Pennies. It's What's for Dinner.

We figured it would happen eventually. Little Man has always been a mouthy baby. Give him any food, toy, article of clothing, book, inedible object, or stuffed animal and he would happily chew away on it. In an effort to dissuade his habitual gnawing, our favourite directives became: "In your hands," "Out of your mouth." or "Show Mama what you've got!"
It never worked.

Little man and I were building a fort last weekend with the couch cushions. (I swear I do vacuum the couch... but probably not as often as I should). The sunlight was pouring in through the living room window. We saw the penny at the same moment. The sun danced beautifully across the copper maple leaf, glinting in the sun.

I was at a definite disadvantage. Little Man was within arm's reach of the tantalizing coin, while I was buried under two giant cushions and BEHIND my speedy toddler. He cocked his head over his shoulder to assess how much time he had. A grin exploded on his face when he realized he had a golden (er... copper) opportunity.

"YUMMMMMMMMMMMM!" He bellowed. And lunged. He scooped the penny up and crammed it in his mouth. Before I could react he cocked his head back like a ravenous penguin devouring a fish. (Thanks a lot, Happy Feet.)

He ate the penny.

"YOU ATE A PENNY!" I screamed. "Kevin!!! He ate a penny!" I hollered at my husband.
"He ate a what?"
"A penny!!!"
"A penny?"

Silence.

"Yes. A penny." I shouted.
"At least it wasn't a toonie."

Two days go by, and there's no sign of the penny. Off to the doctor we go. "Give it a few more days," the doctor smirked. He's quite fond of our son. Messing with his curls, he chuckled "Where's your penny?"

Little Man smiled and lifted his shirt up. "Penny button!" he smiled, pointing at his pudgy little toddler belly button.

Now any time someone greets him, he lifts his shirt, points at his navel and declares "PENNY!"

Two more days go by. STILL no penny.
"Give it a few more days," the doctor said.
"Listen, I love my son, but I'm worried about him. And these poop scavenger hunts have got to go."
"Maybe he's just backed up." he suggested.
"Or maybe he's just stubborn!"

On Saturday, if the penny hasn't reappeared, we're headed off for x-rays to see if it might have snuck past us on its way out. If it did, that's one penny I'm glad we didn't save.

Oh well. At least it wasn't a toonie.

Peanuts and Epi-Pens, Oh My!

These past two weeks have been a bit of madhouse. The highlight was our severe allergic reaction to peanuts. By "our" I mean our little man and us. He reacted, we overreacted. The sad thing is, he didn't even get a chance to enjoy the peanut... he reacted to passive transfer. (Daddy ate peanuts, and about an hour later happened to touch Little Man's face.)

The result? Severe swelling of his face & eyes, and a pair of petrified parents whisking him off to the closest hospital. The ER staff put us in a bed between an elderly lady with a fractured hip and a forty-something sailor-mouthed man suffering through kidney stones. Little Guy was a pretty good sport, flirting with the nurses and alternating between snuggling mom and dad and howling for his special blankee. (Which we, oh negligent parents, had forgotten at home.)

We waited for about two hours before the doctor came in. He pulled back the curtain 3.7 seconds after the hives disappeared, so of course we had nothing to show but a cranky toddler who was missing his blankee and very late for bed. "No more Peanuts!" He commanded. "Give him some more Benadryll, and see your doctor about an epi-pen junior. Wake him up every four hours and give him more Benadryll. When you think he's better, give him one more dose." The curtain closed. A disembodied voice called out, "And no more PEANUTS!"

The worst part of any hospital visit surrounds names and family history. It usually begins when the nurse calls out our son's birth name to the entire waiting room. (The name, of course, is supposed to be confidential). They refer to me as Mrs. XYZ, and I quietly remind them that his legal name is now ABC, and that his birth name is private. "Could you please note it in his file for future reference?" Blank stares or blinks and an assuaging "Oh, of course" normally follow. But the file is never updated, or the nurses and doctors just don't read it or pay it any attention.

I'm still called Mrs. XYZ. Our little guy is still cooed at under his former name... a beautiful name, the one given to him by his first mother, but not the one we as his adoptive parents bestowed upon him so many months ago.

The other half is the family history questionnaire.

