Sweet Sixteen

My first day of kindergarten was an attached child’s nightmare. While the vividness of the anxious memory has faded appreciably over the years, a trace of the feelings associated with the experience have lingered. I was the firstborn, and my parents duly spent plenty of their willing effort and time in my formative years to ensure that I felt fully connected to the two of them. Few others felt as safe as they did, so, naturally, to expect that I would take to the supervision of another as happily as a bird freed from a cage was pure folly. So it is with most birth parents and children, I expect. At any rate, as mom departed, leaving me in the care of this elder, pale, otherwise sweet raven-haired stranger called a schoolteacher, I wept bitterly as if I’d just become an orphan. It was as close as I’d ever truly understand such a sensation, so the nascent trauma likely registered imperceptibly on the scale, especially once mom faithfully arrived several hours later in the afternoon, along with each weekday after that, and I learned to trust that I was not, in fact, nor would I ever be, abandoned.

In the developing years to follow, I always believed kids would be a part of my future, given that I found the right partner. While I wouldn’t say I viscerally longed for it the way some do, I knew parenthood was an experience I would always regret not choosing. I simply could not have foreseen, however, that I would pursue it as late as I did with my chosen spouse in the manner that we did.

As I recline here on a beach lounge chair next to my wife in the adults-only section of a cruise ship, our children, old enough to wander safely about on their own (to both our independent delight and theirs), the horn sounds and the ship thrusts laterally from the pier to begin the journey home from Cozumel. It’s the kids’ first cruise, and they have, by most accounts, thoroughly enjoyed it. Two of our three have enjoyed every rich, new minute, our youngest only upset when we have to remove him from the fun, while one out of three hasn’t yet had her moment of self-discovery to learn how much of a homebody she is at heart and that fatigue does not always make her the most pleasant company. Such are annual family vacations in our diverse company.

We spent the day on an excursion at a nearby “dolphin encounter.” While the activists among us, I thought, might see the darker side of the smartest of sea animals performing interactive tricks for food in several ample seaside pens, albeit while being treated perceptibly well, it seemed fun for fish and footwalkers alike by all involved. While mom and I did not fare quite so gracefully with either the dorsal-fin pull or the snout “foot-push” ride provided by both Olivia and Miranda, our esteemed waterborne mammals, our oldest, Deztinee, easily the most athletic among us, rode like a seasoned pro. Equally stellar has been both her company and overall attitude on the trip, which, as any parents out there would echo, is not always the case when traveling with your children, even more so with your teen.

Now 16 and in her junior year of school, Deztinee has come around to a late adolescent stage in which one’s parents are not necessarily the uncool companions they once were thought to be, and the two of us couldn’t be more delighted about it; not that we were ever treated very poorly by her, but, again, the parents among us know how teenagers can be. It’s a rocky road at times, but we’re in as good a place now as we could have hoped. And the places in which she had once been could just as easily shaped her character negatively, as I’m sure it would have mine under similar circumstances.

Our introduction to our oldest, other than a photograph, was at a CPS agency on the west side of town in the spring of 2016. Jenny and I arrived both nervous and excited, like any parent meeting their child for the first time. The staff person charged with transporting both her and her younger brother, Calib, arrived after we did. Soon enough, the two of them ambled cautiously in, Deztinee an 8-year-old in a pretty yellow dress holding the hand of chunky toddler Calib, hair braided tight to his forehead. We were guided to a room for our first interaction with each other, and while Calib had little understanding of what was going on but played along, Deztinee’s emotions mirrored our own, and she comprehended fairly well the likelihood of the two of us becoming her new parents. The brief visit left us all anticipating the months to come, and as the two of them returned to their respective foster homes until placement, our next stop was the dealership, where we immediately traded my compact, zippy Honda Fit for the first family van — an eager push of our chips all-in for the next big play in our lives.

