Token Diversity Family

Shortly after Isaac came home, a friend – a white friend – said to us, “This is great! Our child doesn’t have any black friends.” Immediately, the phrase ‘token black child’ rang in my ears. I was struck by visions of social events in which people fixated on what made our family stand out. As a multiracial family, Laurie and I both recognize that we stand out. In almost any crowd, we are treated like a novelty.

We know that as the parents of these kids we have signed up for a lifetime of explaining and educating people, and we try to approach new people with optimism, and hope they will use discretion and tact when asking questions or making comments. We’ve learned that inappropriate questions and comments typically catch us off guard because they can come at anytime and from anyone – strangers in the grocery store, acquaintances, and friends and family with whom we thought we’d be safe.

We recognize the importance of giving people the benefit of the doubt but only up to a certain point. Often times, the oddest comments have come from people who seemed uncomfortable and didn’t know what to say. When someone at work found out I adopted my son, he offered that his Japanese teacher had adopted a newborn but the birth father was contesting the adoption. I failed to see the relevance, so all I could think of to respond was “Okay.”

To be honest, I had a really hard time in the beginning with all the blatant staring and attention. I had to remind myself that if I saw a white man chasing a small black child through a crowded restaurant who was crying and screaming “I want my Mommy!” I’d stare too. But as his parent, the staring made me want to claim him all the more. “I love you, Son” or “Hold Daddy’s hand,” I’d announce. My wife and I don’t suffer the same kind of inappropriate conversations. My lot is to endure blunt questions like “Why did you adopt? Do you shoot blanks, or something?” and “Is your wife barren?” A lady once asked me, “Do you wear boxers or briefs? I’ve heard briefs can really mess up your count.”

Meanwhile Laurie gets asked, “How much did it cost?” and “What if their ‘real’ mother comes back for them?” Then, after she discretely avoids answering the questions, someone says, “I’d love to adopt. I don’t think I can handle another pregnancy.” Then Laurie gets to listen as the group discusses baby showers, breast feeding, and many other aspects of parenting we’ve yet to experience.

While Laurie and I prefer to be accepted as normal parents, as time has passed, we’ve accepted the attention that comes with having such an interesting family. At parties, hosts who know our kids nonchalantly introduce us, adding, “They have the cutest family,” ultimately forcing us to whip out pictures of the kids. For a while, it felt like we were being labeled; the couple who just got back from a trip, the couple who sells real estate together, and us, the couple who adopted. Inevitably, we became the center of attention, and I felt the eyes of the entire room on us as we talked about the same mundane things everyone else’s kids do.

Just a few weeks ago, Laurie and I attended a wedding shower where we knew only the groom and his immediate family. The mother has known Laurie for years and took great pride in introducing us to the other guests. “Come on, Laurie,” she said to a group of couples, “I know you keep a little photo album in your purse. Let’s see those little darlings.” It’s hard to feign modesty when you keep a small photo album handy for just such an occasion. But the guests genuinely perked up with interest: “Oh. My. Gosh.” “Aren’t they precious?” “You all are just a bunch of saints. Saint Billy and Saint Laurie.”

It might have been too over the top, but this was nothing we haven’t heard before, even the “Saint” part. Years ago, we might have felt awkward pretending to be humble. We’d feebly thank them, but we usually made them feel embarrassed rather than encouraging. But I’d like to think we’ve grown past that, to a point where I can humbly accept their adulations, where I can reach out and hold Laurie’s hand, put my other hand on my heart, nod my head, and say, “You’re right. We are terrific people.”

Pulling Back in Open Adoption

A few years ago, Laurie and I met a couple who said that they had “adopted” their birthmother when they adopted their child. She had become a member of their family, spending the night on holidays, even baby-sitting the child.

In foster-parent training, Laurie and I learned that, when you adopt from foster care, birth families rarely maintain an open relationship. When preparing to adopt our second child, as a newborn, our agency taught us about the benefits of contact to everyone involved.

When we met M, we loved her immediately. She relaxed us with her sense of humor, and thrilled us when she told us that the baby in her tummy was ours. “I want you to be in the delivery room with her when she’s born,” she said to us. “I want her Mom and Dad to name her.”

Our relationship blossomed over the first year. After we brought Vivi home, we met with M every few months. In between visits, we exchanged phone calls, e-mails, and texts. We even spoke in training sessions together, to couples interested in adoption. Our agency told us that hearing our story alongside M’s gave new families a good perspective on open adoption.

Then, some time after Vivi’s second birthday, that relationship changed. As M became comfortable with us during our visits, she began to make more personal remarks, including some that contradicted what she had told us earlier about her pregnancy. Eventually, Laurie called our agency to explain the situation, and we had to involve our lawyer to confirm that the adoption was unassailable.

While our worst fears of something disrupting our family settled down, our hurt at M’s actions took a while to process. We never considered ending the relationship—M is our daughter’s birthmother, and, because of that, she is our family, too—but we decided we needed to pull back a little. The summer passed, and we remained out of contact with M.

One night Laurie was on the computer when she received an instant message from M. It read, “I’m so sorry for everything that happened.” Laurie responded that we were hurt by the events that had transpired, and that we had needed some time to work through it. M's response was quick, “Well, I hope you all have a good life. Take care.”

We sensed that M was reacting this way to keep herself at a distance, should we decide to break off contact, so we quickly explained that, while we were disappointed, she was not going to get rid of us that easily. She was family. M said she couldn’t believe that we still wanted to maintain a relationship. Her family had been telling her that one day we would stop all correspondence, and she thought this was it.

The next time we met, we told M that family members have fights and disagreements, but that doesn’t mean they never speak to each other again. These days, we visit less frequently, but continue to send photos almost monthly. Through this experience, Laurie and I learned that an open adoption is an evolving relationship, requiring patience, love, acceptance, boundaries, and communication.

When I think about the couple who “adopted” their birthmother, I wonder whether we missed an opportunity. They said they thought they would receive one addition to the family but, to their delight, they got a second. I don’t see M that way. Laurie and I hoped for a child, and we got one, with Vivi. The bonus is that we have one more person in our life who cares deeply about her.

This article can also be read at http://www.adoptivefamilies.com/.

Call Him Mommy

Once Isaac reached three years old, I suddenly became aware of my language and temper. I remember vividly the day he said his first curse word. I was sitting on the couch watching the news while Isaac played at my feet and Laurie prepared dinner. She called out from the kitchen, “Honey, we don’t have enough potatoes for everyone.”

Isaac looked at me and said, “Dammit, we need to get some more.”

Laurie leaned her head around the corner, and we shared a look that said, “Did I hear that correctly? Did he just say that?” She came into the living room and kneeled on the floor beside him. “Isaac, what did you say?”

He responded, “We need to get some more.”

“No, but what did you say before that?”

He said nothing, just gave her a confused look. We waited for him to come up with an answer, but he clearly had no idea what he said.

“Do you think he really said it?” I asked her.

“I don’t know. Do you?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Maybe he said, ‘Dang it.’ We say that all the time.”

Laurie rolled her eyes. “You know he didn’t say ‘Dang it.’ You say the other thing sometimes.”

“No I don’t.”

“You don’t say it all the time. But I’ve heard you say it once or twice.”

Isaac chimed in. “Are you guys fighting?” His voice was stern and authoritative—a dead-on impersonation of his mother and me.

“No, Isaac,” his mother and I said in unison.

