Tag: Johnny Page 3 of 5

Sometimes I gaze at my kids and look for their birthparents.  Did her mother have those shoulder dimples?  Did his father have that build?  What parts of their personalities did they leave behind in their children?  

I often marvel at the tragedy and privilege of being mom to children I did not birth.  I know they are mine, but I forget sometimes that my imprint is just as strong as their genes.

It’s easier to see in Johnny, who came to us as an almost-four-year-old.  It’s fascinating to watch the process of who he is becoming.  I used to think that it was we who were getting to know him.  But really, it is us watching him Become.

He is becoming a brother, more specifically, a little brother.  Josiah and Johnny are figuring each other out, and they do it by rolling around the house, pulling and shouting and roaring and chasing and tickling.  Mommy, I love having a little brother!  Mommy, can Johnny cuddle with me while we pray?  And my heart sings that they have each other, even while I holler, No wrestling in the kitchen while I’m cooking!

He is becoming a mother’s son.  He’s not much into cuddling anymore; he’s too busy for that.  Except at bedtime, when he pulls my face down to his and holds it there with an iron grip.  The whining comes out for Mommy.  The weepiness comes out for Mommy.  Mommy is the food person and the get-your-needs-met person.

He is becoming a father’s son.  Daddy is the fun one;  Daddy is the wrestler and the game-player and the one you can hit in the stomach.  But Daddy is also the boss, and much to Mommy’s frustration (since I discipline the exact same way as Daddy), one word from Daddy and Johnny pays attention.  He says Boo Yah! when something exciting happens, just like Dad.  I say to him, You are My Johnny!  And he says, No, I’m Daddy’s Johnny.  Until I tickle him and he says he is mine too.  But I know my place.

He is becoming part of a community.  He roams the HOPAC campus at ease; he runs to “Aunt Alyssa” and he knows the names of Grace’s friends on her soccer team.  His world has opened to hundreds of friendly people, and in return he displays the often unhealthy gregariousness that accompanies children out of orphanages.  But it’s okay; we will help him figure it out.

He’s learned to buckle his seatbelt by himself and sit in the cart at the grocery store.  He eats hot dogs and broccoli (though we’re still fighting over eggs…I no like eggs!).  He is great at saying Shikamoo to Tanzanians and giving high-fives to English-speaking people.  He sings “Watch Me Whip” and “How Great is Our God”….sometimes in a remarkable mash-up.

He is becoming someone he was not three months ago.  Sometimes I still catch him staring, wide-eyed, at something he’s never seen before.  It’s like I can just see the brain cells rewiring as he processes his new life.

That fascinating mixture of nature and nurture is even more beautifully mysterious in adoption.  My children are who they are because they are mine.  We are inextricably linked.  And if God is sovereign, and this was His plan from the beginning, then this Becoming is not a mistake, not second best.  It is, to be cliche, destiny.  This is who my children were meant to be.

I’ll still be looking for their birthparents in my children’s smiles, expressions, and abilities.  But actually, all those things are so intertwined with Gil and me that it becomes harder and harder to know the difference.

He’s happiest when we are all together.  Somehow he knows that’s how it’s supposed to be.

Every morning, we drop off the kids at school and Gil at the training center.  As soon as Johnny and I come in through our front door, he buries his face in his arms, shouts, “I’m sad!” and wails crocodile tears.  For the next six hours, he asks, “We go in car?” or “Daddy is where?” about 17,253 times until it’s time to go pick them all up again.

No one else exists besides his family.  When in public, he summarily ignores everyone he meets.  No eye contact.  No smiling.  No greeting.  But when he sees his big sister across the playground yard, he runs to her at top speed.  “GRACE!”  We’ll work on politeness with strangers later.   For now, he needs to just establish dibs on his family.

Periodically throughout the day, he holds his arms up to me and says, “I want to cuddle.”  He gives me kisses and says, “I love you, Mommy.”  He loves to dance.  He loves to do puzzles, over and over and over.  He sings to himself while making puzzles.

For the last few nights, he has been told that he would get a Matchbox car if he sleeps in his own bed.  This is apparently the most exciting thing that has happened to him; his entire body does a happy dance when he gets to pick out his car.  (Although, I have to admit I’m doing my own happy dance that he is sleeping in his own bed.  Go ahead, kid, you can have a million dollars.)

Last week at the pool, Johnny started an amusing game with Lily and Josiah.  One of them would pretend to do something naughty and Johnny would march him or her out of the pool.  He would sit them down, put his hands on their shoulders and sternly demand, “Say, ‘Yes, Daddy.'”

Um, I wonder where he got that from?

A friend of ours observed, while watching us hold down our flailing child, “It’s kind of like you’re going through the 1’s, 2’s, and 3’s all at the same time.”

Truer words were never spoken.  Johnny yells, “Me do it!” just like a two-year-old.  When told not to touch something, he looks directly at me with a curious expression on his face, and then…..touches it.  Just like an 18-month-old.  We’re pretty much in time-out central around here.

My arm muscles are getting a workout.  Yesterday, after some minor incident, I held him in a straight-jacket pose for about 20 minutes while he kicked and screamed, until he finally relented.  Then I held him like a baby and we read a book.  It’s a hard lesson:  Mommy loves you, but Mommy is the boss.

I have no personal space.  He needs to be with me or Gil every second of the day, and I think it’s because he is afraid we will disappear.  After all, that’s happened with other people he has loved.  Thanks to the Matchbox cars, he’s in his own bed, but I still sleep in his room with him.  He often wakes multiple times a night, needing to know I am there.  I’ve had to establish boundaries:  You are not allowed to lay on Mommy when she is eating or going to the bathroom.  Sheesh.

I am so proud of him.  He delights us all.  He makes us all laugh.  Josiah says he sounds Italian:  “Help-a me!” “I’m-a going.”  Sometimes he speaks English with Swahili grammar: “Daddy is where?”  Sometimes he speaks English with no grammar:  “I’m get it for water me.”

I agree with Johnny; when we are all together, that’s when I am happiest.  We are six.  God is good.