Artificially Sweetened

One of the mixed blessings of biological parenthood, it seems to me, from my non-biological parent perspective, is seeing your own traits or your partner’s traits emerge in your child.  Your smile, your stubborness, your depression or diabetes, your eyes, hair nose anger.

Today was one of Those Mornings.  Mornings (or afternoons, or evenings) that leave me worn out and weepy from a series of violent tantrums that seem impossible to predict and that frighten me with their intense physical ferocity – throwing, pinching, hitting, biting…

I find myself wondering Where It Comes From (Probable but not Satisfying Answer: Mostly being 2.5).  Who are P’ito’s biological parents and does this propensity to physical aggression come from them? That’s the nightmare adoption myth isn’t it? You don’t know who those people are.

I handle that thought gingerly, aware of my own tendency to turn there when I’m at a loss, aware that I don’t go there as often as I should when P’ito awes me with an act of tenderness, a clever thought, or his amazing athletic grace and self-awareness.  That’s as much of a possible inheritance as is aggression, but how often do we think – I wonder from where his gifts come? Why do I so often go there when I’m worrying about the parts of him that are hard to parent?  If he had come from me, would I more easily see both the positive and negative possibilities of genetics?

P’ito has now lived with us longer than he lived in Guatemala.

I feel so completely his mama. I know the warm soft spot between his cheek and his neck, his delighted giggle when I spin him around, the sweet baby shampoo scent of his hair. I know the difference between a squawk of momentary discomfort and a howl of distress. And he knows the sound of our voices, the garlic-onion-mustard seed-tomato smell of our home, the rhythm of Pili’s steps coming up the stairs.

But then I look at our pictures of him in Guatemala, the flowers and colors and unique and wonderful sensations of that place. The scent of corn tortillas warming for a late afternoon lunch. The bouncing of tuk-tuks on cobblestones. The dust rising off the road as a brightly colored bus speeds by. And I wish he could know those sensations in his blood the way the smell of tar in the NYC subway will always smell like home to me.

He may not be able to articulate his memories, but I know that they are there. When we first brought him home, we quickly realized that he knew that los pollitos meant time to fall asleep. That he was gobble gobble gobble, “mi gordito” as his niñera proudly told us.

So I think about today with very mixed emotions, knowing that each day that brings him closer to us, brings him further from those first connections and associations that are part of the wonderful, exuberant, inquisitive boy I love so very much today (and everyday).

After I left P’ito at daycare this morning, I went downstairs to the director’s office to ask her a quick question about his tuition.

- Oh, I’m so glad you’re here – do you have a minute?

- Um, sure. (not what I was expecting)

She wanted to talk to me about early intervention.

I’m quite familiar with EI – it’s what my mom does for a living. And if I had any concerns about P’ito, I wouldn’t hesitate to call them and get him evaluated. So why do I feel so whiplashed that she brought it up? Her concern is not about physical or cognitive development – she feels he’s doing great in those regards. But as she put it, after spending some time in his classroom and talking to his lead teacher, they feel he’s a little serious/ withdrawn/ subdued (since before Pili’s commuting, btw). And, she explained, they’ve had lots of positive experiences with EI giving them suggestions to help internationally adopted kids adapt to the daycare setting.

I know the mood that they are talking about, but I also know my silly goofy boy who is anything but subdued. To wit: After his bath tonight, I was trying to ready the sixteen layers of cloth diaper that keep him from soaking through his pjs, and he was trying to unready them. Finally, I gave up and set his naked little self down on the floor. He WHOOPED, ran over to his zebra and climbed on it. Buck naked. Then he shot me the most mischevious grin ever.

I have a lot of trust and confidence in his daycare. They are NAEYC accredited, his teachers adore him & snuggle him lots, and I’ve certainly seen him be happy there. So I find myself wondering: if he weren’t adopted, would she be suggesting this?

My mom doesn’t see any need for evaluation; on the other hand, she is such a fabulously over the moon grandma that I think she may really believe his shit smells sweet. She thinks that he is quiet at daycare because he’s trying to hold onto his memories of Pili & me & we need to find a lovie for him (so far, he has no particular attachment to any soft objects other than his mommies) & send him to school with lots of pictures of us (he has a big poster with pictures of us right at his eye level).