We waited until after we put him to bed to continue the conversation. Laurie told me I needed to watch what I said around him. I said I’d already tried my hardest to phase out everything but “shoot” and “fiddlesticks” but sometimes those just didn’t do the job. I suggested he might have heard it anywhere—my parents, someone in Bible study, that kid at the playground with the Marilyn Manson T-shirt. I reminded her that he had recently learned how to operate the remote control. “Maybe he changed the channel when we weren’t in the room and heard it then.” Laurie didn’t buy any of it.

I couldn’t help but feel a little on the spot. We didn’t discuss any of the ways she was a bad influence on him. I didn’t mention his whining, crying, or constant compulsion to ask me for money. A few weeks passed before a better option would occur to me. Isaac was eating his breakfast as I was leaving for work. As his mother called to him from the next room to drink his milk, I kissed his forehead and said goodbye. He said, “Bye, Dammy. Love you.”

I turned around and asked, “What was that?”

“Oh. I mean, bye Daddy.”

I considered calling to his mother who was in the bedroom folding clothes. I wanted to tell her what he said—that the morphing of our two names sounded both humorous and blasphemous. But I thought twice about telling her. I imagined her saying, “You still need to watch what you say.”

At that point in both his and his little sister’s verbal development, I was used to being called Mommy. I tried not to let it hurt my feelings. As a stay-at-home mom, Laurie got significantly more face time with them. But at times it really bothered me. It seems like anytime I was nice or treated them in a nurturing way, they addressed me as “Mommy.” Then, one day Laurie called me at work and said, “Your son cracks me up. I just got on his case for something and he called me Daddy.”

I told her I didn’t understand.

“He was sassing me and I told him, ‘You do not talk to your mother like that. Do you understand me?’ and he said, ‘Yes, Daddy.’ Isn’t that funny?”

I thought about it for a second. When I’m nice to him, he calls me Mommy and when his mother disciplines him, he calls her Daddy. Great.

His verbal skills skyrocketed and for a while he consistently called his mom and me Dammy or Moddy. Vivi is now three and has inherited this morph. She’s so used to my leaving for work that whenever Laurie leaves the house, Vivi says, “Bye, Daddy.” While her mom is out shopping, I make dinner and, as I rush back and forth from the kitchen to the table, Vivi says, “Thank you, Mommy.”

This article can also be read at Wearegoodkin.com.

New Kin

In foster care training, we learned foster kids have a history with missing pieces, that there can be large parts of their past that are either traumatic or completely forgotten by the kids. So when our oldest son, Isaac, came to us at sixteen months old, Laurie and I were prepared to know nothing about his story.

For a while, we mourned missing Isaac’s first year, hearing his first word and watching his first steps. Then our curiosity shifted and we wanted to provide him some background for his own sake. In our foster and adoptive parents’ playgroups and support groups, parents shared stories about their children asking about their birthparents.

Some kids grieved the loss of their former family while other children couldn’t have cared less. Laurie and I knew that a relationship with Isaac’s birth family was unrealistic. But we wished we had some pictures or maybe even a letter or a card—something that would make them real people to us rather than simply names on the pages of official court documents.

Nevertheless, Laurie and I made our peace with the mystery of Isaac’s birth family. We adopted him just after his second birthday, and his baby sister, Vivianna, was born four months later. As we developed an open adoption with Vivi’s birthmother, Laurie and I prepared ourselves for any potential questions or grief Isaac might have watching his sister look at pictures, read cards, and even play with birthday and Christmas presents from her birth family. We expected this to one day bother Isaac, but we did not expect the phone call we got from his former CPS worker in July this past year, informing us that Isaac has a younger brother who just entered foster care. “We want to place him with you as a kinship placement,” the caseworker said.

Laurie called me at work to tell me. “I told her I’d have to talk to you,” she said. It took me less than two seconds to say absolutely. “I told the caseworker you’d immediately say yes,” she said. “But can you believe it? Isaac has a little brother!” Laurie called the caseworker back and learned that J had been in foster care for just over a week and that he and his birthmother had already had one visitation meeting. Moreover, the caseworker had supervised the meeting and took pictures of J and the birthmother he shared with Isaac.

When I got home that night, I sat at the computer and watched the slideshow with Laurie sitting next to me. I saw little two-year-old J playing a toy piano in baggy blue clothes. His skin complexion and forehead matched Isaac. “That’s him?” I said to Laurie. She nodded. I clicked on the next picture and saw a woman feeding him out of a fast food bag. “That’s her?” I said to Laurie. She nodded. A few weeks later, Isaac’s little brother came to our home.

Although his first two-and-a-half years were a mystery, J adapted to our home quickly, and Isaac and Vivi accepted their new roles as older siblings. Laurie and I couldn’t have been happier to welcome him into our home. It thrilled us that he got to share memories with us like Isaac’s first day of kindergarten and Isaac’s sixth birthday. Then, J’s caseworker informed us that two of our boys’ older cousins had entered foster care. When CPS decided the cousins – a teen boy and a preteen boy—would remain in foster care and not return to their family, they told their caseworker they wanted the chance to tell J goodbye. Laurie and I told our caseworker we had a better idea. The two caseworkers set up a meeting at the CPS office, and we got to meet the cousins.

During most of the visit, Isaac played swords with the preteen and the teen tended to J, wiping his nose, feeding him the cookies we brought, and instructing us on J’s likes and dislikes. Everyone got along great, so we invited the boys to Thanksgiving dinner. Isaac and I picked up the boys around lunchtime and we spent the afternoon eating snacks, watching parades and football on TV, and playing kickball outside. Both cousins took three helpings at dinner, and slept soundly in our boys’ bunk beds. Just before we left the next morning, they asked if they could come visit us every weekend.

A few weeks later, Isaac and I picked the cousins up again for the weekend to celebrate Christmas. That Friday night, we gave them gifts and stockings, took them to a light show, and came home for cookies and hot chocolate. Saturday, we took them out for pizza, and Sunday, they came with us to church. Everywhere we went, the younger cousin played with Isaac while the older played with J and told us stories of about their birth family.

Laurie and I are thrilled at all the memories we’ve been able to share with our new family. Annual activities like watching football on Thanksgiving and driving around the neighborhood looking at Christmas lights are now more significant because we’ve done them with members of our boys’ birth family. We’d spent years praying for photos or a letter, but we didn’t expect we’d get a new extended family.

This article can also be read at wearegoodkin.com.

Earlybird

A few days before Halloween, Laurie called me at work and told me she had just finished Christmas shopping for the kids. “Target had a Barbie car on clearance. Toys r Us was having a sale and let me use a coupon.” She paused a moment to catch her breath. “And Kohls was having a one-day-only sale Black Friday sale.”

As a single income family of five (seven if you add the dogs), Laurie and I have to follow a strict budget. A few years ago, we had some financial struggles and had to make some harsh decisions. We cut up our credit cards and have been cash only ever since. I got a second job and Laurie looked for ways to save. Since then, our roles have been simple: I earn the money and she spends it.

Laurie started by clipping coupons from the Sunday newspaper, but her skills at stretching a dollar have grown dramatically. She bought a subscription for a Sunday paper, clipped every week, and learned which groceries stores accepted double and triple coupons and which had the best sales. Sometimes, her shopping trips took hours because she visited several stores. “This store has the best produce but this one has better prices on toiletries,” she told me when she came home and handed me a fistful of receipts. “Look how much I saved.” I saw at the first store she spent $100 and saved $60, and at the second store she spent $80 and saved $40.

“How did you do this?” I asked her as I unpacked three bottles of shampoo, two boxes of garbage bags, and too many cans of vegetables and soups to count. She explained how she got most of these for free or for less than fifty cents, but I didn’t understand a word of it. “It’s not like these things ever go bad,” she said. I agreed, and found a few extra dollars in the budget for ways to increase our pantry storage.