I’ve written once before about the day she and Calib arrived in our home. Their sister, Dezira, would join them, unbeknownst to all of us, the following year. Her arrival would not quite reflect their experience of the transition, though just as welcome, but that’s a story for another time. Calib, being the youngest, would take the shortest road to bonding with the two of us over the coming months, while Deztinee, though willingly calling us “mom” and “dad” from day one, would travel a little longer, over the years protectively holding a part of herself in reserve.

I distinctly remember one of my early impressions about the attempt to connect, which is the penultimate goal of adoption. We were visiting another couple friends of ours one pleasant afternoon, and I couldn’t help but observe how he interacted so comfortably with Deztinee, like a father should. I felt very little confidence about my own similar attempts, lacking assurance that I would ever successfully bond with her, a child who looked nothing like me and whose early experience of growing up I couldn’t identify with. It plagued my mind and worries over the days to come to the point that I wondered if we had made a mistake, if I was, as it were, the wrong person for the job.

It’s said that time heals all wounds, though this is no guarantee. While I was not the wounded party, we could only hope this would hold true for the trauma our children might have experienced, even as we learned to become the parents they needed, albeit imperfectly. There is much in Deztinee’s history prior to us that testifies to her now living in a better place, but I still must respect it as her own, not to be shared publicly until such time as she would permit. Suffice it to say, she would quickly learn soon under our roof how her previous circumstances were less than ideal rather than simply just the way life was.

The unofficial rule-of-thumb regarding the time needed for a child to feel connected to their adoptive parent, or so we’ve heard, is the same age at which they arrived. So, at almost 3 years of age, our youngest would feel fully bonded at 6, though we know it happened much, much sooner for him. For Deztinee, it should have been ostensibly somewhere around the 16-18 year mark. Based on the status of our relationship, this loose rule seems to hold up. It doesn’t hurt that she’s been characterized as an “old soul,” either.

Another lesser but still helpful and important target with adoption is the ability to facilitate conversations about your child’s history before you entered the picture. Such conversations can be tricky and have to be handled delicately depending on the level of trauma. Accepting and/or coming to terms with one’s past and present history is critical for anyone, and all the more so for an upbringing that changed from at least one primary caregiver to the next. Discussing the majority of the past with Deztinee has become rather effortless, attesting to her growing maturity. One might find it hard to hear your adopted child use the same terms of “mom” and “dad” when speaking of those who held the title between then versus now, as if it’s a judgment of your current role or attachment, yet somehow, I’ve learned, it isn’t. I can’t imagine what it’s like to form an identity with such a splintered personal history of caregivers and yet live fully connected to both, yet she’s managing it, as with many other things, like a pro, which, though ultimately up to her, I hope provides me at long last with some confidence that maybe one becomes the right parent for the job.

Adoption can be felt as an unwelcome stigma for some kids, especially among friends and classmates who remain with their biological parents. A couple of years ago, we learned that during introductions in such an environment, Deztinee had shared that she was adopted, which elicited a plaintive “Aww,” from someone present. The reaction, she shared, confused her, because she herself didn’t feel similarly about it. I’d like to imprint a self-serving “Adoption: You’re doing it right” under this word picture, but, again, it takes two to tango. Both child and parent have to choose placid, calmer waters, and Deztinee has elected to sail along.

I realize I may sound as if I’m painting a picture of perfection, and that would be plainly unfair and inaccurate. Like a good photographer or artist, you prefer to show only your best work. Ups and downs are packaged with any experience of parenting. But it’s difficult not to feel merely hopeful but also expectant of good things to come for your child, even more so for one who had a rough start for which you were not present.

College is just around the corner, and many conversations of late have danced around this exciting transition. The fact that this is not only a possibility but an impending reality for her is a reminder of how different things could have been. I shared with Deztinee roughly a year ago how impressed I am with her, that her overall attitude and outlook remains positive in spite of her early circumstances, for which none of us have a choice. And thank God for that. I was once acquainted with a kindergartner who could hardly have adjusted as well.