"Do allergies run in the family?" "We're not sure, doctor. As you can see in his file, we adopted and we have no medical history."
"Do you or your husband have any drug allergies, Mom? "I do, doctor, but my son was adopted."
"How did your pregnancy go? Any complications?" (Here's where I have to betray his birth mother, and tell the doctor in front of my son about the level of prenatal care, any drug or alcohol exposure, etc. etc")

There really should be a form, or a special sticker that says "I'm adopted, not deaf!" (Well, there are plenty of kids who are both.... but you know what I'm getting at.) We need to build in some sensitivity surrounding medical information (particularly lack thereof) when dealing with families and their little people. I don't really mind the questions now, but I worry about how our son will react to them when he's older and fully understands his adoption.

Every trip to the doctor shouldn't be a reminder of what we *don't* know, or of what kids who aren't adopted are granted without fail.

Opening the Door on Openness (Part One)

I grew up during the time of closed adoptions. Birth mothers, fathers & siblings were a piece of each child's history and a promise for their future. Sometimes it was the choice of the birth parents, sometimes it was mandated by the circumstances of their adoption, and often, it just happened that way because that's how adoptions were handled 'back in the day'.

Openness, reconnecting, finding one's birth family: these were all abstract ideas. "One day," was the reassurance. "One day, when you're all grown up, maybe you'll meet your birth relatives."

One day.
Maybe.
One day.

Then came the caboose. The youngest in my eclectic group of siblings. Her adoption was different. She was 'older'. (And by older I mean the wise old age of six!) She not only knew and remembered her birth family, she had lived with them until recently. She came armed with photos, gifts, and very real, very recent memories. She came with a history. When we adopted her, it felt like we were adopting her birth family, too.

It was definitely different. The phone would ring and G's "aunty" or "nanna" or "grandpa" would be calling. This was her first family.... did that make us second? I won't delve too deeply into G's openness; it's her story to share, after all. But it made me think. It forced me to appreciate the value of openness and how much it meant to the adopted child, to her family, and to us.

When we applied to adopt my son, we were asked about our feelings on openness. Other than G, we had very little exposure to the realm of open adoption. My husband's side of the family had one member who was adopted during the 1950's. He didn't know he'd been adopted until he was 16. He fought to have medical records. He fought to learn if he had siblings. He fought just to learn his last name. Fifty years down the road -- not that long in the grand scheme of things, but *forever* in terms of how much adoption has evolved -- here we stand. We talk about sending letters, exchanging photographs, and eventually meeting.

Meeting? In person, as in... face to face? "We're open to openness," we smiled.... one year later, the door is opening. We've shared a few emails. Exchanged phone numbers (I have yet to call.) Invited each other to meet.

Basically we did a little dance. Reaching to connect but not wanting to overstep boundaries. Sending photos was easy. Open the email, click attach, and hit send. Typing out descriptive paragraphs about our son was easy. Open the email, pour out the brags, and hit send.

Meeting in person will be harder. We delayed it -- mostly for my own fears and trepidation, but now that our little man is attached, growing, and disgustingly well settled, we owe him the chance to connect.

So very soon, we'll be taking the plunge and having our first meet.

We're opening the door on openness. Stay tuned for part II to hear how the meet-up went.

A Busy First Week

I'm settling into my new role here at AFABC. Getting to know the staff and volunteers -- and hopefully -- getting to know more of the families here in the Vancouver/Coastal area that we serve!

On the family side of things, it's been hard 'letting go' of my role as full time primary care giver to my little guy. I went from part time early morning shifts at YVR to a Tuesday to Friday gig here at my new post. I hate saying goodbye to my little guy at night and have to wait til dinner time the next day to see him again.

I wonder how much of it is "mommy guilt" and how much is "adoptive mommy guilt". He didn't come home til he was seven months... is it too soon now, at 19 months, to be putting him in daycare full time? Has he had enough time to cement his bond with me?

How do other adoptive parents feel at the end of the nine months' parental leave, when they're forced back into the workforce full time? (Yes, this is a not-so-subtle gripe against the disparity between biological parents who get a full year, and adoptive parents who get only 35 weeks of leave.)

The good news is, he's excited about daycare and making friends already. He loves to tell me (-- in all his one word and two word capabilities) all about his day, his little buddies, his adventures on transit with daddy (who -- what a trooper!) actually takes him to daycare on the bus each morning!

The bad news? I want to be in daycare, too!! Well, you know what I mean. I just miss the little man.