Then she started building relationships with the employees working the cash register. She befriended a young cashier at a local pizza buffet, who always accepted double coupons, which allowed the five of us to eat for $10. Laurie learned to look for the teenagers. “Older employees will read the coupon and call over a manager to approve it. Then the people in line behind me glare at me. But teenagers don’t usually question coupons.” She reads the small print and double checks the receipts when she comes home to make sure they rang her up correctly. She’s learned how to diplomatically defend her coupons to the salespeople and managers, whom I’ve witnessed double take the receipts they hand to her.

She also became a master at planning the children’s wardrobe. Coupons would come in the mail or the newspaper, and she sets them aside and regularly checks websites for ads and sales. Then, when her favorite stores advertise a sale, she comes to me for a little extra cash. I used to freak out when she told me she needed a hundred dollars, but experience has taught me what she can do with what is actually a pretty small amount. In April, she’ll take the money and buy the children’s entire winter wardrobe for the following year. Then in October she buys shorts, tank tops, and swim suits, and spends all winter telling me how she can’t wait to dress the kids in their new summer outfits. She buys clothes that are one or two sizes too big, explains that they’ll grow into them, and shows me the red tags proving she bought a shirt for $2 and jeans for $3.

She’s also learned to shop off-season. The day after a holiday, I set aside a few bucks for her to buy decorations, costumes, wrapping paper, etc. She buys Valentines cards in March, and Thanksgiving décor in December, and spends all spring telling me how she can’t wait to use her new gravy boat.

We learned from numerous financial advisors the importance of planning in advance for special events we know are coming up, like vacations, back-to-school clothes and school supplies, and Christmas. We started planning this holiday season last January when we reviewed last year’s budget and made adjustments. We allotted $400 for the three kids (five if you add the dogs), which I gave Laurie in cash a few days before Halloween. In one afternoon, she spent most of the money and called me to tell me how excited she was about the deals she found.

“I may need a little extra money because I bought more than I meant to, and I still have a few things I need to get.” I told her I could move a little money around in a few days, and she said, “That’s okay. I'll wait until I get some coupons in the mail. Then I’ll check the websites and let you know what I need.”

I told her I was proud of her for doing such a good job. Then I told her I had to get back to work. I hung up the phone and sat down at my desk, excited that since she had done her job it was now time to do mine.

Epilogue: Laurie wanted me to call this story "Doorbuster," but it seems wrong for a husband to write an article about his wife with this title. It seems to refer to size of her butt rather than her shopping savvy. What do you think?

Racism is Alive and Well and Living on the Blogs

My wife recently caused a storm on her blog when she wrote about a minor incident involving our son, Isaac, being called a “monkey boy” by some of his friends at school. The kids were far too young to understand they’d done something racially charged; in fact the incident seemed playful in nature rather than name-calling. Nevertheless, Laurie wrote about it on her blog and, as with any discussion involving race, the responses ran black and white, from absolute support and gratitude to outrage.

Coincidentally, another mother who had adopted a boy from Ethiopia a few weeks earlier had posted pictures of her son in a monkey costume for Halloween the same day Laurie published her post and started a similar controversy. Some of her readers, one of whom identified themselves as black, commented that they thought the costume was offensive while others supported her costume and rebuked those who were offended. The dialogue between bloggers frustrated and disheartened the mother and she wrote that she was considering taking down the blog.

I’ve had a blog for several years now and have had to confront a false sense of anonymity the Internet gives people. Many readers and writers feel free to write what they don’t have the courage to say in person. From the comfort of their computer, they can tell the black community to get over slavery, that whites have no privileges over anyone else, and that it is “reverse racism” when a black person is offended.

Bloggers need to realize that if your blog is a forum for your opinion, then it is a forum for the opinions of your readers as well. If you want to express yourself without dealing with opposing opinions, I suggest you start a new blog and make sure not to tell anyone else in the world about it.

So to the adoptive mother, let me encourage you to continue blogging. You are now a multiracial family and need to prepare yourself for a lifetime of discussions on race. White people, for the most part, don’t need to discuss race on a regular basis. In fact, discussing it seems to unnecessarily make a big deal about it. One reader posted on Laurie’s blog, “If we continue to teach children that ‘monkey’ is a derogatory term, then we’ll never get beyond it.” Ultimately, the comment implies that if we ignore racism, it will go away on its own. Laurie has been receiving racist comments from an anonymous reader. So is the writer’s advice to us to get over it and stop being so sensitive, or to ignore it and hope it goes away on its own, or is it reverse racism for us to address it?

You’re probably shocked to have to defend your family to strangers. But your blog can be a terrific place to connect with like-minded parents who know exactly what you are going through. If you encounter racism and negativity regarding your blog posts, then you’re going to get them at the grocery store, at church, and everywhere else you go. Laurie and I found the first few months with Isaac the hardest – both with our family and total strangers. We struggled to adapt to staring and inappropriate comments and questions. From other adopted families, we learned gracious and humorous ways to respond, and we’re much more prepared to defend our family. These connections were possible because we put ourselves out there, as did the families that saw our family and reached out to us.

While our parental instincts tell us to protect our children, we simply can’t protect them from everything. Laurie and I are committed to protecting our kids as best we can as well as mourning with them when we failed. Your son will not be able to run from his black skin, and the best thing you can do for him to model how to stand up for yourself.

One reader commented to Laurie, “You are arrogant to believe that what you say to a teacher or to other children is making a difference.” Maybe I am arrogant, but the alternative of remaining silent is too cowardly for me. If my kids grow up too proud of their race as opposed to too timid, I can live with that.

The Staffing

A month after J came home, we received an official letter in the mail addressed to any parties with an interest in the child. We were invited to attend a staffing at the Department of Family and Protective Services – a meeting to discuss the future placement of J.

“So this is when they decide who gets custody of J?” I asked Laurie.

“No, its too soon,” she said. “More than likely they’ll proceed with reunification because they’re legally required to give the birth mom a chance to work her service plan. Then they’ll reconvene in a few months to reevaluate.”

Laurie and I arrived at the CPS building a few minutes early and had the front desk page J’s caseworker. While we waited, we reminisced about our first foster child who we brought to this office for visitations with her birth mother. We said goodbye to her in the parking lot when we dropped her off for her weekly visit, knowing afterward that her caseworker would drive her to a distant relative. I remembered wondering what she would be thinking after her visit when we weren’t there to pick her up.

J’s case worker, Jen, came to the front office and led us through a series of halls with small visitation rooms with donated toys and cartoon murals, past a set of doors with a sign reading “No Children Beyond This Point,” into a room with fold-out tables arranged to look like a conference room. Several people were already seated with notepads and file folders ready. No one introduced themselves to us or asked who we were. Jen, who was also Isaac’s caseworker three years ago when he was a foster child, is petite, soft-spoken, and awkward. Her demeanor seems better suited for work in a library rather than with troubled children. I hoped she might introduce us to the group, but when she sat down without saying anything, I waited until someone acknowledged us.

I’m not sure who initiated the conversation. More than likely, someone mentioned J and Laurie jumped in. She rarely needs an invitation to show off our kids. We might be in a meeting with adoptive families or at the grocery store with total stranger and, within seconds, she whips out the little photo album she keeps in her purse and passes it around. Ordinarily, I’m amused that she is so proud of them, but here it seemed unprofessional. These were hardened caseworkers who didn’t seem interested that he liked playing in the pool or that our dogs loved him for his many odors.