I don’t know. I feel – glad that they are looking out for him – annoyed that I don’t think she’d make the same suggestion to the parents of the quiet, non-adopted kids in his class – sad that he is not happier at school and not sure what to do about it.

And then I went in to pick him up today, and he was absolutely positively giggly. And his afternoon teacher looked at me like she thought I was certifiable when I said that the director & teacher #1 thought he was subdued. Perhaps it’s just that he got a nice long nap in today?

UPDATE: We started sending P’ito to daycare with Blankie, which I guess I can no longer describe as “the closest thing to a lovie that he’s got” as it seems to have been upgraded to FULL ON LOVIE status.  And that seems to have helped – he’s been much happier and his normal goofy self at daycare ever since.  I checked back in with the director the other day and she immediately said “y’know I’m glad you brought that up again – I think you were right that he was just working through some separation anxiety and I’m not concerned anymore.” Whew.

Of course (this is our life we’re talking about) this couldn’t happen without complications…

On Thursday night, after our fabulous Guatemalan playdate (pictures coming soon, I promise) I came down with a serious case of Tecún Umán’s revenge. The only thing I ate on Thursday that Pili did not also partake of was a limonada con soda at Cafe Condessa. Antiguans, consider yourself warned. Pili was left to pack all of our bags and care for the baby while I lay in bed, moaning and upchucking. [Note: Not fun for anyone, downright scary for a Person With Diabetes.  Bernard's gift of gatorade powder was much appreciated]

In desperation, she called Delta and tried to see if we could rebook our flights for a day or two later to give me time to recuperate. Unfortunately the pinche rented cell phone cut out while she was on hold with the Delta representative, and we assumed that nothing had been changed, and we would go ahead with our travel plans, barf bags in hand.

[12 hours later. Location: The Guatemala City airport, Delta ticket counter]

Pepito, far more socially adept than either of his mothers, smiles and flirts with the ticket agent. She studiously ignores him - hay un problema con su reservación. Turns out that the Delta rep had actually changed the flight. We are now scheduled to leave GC on Sunday! The agent is able to get us back on the Friday flight to Atlanta, but there are no seats available to our home on the connecting flight. We can stay overnight in Atlanta and get on an early morning flight on Saturday. Pili bravely holds down the fort. ArtSweet, bent over a garbage can in the airport, weakly signals her approval of this plan. Pepito, failing to get the ticket agent’s attention, throws his lovie (thank you, auntie Mel!) at her and clocks her in the jaw. She allows as how Él es un carácter.

P’ito is a trooper on the flight. Take off and landing is no problem, but sitting in one place when the seatbelt sign is on is cause for a meltdown of nuclear proportions. Fortunately the missionaries sitting behind us are tolerant and Guatemalans love children, even when they’re screaming at the top of their lungs.

We land and clear immigration, where he officially becomes a U.S. citizen, with no problems, and then spend two hours trying to exit the Atlanta airport and get to our hotel. These hours include the Worst Poopy Diaper Ever and the Skankiest Changing Station Ever – at least according to Pili. I was sitting on the luggage cart, clutching my still aching head, and wondering what the hell was taking so long while she attempted to figure out how that clever baby got poop everywhere.

We get to the hotel, where I eat solid food for the first time in 36 hours. Miraculously, it stays down. Sleep for five hours, and get up to race back to the world’s most complicated airport. Arrive home, after a less than pleasant flight on a small plane with a teething baby, to a fabulous greeting team from our hometown friends, and a home festooned with “It’s a boy!” and “Welcome home!” banners.

Photos, a report on P’ito’s first playdate, a bunch of memes, and some serious blog commenting coming later… off to make a bottle – with water from the tap! It’s amazing what you learn to appreciate…

It’s PINK

Embassy appointment, according to the folks at the USE (GAL has not called yet) is July 11!

WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

Homecoming a couple of days after that…

More later after I climb off of my cloud.