Shaky

Anthony. Let me tell you a bit about Anthony. I have said very little to this point because 1. we have only been with him 6 times and 2. I am rather confused about how I feel about this whole thing, which makes for long, rambling posts.

This past weekend was the first time Anthony came to our house, as opposed to us going to his hometown for a weekend of expensive "Kids First!" type activities. In other words, it was a much more typical portrait of what our lives are like, despite Stevie's birthday and the big cookout in his honor.

Right now, I am feeling that we have begun the worst part of the journey, and both Kev and I are wondering just why in the hell we're doing this and hoping that we didn't do something really stupid. I know this attitude differs from my previous ebullience, and that's one reason I haven't blogged about it. First of all, I haven't had much time to blog. Secondly, it's not embarrassing, but it is somehow uncomfortable to share such an important change-of-heart with the blogging universe-at-large.

'What's so bad?' you ask. Imagine that you have made a commitment that is certainly on-par with marriage or having a baby, only much more public and involved and even serious because you have convinced social workers to trust you with a child AND told a 10-year old child who has had a fairly crappy life that he has a family now and that family is you.

Now imagine that this child has come to your house 2 weeks before permanently moving in with you and displays nearly every obnoxious characteristic displayable by a child. Not the freaky stuff, mind you. No, these are the characteristics that people talk about when they say "I hate kids." Stuff like disrespectful attitudes and arguing, extreme whininess and mood swings, doing stupid things because they don't think through a situation, being mean and stealing from happy-go-lucky littler kids, being sneaky and manipulative, obviously favoring one parent over the other, being completely ungrateful (and treating you like a walking moneybag), and being a skinny white kid who talks like a ghetto rapper. "DAAAAAAAAANG! Is that where you be at, Lulu?" Yes, that's where I be at.

Now, imagine that everyone is watching you and asking questions, many questions, as this child moves into your life and you try to bond with and love this child as you love your delightful-walk-in-the-park biological child. And imagine wondering--despite a lifetime of wanting to adopt and over 2 years of pain-in-the-butt hoop-jumping to do so--if you will be able to bond with and love this child in that way. And imagine being the "bad" parent and trying to bond with and love an obnoxious child that doesn't seem to like you very much!

You know, my Zen-master social worker has often said "Things happen for a reason. If you don't get a child, you weren't meant to have that child, and the other way around." I have to have faith--yes, faith--that "it" will happen, and everything will be all right. But I would be lying to you, gentle reader, if I said that I wasn't wondering what would have happened if we had adopted the little girl that I wanted (but that Kevin was hesitant about), or any other child from the state, or a little Chinese girl, or opted out of adoption altogether.

Oh, who am I kidding? Though pregnant now, who knows what will happen? And I don't want to have any more biological children. And I want at least 3 children! And I can't let a disconcerting weekend or two rattle my resolve to adopt, and to adopt this child, in such a major way. (Or can I? See? Confused!)

The thing is, it's really too late now. I couldn't say "Eh, we're calling it off." First of all, I know that we've only just begun, and I would be a sucka to not give this more time. Secondly, we've already made the commitment--to Anthony, to his foster mom of 2.5 years, to a whole team of social workers, but most of all to Anthony--who went through a broken placement just last summer.

Perhaps it's the inevitability of it that is giving me such anxiety. That, and the radio incident. You see, he was hauling around one of two radios all weekend. Last night while Stevie was in the tub, he took a radio in the bathroom and plugged it in for Stevie's listening pleasure. It was far away from the tub, but it startled me. I started thinking, "This kid does stupid and impulsive things. What if one of these things hurts or even kills Stevie? Or the baby? Or himself?" And, I must admit, it was mostly Stevie that I was concerned about.

When I asked him if he knew about the dangers of bathtubs and electrical appliances, he gave me a sigh-heavy, mom-weary, "Yeeeeess, mom!" ("Duh!" unspoken, but implied.) "I'm just checking," I said. "It's going to take awhile for us to get to know each other, and I needed to make sure you knew that."

Another hour later (this was all last night), he whined because he wasn't receiving any money for the chores he had offered to do (and had done), and was completely ungrateful of all the presents and clothing he had received from us and various relatives. This pissed me off, and we ended the weekend on a very low note. And then I went to bed and felt like a shit. I lost my cool (relatively). I wasn't being patient enough. I need to remember that he is a kid, a troubled kid, and that this must be very hard on him--harder, even, than on us.

And after talking to various tolerant people today (and to my amazing husband last night) and blogging this just now, I feel better, but not great. We have 10 days before he moves in, and 8 years to navigate before we set him loose in the world. All I can say now is "yikes".