Finally, a woman sitting across from us said, “Well, let’s get started. Why don’t we go around the room and introduce ourselves and what our role is with the child.” Jen started, followed by her supervisor, a lawyer representing CPS, a lawyer representing J’s attorney ad litem, someone representing CASA, their supervisor, someone representing kinship placements, their supervisor, and an attorney representing kinship. The facilitator asked Jen how J came into foster care. Jen nervously cleared her throat, picked up her file folder, and pretended to look through it. She spoke for less than a minute and said “um” no less than ten times. At first, I thought she was being discrete, but when she didn’t even know if the bio mom was working her service plan, I worried that Jen had no idea what was going on. While she went to a lot of trouble to locate Laurie and me to place J with us, she also allowed Isaac to wallow in a neglectful foster home when he was a baby. Now, J’s fate as our legal child rested in her hands. With the exception of the birth mom Isaac and J share, I’ve never had more conflicting feelings toward another human being.

At first, I felt intimidated by everyone’s credentials. But after two minutes of discussion about the case, I realized Laurie and I were clearly the most informed people in the room. The group took twenty minutes before they got caught up on facts Laurie and I knew off the top of our heads.

I entered the meeting knowing that CPS is required by law to give the bio mom a chance to work her plan, regardless of her past. So I was not disappointed when they concluded by giving her the chance for reunification. After years of foster parenting, I’ve learned that CPS typically talks more about the rights of bio parents and less about the long-term well being of the child, although they claim the two are synonymous.

Jen walked us back through the maze to the front entrance. She and Laurie talked about J’s next visitation with his bio mom, but I was too distracted. While I may have been a little embarrassed when Laurie passed around the photo album before the meeting, I now worried I’d missed the chance to represent J. The group of caseworkers had been in meetings for hours and we were one of the last of the day. To them, J was another name on the page and I had failed to bring him to life. I wished I’d made a scene. “I want to be his Daddy. I’ll do whatever it takes.” I wished I’d shown them pictures of J on my phone eating watermelon and reading books. For that matter, I wished I’d have brought a slideshow, a PowerPoint presentation, or the frigging laptop, which has over two hundred pictures devoted just to his first week with us. “Here’s J playing with Oscar in our playroom. Here’s another one of him playing with Oscar in our bedroom. Here’s one of him playing with Oscar and Lucy. Here’s one with him, Oscar, Lucy and Vivi playing in the playroom. Here’s one with them in the back yard.”

In my head, I know this wouldn’t have made a difference. While these antics make good prime time drama, real life doesn’t work that way. Several in the group had used the word “reunification” with a wink and a nod, and someone even said, “We all know where this case is heading,” meaning that termination was inevitable. So until then, the fate of our family rests there.

A Second Chance for a Background

When Isaac came home as a sixteen-month-old foster child, Laurie, and I quickly had to accept that whatever happened prior to him coming to us would remain a mystery. Although we closely examined every court document and affidavit we received, we only learned names of his birthmother and his biological siblings and some of their mistakes.

At first, we wanted to know Isaac’s history in order to better parent him and explain some of his behavior. But we made do with the resources we had. We read books on toddler adoption, got involved with other foster and adoptive parents, and sought advice from doctors, play therapists, and behavioral specialists. After only a few months in our home, Isaac quickly bonded with us and caught up on his development.

Then our curiosity shifted and we wanted to provide him some background for his own sake. In our foster and adoptive parents’ playgroups and support groups, parents shared stories about their children asking about their birthparents. Some kids grieved the loss of their former family while other children couldn’t have cared less. Laurie and I knew that a relationship with Isaac’s birth family was unrealistic. But we wished we had some pictures or maybe even a letter or a card – something that would make them real people rather than simply names on pages of official court documents.

Nevertheless, Laurie and I made our peace with the mystery of Isaac’s birth family. We adopted him just after his second birthday and his baby sister, Vivianna, was born four months later. As we developed an open adoption with Vivi’s birthmother, Laurie and I prepared ourselves for any potential questions or grief Isaac might have watching his sister look at pictures, read cards, and even play with birthday and Christmas presents from her birth family. We expected this to one day bother Isaac. But what we did not expect was the phone call we got from his former CPS worker on a warm morning in June of this year, informing us that Isaac has a younger brother who had just entered foster care.

“We want to place him with you as a kinship placement,” the caseworker said.

Laurie called me at work to tell me. “I told her I’d have to talk to you,” she told me.

It took me less than two seconds to say absolutely. “I told the caseworker you’d immediately say yes,” she said. “But can you believe it? Isaac has a little brother!”

Laurie called the caseworker back and learned that J had been in foster care for just over a week and that he and his birthmother had already had one visitation meeting. Moreover, the caseworker had supervised the meeting and took pictures of J and the birthmother he shared with Isaac.

When I got home that night, I sat at the computer and watched the slideshow with Laurie sitting next to me. I saw little two-year-old J playing a toy piano in baggy blue clothes. His skin complexion and forehead matched Isaac. “That’s him?” I said to Laurie. She nodded.

I clicked on the next picture and saw a woman feeding him out of a fast food bag. “That’s her?” I said to Laurie. She nodded.

The next few weeks crawled by. J’s team of caseworkers required a home study on us before he could be placed with us, which took two additional weeks to approve. Finally, six weeks after entering foster care, the caseworker brought Isaac’s two-year-old brother to our home.

Friends donated a bunk bed for the boys to share, which they loved almost immediately. In fact, I had to forbid use of the ladder within five minutes of assembling it.

J adapted to our routine quickly. He ate nearly everything we put on his plate and slept soundly. He had a limited vocabulary, which developed quickly under the influence of an older brother and sister. Both Isaac and Vivi accepted him immediately, with Vivi telling everyone within earshot, “He baby brudder.” She followed him around the house all day asking him, “You come play in my room?” At three years old, she’s only nine months older than he and they make a great pair. She suggested her favorite games – princess dolls and makeup – and he complied unconditionally.

Meanwhile, Isaac accepted his role as the protective big brother. He worked diligently to teach J the word “gentle.” From the other side of the house, we heard Isaac shout, “No, J. Gentle with the dogs” or “gentle with Vivi’s hair.” Then, as Vivi rushed to tattle on him, Isaac shouted, “No, Vivi. Don’t tell Mom and Dad.” We thought it’s sweet that Isaac didn’t want him to get in trouble.

People often asked us whether we’re going to adopt J. When we said we hope so, their follow-up question was, “Aren’t you afraid of the effect it might have on the kids if he leaves?”

It’s a legitimate question, one their mother and I took very seriously. Ultimately, even if we knew he wouldn’t stay with us permanently, we still never could have turned him away. He is our family too. If he leaves, we’ll be devastated and mourn losing him and what could have been. Then, once time has passed, we’ll look back on the time we spent with J and the pictures we have of Isaac’s birthmother and brother and find comfort that at least we have that.

On the other hand, if we do get to adopt him, then one day Laurie and I will have a great story to tell. We’ll share with the boys that we were told their birthmother was thrilled when she found out they had been united.

J came home almost a month ago. So we have no idea what’s going to happen to him in the long term. But we’re grateful for the memories we got to build with J in our lives, moments like Isaac’s first day of kindergarten with us, Isaac’s sixth birthday. We had spent years praying for a letter or a photo from his birth family. We didn’t expect we’d get another son.

Girly-Girly Turns Three

Since Daddy's pretty little girly turns three this Sunday, I wrote something a little special just for her.

See the Booty

Before Isaac learned to talk, he and I developed our own language, one that was more physical than verbal.

