Adoptive parents are perfect parents. At least that is what I sense the stereotypical thought is. We’ve waited a long time, have a lot of money and have learned extensively about child development. Somewhere during the process we have discovered our inner perfect parent and know the politically correct and right way to respond to our tantrum tossing toddler and sometimes snarling teenager. We’ve figured out the delicate balance of letting our children explore, learn from their experiences and somehow manage to keep them from safe from the lurking dangers that surround them.
I will admit I did find myself lured into swimming the honey-scented sea of Pleasantville. It was a place where clean clothes were plentiful, bedtimes were always angelic and wrongs were righted again with a quick hug from me. Above all, it was where I had endless patience and, with some thought, all the right answers.
Reality check, I’m nowhere near perfect and at this point I can’t even claim super mom status. I’m mom; just plain old mom and we’re late again.
The clock ticks nine forty am and we have to leave at eleven. I’m in full-blown anxiety mode trying to get us out the door for my brother’s wedding reception. For two hours I searched for my oldest son’s good pants. It started as a casual load of laundry at seven thirty then turned into a frantic and futile hunt. They weren’t in his hamper, under his bed, on top of his bunk, tucked in the crevices of his closet or crammed in the dryer.
“Jay, when is the last time you’ve seen them?” I asked and gave him my mean squinty glare. The one he, in calmer moments, teasingly called my ‘lizard eyes.’
“I don’t know,” he said glumly and hung his head. I got the feeling he wished the pants would miraculously appear or, even better yet, that I would disappear.
I realized I saw only the ratty jeans and recently too small beige slacks hanging in the closet when I rifled through.
Oh great! There’s more than one pair missing. The last place I knew those pants were, count them — four pairs, was in his duffle bag. “Did you leave your clothes at sixth grade camp?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know.”
His passivity grated my patience. “What did you wear all this week since you’ve been back?”
His eyes were as shifty as a grandfather clock pendulum. I felt lame for asking a question I already knew the answer to; he’s worn the same pants all week. The worst part was, I had just noticed.
Frustration bubbled up in my throat like pizza-induced heartburn. “Go take a shower, brush your teeth and use the Listerine.” I said the last word with force. Even the shirt I planned on him wearing wasn’t going to work; he outgrew it in the space of two weeks. He was going to have to go to the reception in old jeans, a t-shirt and scuffed shoes.
Instead of following directions, Jay plopped into the wingback chair and pouted. The weight of personal hygiene was too heavy for his preteen responsibilities. I hadn’t even mentioned yet he had to use deodorant.
I glared at him and ran through my mental checklist. There was still the diaper bag to pack, baby to wake, bathe and dress, the wedding present to wrap, outfits to iron, husband to prod and I still had to get ready. Worse yet, my first cup of coffee hadn’t been brewed yet either. I really just wanted to flop on the couch and do my own temper tantrum trick. Instead, I used my angry mom power voice. “Jay get up, get in that shower now.” My pointed finger commanded him to action with a shake at the hallway. “Go, go, go.”
He looked up and made eye contact. “Can’t you just spray me with Lysol?”
“What?” Incredulous, I’m not sure if the glint in his eye was hope or humor. I felt conflicted; I didn’t know if he was completely exasperating or totally hilarious. It was an effort to both keep my patience in check and fight to hide a grin. “Lysol?”
“Yea, I’ll smell good then.”
I shook my head and said, “Shower.” My smile escaped and he caught it.
“Fine, if I have to.” He said it with mock arrogance and grin. He stood up, rolled his eyes, made his weird face and walked away.
It was my turn to slide into the chair. It was clothes and a shower. Why was it such a struggle? It wasn’t like we were discovering cold fusion or even doing sixth grade math fractions. He was going to have to go to the reception in old jeans, a t-shirt and scuffed shoes.
Coffee Talk
It was noon before we packed ourselves in the car. Each of us shot out emotional sparks of crankiness. My husband and the boys had no care in the world if we were late; it was my irritated attitude that had rubbed off on them. Even Craig, strapped into his car seat, refused to laugh when Jay cooed at him. At least we were on the freeway and, if we hurried, were only thirty minutes late.
“Are you going to stop at Starbucks?” asked Jimmy about forty minutes into our trip.
I gave him an irritated look. We were so close, stopping for coffee would pile another fifteen minute lag time.
“Have you had coffee yet?”
“No.”
“Then what is the problem?”
“We’re late.”
He sighed and said, “So what?”
That drove me crazy. It’s one thing he didn’t care if we are on time or not, but couldn’t he respect that, for once, I’d like to be or at least realize how much effort I put into getting us out the door to be on schedule? Before I could respond, Craig announced his lost patience with a shriek and a yell.
Jay, seated next to the adorable ear-splitter, dangled primary colored toys to entice Craig into contentment again. Through the cacophonous ups and downs in the backseat, Jimmy and I attempted to continue our java discussion. However, every time Jimmy opened his mouth, Craig overpowered him with what could be the voice of a future opera singer.
“I can’t make him stop,” Jay shouted a few moments later.
We did the only thing we could do, we sang. Two rounds of ‘Pat-a-Cake’ and one ‘If Your Happy and You Know It’ settled Craig down again.
Twenty minutes late now, instead of rushing through city streets towards our destination, we idled in the Starbucks drive-thru. I drummed the steering wheel, agitated.
“Well we can be late with coffee or be late without coffee,” said Jimmy. “Which do you prefer?”
“Coffee, definitely with the coffee.”
Jimmy was right, in his way he pointed out a new truth to me. Whether we were late or not, why not just enjoy our time regardless. I forced myself to relax.
Before it was our turn at the speaker box, I turned to ask Jay what he wanted. Craig chimed in and again our voices competed. I wanted to keep my cooler mood, so instead of yelling to be heard, I decided to sing. This time the song was, “Jay what would you like to drink?”
Jay gave me his practiced preteen scowl in response. It’s the one where he makes the ‘my mom is so lame’ face.
I continued in lyric. “Jay, don’t you like my singing?”
He replied in baritone, “No, I don’t like it and I don’t want anything either.”
I asked Jimmy what he wanted in the same manner.
He sang, “Why do you sound like ‘West Side Story?’”
“I was shooting for ‘Sound of Music.’ Do you want your usual Macchaito?” The last line in sing-song left us all in a fit of laughter.
Not So Perfect
Okay, so this wasn’t the Pleasantville I had imagined. You know the one where I adopted my youngest son and automatically became the ‘Mother of the Year’ and was able to handle cooking, diaper changing, help with homework, work full-time and write all while doing a breezy pirouette wearing my fantastic red-and-white-checked mommy apron.
Sure, sometime during the last decade my husband and I improved our parenting techniques. At some point, we realized not all songs by Nine Inch Nails and White Zombie were appropriate for our oldest to head bang to. We’ve learned to step back and let Craig explore, stumble and discover more than we did with Jay – even if that means being grass-stained with a scraped knee. We did do a ton of research about adoption and the different issues an adopted child and adoptive family might face – and still do — but that didn’t magically make us the greatest parents ever. Like with other families, each day for us is a new adventure.
Reality check is I’m Jay and Craig’s mom, their plain old mom, with more good than grumpy days. Though we’ll never be on a poster labeled as the ‘family to be,’ the one thing we have that is perfect, is our love for each other – even if it is in an off-key sort of way.
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Genevieve Hinson is a social media coordinator for Children's Hospital Central California. She's also a writer, wife and mom to two boys and a girl. The opinions she expresses here are her own, as is her obsession for coffee.
