puzzles.
Joey has finished his extended school year, and is one week into a five-week break; he doesn’t seem thrilled to be off school. I’m trying to get them out of the house most days, but I’ve been depressed and tired, so there have been too many days when we just end up taking a trip to the back yard. This week we have plans for Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday; I’m trying.
I’ve just finished a little freelance work, so I’m up after midnight, waiting to be able to sleep. The boys get up before 6 every morning, so tomorrow will not be a super energetic one on my end—note that we do not have an outing planned for tomorrow—but for sure the dudes can swim, and I can drink coffee and daydream about taking a nap.
I’ve struggled with depression for most of my life. I feel grateful to be at a point, now, where I can see the sadness and hopelessness as something that I don’t have to explain to myself or jolly myself out of; I can have those feelings and just try to let them exist without allowing them to rule my life. Some days they steer me more than I wish they could, and almost always they weigh me down, but I can enjoy the kids and give of myself to them and make jokes and read novels and see the depression as sort of running alongside instead of over my life. I’ve learned that when I am especially burdened, I have this different kind of exhausted compassion for the kids’ troubles that is quieter and less pushy than my normal variety, and that seems like a silver lining worth appreciating. Six or so hours ago, Joey just melted down, screaming and shaking and just beyond coping. He had a mild diaper rash, but I couldn’t find any other obvious cause for his distress—but just being held by me without having to endure a lot of stupid questions helped, and a bath helped the rest of the way.
Joey is my baby now. I don’t know exactly when it happened, but not too long ago, Kit stopped being the baby. Joey is still taller, but he is behind Kit in just about every other developmental way—Kit is my big boy, and Joey is my baby.
As I write this, I am also browsing the internet to see what to do about diapering Joey now that he’s outgrown size 6; apparently Medi-Cal should cover diapers, but I’m not sure how to make that happen. I have emailed his social worker, but she hasn’t responded. I guess my next step is to talk to his pediatrician—I know that I need a prescription for diapers. I just don’t know what to do with it!
My sister Tammy visited us a couple of weeks ago. We don’t get to see her often, and she’s wonderful company—I wish we lived closer together. She and I sat up chatting and making cookies one night, and it came up that she thinks Joey is catching up to his peers. I tried to explain that no: he is making progress, but the gap between Joey and his typical peers keeps widening. I don’t think it was exactly making sense to her until I remembered that her close friend’s son just turned four. Joey is only six months younger than Leo, I said, and I could see her suddenly really get it, and I keep thinking about the look in her eyes. She loves Joey, and I don’t think that she has an unkind bone in her body—but just seeing her realize that he really is never going to be average—she doesn’t think any less of him, that’s not what I mean, but it was a big realization and I saw it happen and I keep remembering what it looked like.
Joey qualifies for an extended school year; special-needs kids who might lose a lot of ground if they were out of school for the full break get an extra month or so of school. He is at a different school, with a different teacher, but I’ve heard excellent things about her, and he seems happy to go to school in the morning. He and Kit are both going through growth spurts, so he’s sleeping more—or trying—Kit has realized that he can climb out of his pack-n-play, and will starting jumping on Joey and trying to convince him that 8 p.m. (or 9 p.m., or 4 a.m.) is the perfect time for a dance party! Joey’s swimming whenever he gets a chance, and Kit is starting to warm up to the idea, especially after Tammy spent hours playing in the water with him. Mostly he hangs out on the steps of the pool, periodically shouting “I swimming in the pool!” while Joey peacefully paddles around the deeper water.
Joey is going through a period of shrieking more and hitting me more (not hard), but remains a sweet and mellow person who’s going through some stuff right now. I want to write more about Kit, and about Cricket, but I’ll save that and hopefully post again soon.
I am having experiences with Kit that are, I’m sure, the most normal little things—but they feel like nothing that I’ve ever seen or experienced before. I took him out one morning last week for a pastry (for him) and a cup of coffee (for me), and he was happy to sit in an enormous chair and occasionally walk around the coffeehouse and smile at people. After a little while, he started signing to me that he was thirsty, and then he waited patiently while I got him some milk—and by “waited patiently,” I mean “staggered around signing <thirsty>,” because for Kit that sign requires you to throw your head as far back as possible. It was a really nice time, and it’s so strange that he can now, say, pick out a doughnut for himself or enjoy watching passersby. I’m acclimated to Joey, which makes having a little boy who smiles at strangers sort of baffling. But in a good way.
Kit is almost two. He does not show any signs of autism—and you can believe that he has been closely scrutinized, not only by me but by the professionals who work with Joey. He loves trains, trucks, and the color purple. He counts and reads numerals 0–10, and has started reading and signing letters; when he sings the alphabet song, he gets stuck for a bit on W: “You, bee, double you you you you you you you you you you you . . .ex, why . . . zee!” He is very nervous of most nonfamily these days, but he warms up to most people pretty quickly. He loves to wear cowboy boots and a bucket hat, and he loves to hide and be found, or run and be chased.