"Ungh” meant, “Get off.”

“Hiya” meant, “I’m going to clobber you now.”

“Ouch” and “Waaaah!” meant basically the same thing: “I’m in excruciating pain but please don’t tell mom.”

Although he and I had no problems understanding each other, most of the women in our family didn’t seem to get it. I remember visiting Laurie’s parents house and she’d lean over and whisper, “Don’t you think you’re playing a little rough with him?” When she said this, I was dangling him upside down from one of his ankles while he laughed and screamed at the top of his lungs, “PUT! ME! DOWN!”

While I agreed that sometimes our rough housing might have gotten a little out of hand, I took great pride that I had found a way to bond with my son, regardless of how rough it was. Having not been around little kids too much up until that point, I didn’t really know how else to relate. Thus, when we got the news that we’d be getting a baby girl, I had no choice but to reevaluate my approach.

While I worried about fathering a female, Laurie embraced mothering a female with gusto. Once the nuetral colored nursery was accented in pink, she moved on to blankets and burp cloths and finally her appearance. Like most men, I figured this meant clothing. But oh no, I underestimated The Hair. While Isaac could get his head shaved and be good to go for half a year, Vivi’s mane would occupy great quantities of our daily schedule. There were parts to perfect and bows to misplace. Laurie’s entire reputation as a mother rested solely on her ability to make Vivi’s hair look pretty. “Why don’t you just put a hat on her? We’re already late,” I said.

“You don’t understand,” Laurie said. Then her bottom lip started to quiver.

I might be agitated that Vivi’s hair took so long or that a small stain on her shirt meant we had to turn around, go back home, and get a back-up outfit. But then we’d arrive somewhere and women and men alike would stop us. “Oh. My. God. Look at this pretty little thing.”

“Yep, she’s Daddy’s little princess,” I’d say.

The first few years of Vivi’s life, our relationship was fairly one-sided. She’d cry and I’d bring her whatever it was she wanted. At times, her crying was ear-piercingly, crack-the-windshields loud. But as she grew from an infant to a toddler, her little fits became adorable. Her favorite move was to turn her head from you and say, “Humph.” Sometimes she followed that up by folding her arms. It was precious. Then she started talking and overnight became incredibly, almost painfully precious.

“Daddy loves you.”

“Wah yew too, Dee-ad.”

“Night-night.”

“Nigh-nigh.”

Bedtime could last anywhere from ten minutes to half an hour and consisted mostly of kisses to her forehead, cheeks, hands, fingers, toes, and feet. Then I’d start again from the top.

I’m not sure when it happened exactly, but sometime around the age of two she became a girly-girl. I think it started when she developed her first crush on Mickey Mouse. From there, she moved on through the catalog of Disney Princes. Ultimately, she idolized every single major and minor female character: Cinderella, Snow White, Belle, Tinker bell, Jasmine, and “Ariel-mermaid!” She knew them all in a matter of a few weeks. The funny thing was that she had seen none of the movies.

That Christmas, her mother, grandmothers, aunts, and great aunts teamed up and gave her the Barbie-doll version of every single, Disney princess. Then, as an added bonus, they gave her a trunk filled a dress-up outfit for every single, Disney princess. Christmas morning, we watched as she opened one of the dolls and shrieked with delight. “Wow! Snow Night!” Then, forty-five seconds later, “Wow! Cindowedda!”

“Didn’t anyone get her something she can wear in public?” I asked.

We brought the dresses home where the thirty-minute-kissy-kissy-bedtime routine became the thirty-minute play-with-dresses-and-dolls routine. We’d tuck her in around 730pm. At nine, we’d still hear her shuffling around in her room. At ten, we’d go check on her to find her passed out in the middle of the floor with the wings of her Tinker bell outfit poking her in the ribs.

I might have found all the pink, girly stuff overwhelming at first. But then her mother started painting her fingernails and toenails, and how could I not find this adorable? She comes pitter-pattering down the hallway and jumps into my arms. “Oh, you’re so pretty,” I tell her.

"I pity.”

“Yes, Daddy’s little Pretty-pretty.”

She does a little jig in my arms. “Pity-pity.”

“Are you a little Girly-girly?”

“Grr-Grr!”

“Are you wearing a pretty dress?”

“Yesssssssss.”

“What dress is this?”

“See-the-booty.”

“Oh, Sleeping Beauty.” I pick up her hand and examine her fingers. “Did Mommy paint your nails?”

“Uh huh. Is pink.”

“Is pink your favorite color?”

“Yessssssss. One’s gone.”

“One of you’re fingernail paints is gone? Oh, no. What happened to your fingernail paint?”

“I ate it.”

It makes my teeth hurt how sweet she is.

If I was nervous about fathering a girl at first, Vivi has completely calmed those fears. I worried I might not know how to relate to her, but honestly, I love all this girly stuff. I love taking her to ballet classes. I love watching her dance around in a Cinderella dress only to change thirty minutes later into Belle. And if I ever get nervous about getting too much into the girly stuff, I can always play with the boy. He’s five now and one of the most advanced speakers I’ve ever seen, but we still have a language that consists of grunts and single-syllable sounds. I grit my teeth, step one foot to the side like a sumo wrestler, and say, “Aaah!” and he knows exactly what I’m talking about.

Happy Birthday, Pretty Girl!

Mistaken Identity

Isaac has a knack for making friends. Regardless of where we take him – a park, playground, pool – he’ll find the child (usually a boy) closest to his size, walk right up to them, and say, “Hi. Mine Isaac (as in ‘My name is Isaac’). Wanna play?” That’s all it takes before both kids take off like rockets. On a good day, Isaac will find someone on the quiet side. But usually he chooses the kid who is making the biggest spectacle of himself, which is what happened the last time I took him to a playground at the mall.

It was the middle of the afternoon on a weekday, so the playground wasn’t crowded when we arrived. The only adults there were a woman on her cell phone and another woman reading a magazine. I sat in a remote section of the playground and didn’t pay much attention to any of the kids until, after playing all of one minute, Isaac approached me and said, “Daddy, one of those kids pushed me.”

“Which one?”

“That one. In the orange shirt.”

The child Isaac pointed to was no bigger than he. Since he wasn’t crying, I didn’t make a big deal out of it. “All right, if he’s not going to play nice, then go play somewhere else.”

“What if he pushes me again?”

“I’ll keep my eye on him.”

Isaac seemed pleased and went off in the opposite direction of the kid in the orange shirt. For a minute or so, I watched the child, waiting to see if either of the women was going to do anything about him. But he never approached either of them. What I did see was him yell, push, and hit another child who was noticeably smaller than he. The woman on the cell phone saw it too and rushed to scoop up the baby. “That’s it!” she shouted, grabbing her purse.

Good for you, Lady. I thought. I don’t blame you for leaving. But she didn’t leave. Rather, she stormed over to me, her crying baby in one hand and her cell phone in the other.

“Excuse me, Sir,” she huffed. “I just think you should know that your child pushed my child.” A little frustration was to be expected, but this lady’s tone hinted she was ready for a fight and it caught me so off guard that it took me a moment to realize she thought the rough kid was mine. “That’s not my son,” I said, pointing to Isaac who was still playing on the opposite side of the playground. “That’s my son.”

She looked over and did a double take. “Oh,” she said. Then she paused for a moment, trying to regain her bearings. All she came up with was “Well, never mind.” Then she stormed off.

I sat stunned for a moment. Did that just happen? I wondered. The other parent, the one reading the magazine, made eye contact with me. We seemed to be thinking the same thing. Where are this child parents?

The playground started getting more crowded and, as the orange-shirt kid got louder and rougher, I decided to take Isaac home. On the way, I went over the situation in my mind, trying to make up my mind about whether I was more annoyed that she assumed my son was Caucasian or that she assumed my son was an aggressive brat. Still, it was a legitimate assumption nonetheless. regardless of the fact that the child looked nothing like me. I had assumed the child was hers and he didn’t look anything like her either.

Yet, her reaction to the truth still amused me. I couldn't help think back to the first few months we were a multiracial family. Back then, a situation like that would have depressed me for days. I would have spent days wrestling with questions like, "Why does the world have such trouble recognizing him as my son?" Then I would have struggled with when I would ever get comfortable. I'd like to think that I've become more accepting of peoples' mistakes. But in truth, I think I've become more cruel.

For example, there was the time Laurie and I were at the checkout counter at Target and the cashier looked at Isaac and asked us, "Is he your son?" Without thinking much of it, I said yes. Then she squinted her eyes and said, "So y'all gave birth to him?" I thought for a moment, struggling with two distinct options: a) graciously inform her that we adopted him, or b) simply say yes and watch her drown in the awkward silence. I chose the latter and reveled in the fact that if at least someone in the family can be nice to total strangers, regardless of how idiotic their behavior might be.

A Smaller Version of A Smaller Version of Me

My article, A Smaller Version of Me, has been published in this month's issue of Adoptive Families Magazine. Here's a link to their website if you want to read their version. Or if you want to read mine, here you go.

Enemy of the Peace

Taking my kids out in public is always a gamble. There’s really no way to predict their behavior. They may have been angels the entire day, but as soon as we step foot in the grocery store it starts: “Isaac, come back here.”

“Vivi, put that down.”

"Don't touch that."

“Hold my hand nice.”

“I told you to come back here!”

If their mother and I are together, we each take a child and we seem to manage. But the last time I took both the kids for an errand by myself, I lost it. It started when Isaac attempted to serenade the entire Super Wal-Mart to the theme song of Veggie Tales. I tried to ignore it and discreetly shush him and focus on the list Laurie had given me. But every time I left the cart unattended for more than a second, Vivi wiggled out of her seatbelt and stood up in the shopping cart. After this had happened no less than ten times, I’d had enough.

“Vivi, siddown! And Isaac, HUSH! You don’t scream that loud at home.” This was a lie, but I felt the eyes of the other shoppers on me and said it anyway, loudly hoping as many people as possible heard me.

“But Dad, I always sing loud.”

“No you don’t.” Of course, he does. But it was all I could do to regain my reputation to a bunch of strangers.

“That’s how they always act in public,” Laurie told me once we got home. “Wherever we go they tag-team me. It’s either one or the other driving me crazy. One of them runs off and as soon as I catch them the other one’s getting into something.”

I thought about all the times I’d come from work and asked her what she did with the kids that day. “We just stayed home.” I felt I understood why she doesn’t take the kids out very much. I don’t think it’s that she doesn’t want to go out. Nor is it that the kids act badly all the time. Even if they’re in good moods, they’re energy is exhausting and I can see her weighing the questionable value of getting the heck out of the house versus rolling the dice that the kids won’t annihilate everything they see.

I got to view this from a different perspective the other day when Isaac and I spent some time together just the two of us at a used bookstore. We’d already visited my section and were now in the kids’ section, which is our usual system at the bookstore. The kids’ section is a large corner in the back and is decorated with bright colors, cartoon posters, and a big carpet made to look like a maze. I’ve learned the hard way that if we visit the kids’ section before we go to my section, he’ll pitch a fit when we leave. Then, while I’m looking at my books, he’ll drive me crazy whining, “Dad, these books are boring.” However, if I look at my books first, then I’ll take him to his section if he is patient and calm. It’s not a bad system as long as I overlook him climbing up the shelves, rolling around on the ground, and pretty everything else he does while we’re in my section.

On this particular day, he’d behaved pretty okay while we were in my section. In other words, he’d run the step stool into only two other customers. We moved onto the kids’ section and I was standing by the entrance reading a book when a young boy, maybe seven or eight years old, brushed past me. If he bumped me it was only slightly, barely enough for me to look up to see if I was blocking the entrance. I looked back down at my book without giving him another thought when a woman rushed up to me and said, “I’m so sorry.” I looked around, unsure that she was talking to me. “Please excuse my son. He’s autistic.”

I was about to tell her he hadn’t even touched me, but her bluntness caught me off guard and all I could get out was, “Um, it’s okay. I hadn’t even noticed…” but she’d already moved on.

“Randall, come back here. Please be careful not to bump into people.”

I silently begged the mother, Please don’t make him apologize to me. Had he head-butted me or slapped the book out of my hand, I would have understood her need to apologize. But as it was, she had nothing to explain. And I worried that I wouldn’t be able to convey this to her.

I watched her lead the boy around the corner and out of my sight. Before the incident with Randall and his mother, I had been ready to leave. I was about to give Isaac a two-minute warning when his mother had approached me. Now I worried I might hurt the mother’s feelings if I left now. I stumbled to think of something casual to say, something that would reassure her that her son hadn't done anything inappropriate, but she walked away too quickly, like she was trying to escape something. Finally, it got to a point when saying something would have elevated the awkwardness. It would have been overcompensating, which is exactly what she had done when she apologized.

I wondered what kind of conduct her son must have had in the past to make her so apologetic, so ready to jump in and explain to total strangers why her son’s behavior stood out so much. I imagined her going home to her husband. “How was the bookstore?” he’d ask.

“Awful, like it always is. Randall bumped into this guy.”

“Did he bump into the guy hard?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you say something to the guy?”

“I tried to apologize but he just stood there and didn’t say anything.”

I wanted to say something to her. I wanted to explain that, on behalf of strangers everywhere, that Randall is free to lightly brush past us. He can even read books and walk the carpet-maze with our children. We’re not judging you as a mother. We’re sure you’re a great mom and that you’re doing the best you can.

After staring blankly at the same sentence in my book for close to five minutes, I finally told Isaac, “Put your book back on the shelf, please. It’s time to go.”

“Okay, Dad,” he said calmly, and did what I told him.

What do you mean ‘okay?’ I thought. Aren’t you going to ask me to buy it? Or at least argue with me or whine or something? As we walked through the parking lot, I couldn’t resist kissing Isaac on top of his head. “I’m proud of you, Bubs.”

“I’m proud of you too, Dad.” I’m not sure he understood what he said. More than likely, he was just mimicking me. But in my world, where parenting is difficult and I judge myself too harshly, I allowed myself this one little indulgence that as a parent I’ve got my act together.

Grief - and Joy

For those of you who aren't able to check out Adoptive Families Magazine, they posted the article, The Waiting Game. Their edit is not too different from my own until the end. So I've included an excerpt from what didn't make it in the magazine.


We recently celebrated the one year anniversary of the court date finalizing her adoption. We spent the day at the mall where we ate lunch, built her a teddy bear, and ate a large sugar cookie with “Forever Family” iced on. When we got home, we pulled out some home movies of the four years between the infertility and birth of our daughter. Seeing my wife and myself during this time gave me a different perspective on grief. I thought the despair would be evidenced on our faces and taint the holidays and special occasions we were filming. But as I looked for signs, I didn’t see any. In the videos taken the first couple years of our marriage, my wife had a beaming smile as she opened her Christmas presents from me. But what wasn’t in the video was her crying herself to sleep that night as she mourned the passing of another holiday without children.

I thought about our celebration day and realized that I hadn’t let any grief or fear defeat me or ruin my day. The idea that something wrong could happen never entered my mind. I didn’t have to dread a phone call or emails with bad news. I could allow myself to rejoice that sometimes things do work out. I was free to spend the day with my wife without worrying that she could break down into tears at any moment. Without my greatest fear, that one day my daughter could be gone or taken, I’m not only free to enjoy my life with her, but to enjoy my days with her, to love her, to kiss her, to play with her.

Chicken Soup for the Moms

Here's a link to the publisher for Chicken Soup for the Soul: Power Moms which will contain one of my stories. She's got a post and a you tube video about the upcoming book which will be released March 24th.

For anyone in my fan club, don't get your hopes up. I'm not in the video. But I'm okay with that. The authors featured in the video are famous celebrities and NY Times Bestselling authors. Now I know what you all are thinking. "Billy. You're just as talented as they are." Of course, you're right. But I have yet to attain their status or receive their accolades. At present, I can only claim to have read a NY Times Bestselling book once. However, I can't remember what it was called or what it was about.

Nonetheless, the publisher has also put in an author's bio link on her website. There you can view bios like "Starred in Emmy-winning" this, or "Won the National Book Award" for that, and then see my "Works at Starbucks." She had to change the heading (and men) just for me. Yeah, baby! Take that, Stephen King!

A Smaller Version of Me

People are always telling Laurie and me that they want to adopt, especially couples who haven’t become parents yet. Typically they follow this statement with, “But we want to have our own kids first.” Another common comment happens when people first meet our kids or find out we’re a multiracial family. They ask, “Couldn’t you have your own kids?”

Although they would never admit it, the implication is that our kids, since we adopted them, are not our own. For the couples who haven’t become parents, it suggests the need to have their own DNA replicated. They envision a smaller version of themselves that people will fawn over and say, “Your baby looks just like you.”

Before Laurie and I became parents, the idea that our kids would turn out like us was more a source of anxiety than excitement. We discussed our personality flaws, our impatience and selfishness, at great length. Each disagreement, once resolved, was then debriefed exhaustively. “What are we going to do when we become parents?” Laurie has said. “We can’t be acting like this in front of or toward the kids.”

I remember incidents like a time Laurie was sick in bed and called to me from the bedroom in a raspy voice, “Honey. Can you bring me some juice?” After I pretended not to hear her, I paused my movie and brought her some juice and hurried out of the bedroom before she could ask me for anything else.

The image of a smaller version of me roaming the earth and inflicting my personality on others still haunts me. Now that I have my own kids, I constantly examine their behavior for traces of my influence. An incident with Isaac the other day gave me a little hope about him growing up nothing like me.

Lately, Isaac’s favorite game is called “Can’t Catch Me, Dad” and is little more than him loudly taunting me with this phrase until I chase him around our apartment at full speed. Each round ends when I tackle him and tickle him for five minutes. The game starts innocently but usually climaxes with one of us getting injured. Just in the past few weeks alone, the boy gave himself an upper-cut on my knee and I got my neck stepped on. Whenever he got hurt, he cried loudly until I said, “Maybe we shouldn’t play anymore,” and his sob immediately turned to a shriek of joy and he ran off again begging me to chase him. I was much more hypocritical when I got hurt. Once I regained my breath, I put him in time out and announced that “Can’t Catch Me, Dad” was no longer allowed in this family.

“You’re the one that gets him wild,” my wife told me later that night. “You can’t get him wound up and expect him to know when he’s gone too far. You’re the father and you need to stop it before it gets to that level.”

As usual, I took her advice with good humor and immediately applied it to our next game time. Last night, while chasing him around the apartment I bashed my knee against the side of our bedroom door. The next thing I remember was an excruciating pain shooting up from my knee throughout my entire body.

“What was that?” Laurie said from the kitchen.

Unable to find my voice, I sort of grunted, “I hit my knee against the door.”

“Are you okay?”

I thought about it for a second and realized that I wasn’t mad at the boy which I figured was a good start. “Yeah,” I told her. “Just let me lay here for a minute.”

While I lay on the floor of the doorway, I saw Isaac cautiously emerge from his room. He slowly approached me and began patting my back. “Are you okay, Dad?”

“Yes, Bubs. Dad’s okay, but I’m a little thirsty.”

“Oh. Okay,” he said happily. “I will go get you a drink. You just sit there and I will bring it to you.” He promptly ran into the kitchen and said, “Mom, can I have a drink for Dad?”

“Honey,” she said to me, laughing. “Give me a break.”

“Mom,” he said, reproving her. “Dad got hurt. He needs a drink.”

He returned with a glass of ice water with a straw. “Thanks,” I said.

“You’re welcome, Dad.”

He ran off to play while I got up and tried to walk around. There was a small lingering pain in my leg but otherwise I felt better. I started to pick up some toys when Isaac reappeared from his bedroom, grabbed my hand, and led me to the couch. “Dad, you need to sit down.” He grabbed a blanket from the basket in the corner of our living room and draped it over my legs.

“Thanks,” I told him. “But I don’t need the blanket.”

“Dad, you have to rest. I will go get you an ice pack from my lunch box.”

“No, Bubs, you don’t have to do that. Really, my knee doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“I will go get it for you just in case.”

I heard a rustling in the kitchen and his mother say to him, “You know you’re not supposed to be in the kitchen when I’m cooking dinner.”

“But Dad needs an ice pack.”

He returned from the kitchen and put the pack on my knee. Then he grabbed my hand and placed it on my knee and said, “Now, Dad. You have to hold it here so it will feel better.”

From our living room couch I could see Laurie in the kitchen giving me an “Oh Brother” look. “What?” I said to her. “He’s being helpful. You should be proud of him. He’s being so sweet.” As I was saying this, the boy climbed onto the couch, grabbed some pillows and poked me on the shoulder. “Sit up, Dad. This will make you more comfortable.”

I looked back at Laurie who was now giving me a funnier look. Then I think she said something about how she was sick for three days last week and no one catered to her, but I couldn’t concentrate because the boy had laid his head on my shoulder and was rubbing my knee.

She came out of the kitchen and asked, “Can you clear the kitchen table?” Her voice was more amused than annoyed, at least until I asked the boy to clear Dad’s magazines for him. “Honey,” she laughed. “You’re pathetic.”

While I sat on the couch under a blanket with a Lightning McQueen ice pack on my knee and pillows propping me up, I saw some advantages to the fact that Isaac’s personality is so different from mine. The boy certainly has his faults, but he has a generosity and desire to please that I know did not come from me.

I imagined my wife sick in bed and calling for me to bring her a Popsicle. From the living room couch, I say, “Just a moment, Sweetie.” I’m so moved to compassion that I call to Isaac, “Son. Mama’s sick. Why don’t you go take her a Popsicle? And bring Daddy a snack while you’re in the kitchen.”

Coming March 24th

So I'm going to be published in a Chicken Soup for the Soul anthology due to be available at bookstores on March 24th! I've been having a lot of fun talking about my "book deal." It's pretty crazy. I wrote a story, called Dream Job, about Laurie being a stay-at-home mom and submitted it back several months ago. And now it's going to be in print. I have two more stories coming out in two more anthologies this year. Until then, here's the description from the website:

Wendy Walker, author of Four Wives and The Queen of Suburbia, has become the go-to media expert on women leaving the workforce to raise their families and run their homes. This book contains 101 great stories from mothers who have made the choice to stay home, or work from home, while raising their families and becoming active members of their communities. Stories from grateful husbands and children are also a fun read. These multi-tasking, high-performing women have become today’s Power Moms. Every stay-at-home and work-from-home mom will view this book as having been written just for her. Perfect for book groups, it will also contain a reader guide.

Sons of the Rich

Summer time is a difficult time for guitar instructors. Students and their parents are always going on extended vacations and, when they’re not golfing at Pebble Beach or yachting in Tahiti, they’re forgetting about their lessons and no call/no showing. I had no students this past summer. All twenty canceled in May. It was for this reason that, when the owner of my studio called me in mid-August with a “unique offer,” I reluctantly called him back.

“I’ve got this wealthy family who’s been with me for years,” he told me. “I hope they like you. They haven’t liked the last four teachers I sent them.”

“They’ve had four different teachers?”

“Yeah, the two boys are both brats. They don’t want to do what the teachers tell them to do. They only want to have fun.” He paused for a moment, as if waiting for me to respond. Having nothing constructive to say, I let him continue. “Look, just teach them whatever they want. Oh, and by the way, it’s an in-home lesson.”

An in-home lesson is where, instead of the parent bringing the student to the studio where there are amps, keyboards, and CD players, I have to lug all of my crap to their house, setup in the child’s bedroom where I’m surrounded by dirty laundry, video games, and countless other distractions. I’d made the mistake of teaching in-home lessons in the past. They’re always for families who have the money to pay extra to have you come to them. This was the last job I wanted to take. But, like Orson Welles, I needed a paycheck.

I pulled up to the house and immediately knew I must have made a mistake. I passed a massive fountain surrounded by elaborate landscaping and a five-car garage. When I unloaded my gear, I looked down at the flawless cobblestone driveway and couldn’t help but notice how out of place and dirty my truck looked. The cracked windshield, the sun-faded paintjob that had once been white, the garbage in the bed of the truck all seemed to warn me. We don’t belong here.

I approached an intimidating front door which was black, windowless, and extremely large, like a medieval dungeon. I felt more like I was rapping on someone’s chambers rather than ringing a doorbell. The feeling got worse when a small portal in the middle of the door opened and a young boy’s face appeared.

“Who is it?”

“I’m here for the guitar lesson.”

The massive door was opened by a small, preteen boy who politely invited me in. The boy offered me his hand, introduced himself as Lenny, and offered me a drink. I’m not sure what kind of intro I expected, but this certainly wasn’t it. I had been led to believe that this family was totally obnoxious. So his courteous demeanor and mild manners caught me totally off guard.

Lenny ushered me to his bedroom where I set up my gear and made small talk. So how long have you been taking piano lessons?” I asked.

“Three years.”

“And what’s your favorite song?”

“I don’t know. I don’t really listen to a lot of music.” No wonder he’s in music lessons.

“Well, what’s the last song you learned?”

“We Are the Champions.”

“Okay. Can you play that for me?”

I expected him pull out some sheet music but he chose to play for memory instead. He hacked his way through a verse and a chorus with a few pauses and mistakes. Overall, his rendition wasn’t very good but it wasn’t excruciating either, especially considering he played it without looking at any music. “Not bad,” I told him. “Let’s work on a few things though. Where’s your music?”

“The instructor never wrote it down.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know how to read music.”

“So how did you learn the song?”

“I memorized his hands.”

Since I’d never taught any of my students with this kind of approach, I had to consider on the fly where to go from here. Ordinarily, I would spend a few weeks teaching him the basics to reading music and then we’d be able to move on to learning songs. But it had been made clear to me that this child was not interested in doing things my way. Up to this point, Lenny seemed pleasant enough which made me rethink new speculations as to his strategy for running off the previous teachers. I now pictured him sitting at his little keyboard, politely smiling, and complying with the teacher’s direction. Later that night, his parents would ask about the lesson. He would report that the teacher was boring or harsh. “Well, we’ll see about that,” they’d say. They’d call and complain to the owner who would promptly reassign a new teacher. I found this new form of intimidation far more effective. So I took the easy route and did the best I could to kill the rest of the lesson by having him play whatever songs he remembered and giving him little suggestions like, “If you slow down and take your time you won’t play so many wrong notes.”

His brother’s guitar playing was just as crude. Weldon knew some power chords, some basic open chords, and could hack his way through a handful of songs he had demanded his previous instructors teach him. But he didn’t even hold his pick correctly and his guitar was out of tune the whole hour and he never seemed to notice.

With three years of lessons, I concluded that these boys were terrible. The only traditional knowledge these boys had of music was what most kids learn the first month of lessons. Neither of them had any sense of rhythm or melody because they hadn’t allowed anyone to work on these things with them.

While driving home, I considered whether or not to take the lessons. On the one hand, I couldn’t afford to turn down the money. On the other hand, one lesson a week wouldn’t really make much difference. Was it worth it to drive out for ninety minutes of what really would have been nothing more than keeping them busy? At least with my other students, I reigned supreme over their progress, or lack thereof. They might be lousy, but at least they were lousy on my terms.

As I went back and forth, my ego forced me to consider that maybe I could be the one who finally got through to these boys. It would undoubtedly be a lot of work, but I pictured myself as a Mary Poppins-figure who made unpleasant things like knowing the names of the chords and reading the notes on the page fun. But then again, these things weren’t supposed to be unpleasant. And I’d never been very good at motivating people who didn’t want to be motivated. On top of that, their wealth and laid back appearance intimidated me. Ultimately, I concluded that I wasn’t the guy for the job.

Then I considered what my wife could do for the kids with $45 a week and I remembered a common fantasy I’d had from time to time while driving home from a long and draining day. My family is seated a large banquet and my son is addressing a tremendous crowd.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, What can I say about this man sitting next to me? The man we’ve come here to honor tonight, my Father.

"This is a man who worked tireless hours to feed my mother, sister, and me. This is a man who drove the same non-air-conditioned truck to two jobs for thirty years just to pay for private school. He denied himself countless luxuries and survived for years off a diet of dollar menu burgers and burritos just to pay for karate for me and dance lessons for my sister.

"And yet, despite working grueling hours, he never missed a single play, pageant, or game. He always made time for us. He helped with our schoolwork and made time to take us out for ice cream. ‘You kids enjoy your sundaes. Dad’s just fine with ice water,’ he’d tell us.

Overcome with emotion, the boy pauses for a moment. Finally, he wipes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and continues.

"It is this man who inspired me to audition and become the NBA’s youngest first Draft at the age of thirteen. It is this man who then inspired me to achieve my dream of becoming the first person ever to win Academy Awards for Best Writer, Director, Actor, and Best Picture in the same year. It is this man who then inspired me to run for office. And God willing, I will become this country’s next President of the United States of America.

[Pause for applause]

"And now, I’d like for you all to raise your glass to a man who is more to me than an inspiration and a mentor. He’s also my best friend. Ladies and Gentlemen, I’d like to present to you your candidate for Father of the Year. My Dad!”

The crowd jumps to their feet in a thunderous ovation. I attempt to stand but my cane wobbles and I can’t quite get up. The boy steps down from the podium to help his old man to his feet. Too humble to make a speech, I show my gratitude by waving and mouthing the words, “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

This is the fantasy that in the past had given me the will to keep going, to persevere for the sake of my children. I had responsibilities and couldn’t just turn down a paycheck, however pathetic.
So I psyched myself up for the job. Trying to play the part of the tough-love teacher, I called Richard and agreed to teach the boys as long as they learned the songs I chose and learned them my way. It would be my way or the highway.

Richard said he’d call the parents and get back to me. A few days later he called me back and told me the parents had requested someone who could teach another day.