ever-fixed mark

Aitch loves anything with a motor. He now has separate words for cars, trucks, fire engines, trains, motorcycles, buses, and planes, the latter being the most recent obsession. He can distinguish an aircraft drone from other street sounds. When the skies are empty, he tearfully commands us to conjure planes out of thin air.

People like to use the “boys and motors” obsession to prove that gender differences are hard-wired, but I’m not yet ready to discount the influence of environment. Sure, the seed of motomania is there, but we’re definitely watering and fertilizing it. I was looking through Aitch’s books the other day, trying to find one that showed a distinguishable “Mommy” and “Daddy” in an effort to illustrate the principle of calling one’s parents by different names. Half of his books were about animals, and the other half were about motor vehicles. There was one preachy little tome called Teeth are Not for Biting (which reminds me of that old adage regarding art — “If you want to send a message, use a telegram”), but everything else fell into one of those two categories. My point being that his truck-love is getting a lot of reinforcement.

So. Nature. Nurture. Does it matter? When someone says, “My boy’s really into trucks,” the not-so-subtle subtext is, “My boy conforms to the social norms for gender expression.” Or, more directly: “My boy is heterosexual!” That’s why we feel so obligated to respond with approval: “That’s so cute, that’s wonderful.” Subtext: “Congratulations on producing a straight heir!”

Recently, I’ve heard several different parents speculate that their (very young) sons might be gay. Are they imagining, projecting, or just starved for provocative conversation? I’m not sure, but the last time I heard this I suddenly remembered another friend who, when he came out to his parents, was told by his mother that she had known he was gay since he was two. So let’s assume that it’s possible to see something in a very young boy that allows you to pinpoint him as gay.

I am trying to decide how I feel about outing one’s toddler son. My gut reaction is that it’s wrong. First, children pick up on everything their parents say. (The parents I spoke of above made their comments within earshot of their kids.) Unless the parents are putting a hugely positive spin on this — “Billy is doing well at T-ball and, hey, we think he’s going to be gay too! We’re so excited!” — the kids are going to pick up negative vibes. Second, it seems premature to identify your child as homosexual before he even consciously identifies himself as sexual.

Third, what if you’re wrong? What if your toddler is only metrosexual?

But then I began to look at the issue from another point of view (being as fair and balanced, you know, as a Scandinavian gymnast). We claim kids for the heterosexual team almost from birth. Just yesterday, we saw a girl from Aitch’s toddler class on the playground, and her mother greeted us with, “Here’s [my daughter’s] boyfriend!” I didn’t fling myself at her, shouting, “How dare you foist your internalization of the straight hegemony on my son!” (Nor did I call her out on racist attitudes for assuming that our kids, both Asian, would be inevitable dating partners. Four out of 9 kids in Aitch’s class are adopted. The odds are stacked against his ever dating a non-Asian girl with biological parents. Or boy, for that matter. See? Ingrained.) So if you think your child is gay, why not talk about it openly?

The main question I have is, what would you do with this knowledge? Would you treat the child differently, trying to prepare him for future discrimination? Would you ignore it, remaining neutral so your child could discover this on his own? And how would the public react to this concept? Since states now have Head Start funds under their own control, responses would probably differ based on geography. The Texas Head Start program would offer “Go Straight Boot Camp,” patrolling the playgrounds for evidence of gay behavior and then deporting those kids to special schools. (Only, having decimated their Head Start budget, they would probably rely heavily on volunteers.) In Massachusetts (state motto: We can always find the funds!), we would start gay toddler playgroups and PFLAG in-utero chapters.

Since we live in a community with a sizable gay population, I hold out hope that, however Aitch turns out, he’ll have lots of support.

Which brings me to my Blue State Quiz of the day: Which of these two Port City mayors is a bigger threat to the sanctity of marriage?

a. The former mayor, a lesbian who lives quietly in town with her partner and their child, or

b. The current mayor, a married hetero with two kids who began exchanging romantic e-billets doux with her son’s soccer coach, to which a political ill-wisher subsequently obtained access, printed out, and sent to her husband, who proceeded to punch out the coach and was arrested and charged with assault?

An excerpt from a typical marital conversation. We are riding in the car, listening to the radio, and commenting on effective rock-and-roll band names:

Husband: “The Rolling Stones” is the best band name ever. I always thought “The Beatles” was kind of lame.

Me: I always liked “The Beatles,” because of the pun on “beat.”

Husband: [silence]

Me: Wait. You never realized that? You, the great Beatles fan?

Husband: Well, I always wondered why it was spelled with an A.

[pause]

Me: I thought the double meaning of “beat” and Beat Generation was clever.

Husband: [thoughtful silence]

Me: You’re just now getting that?

Husband: Well, now I do.

Husband is invited to post rejoinders on his blog.

Unitarian Jihadists, Unite!

My Unitarian Jihad Name is: The Broadsword of Desirable Mindfulness.

Get yours.

The Early Intervention team conducted Aitch’s assessment yesterday. Conditions were perfect: Aitch had had a full night’s uninterrupted sleep, woke up in a good mood, and ate a decent breakfast. Apart from a little initial hesitancy, he behaved pretty much as he always does, in total violation of the Heisenberg principle.

A squad of three evaluators–an occupational therapist, an early childhood specialist, and a gross-motor expert–put Aitch through his paces in two sessions, one in his high chair and one on the floor. During the seated period, Husband and I were touched to see Aitch concentrating on the given tasks so thoroughly. I had imagined that the testers would allow him to play freely and make observations on actions whenever they happened to occur, but instead they proceeded down their checklists, giving him first one activity, then taking it away and substituting another. We had no idea he was capable of such focus.

Aitch surprised us with some of his skills. He imitated the occupational therapist as she made a “train” with three blocks, and then built a tower five blocks high (typically, he knocks down any structure that rises above sea level). He stuck six pegs upright into a wooden board and then asked to do it again. He had a bit more trouble with a puzzle, but correctly called a piece “big” when it wouldn’t fit into the shape, recalling an earlier conversation where I told him that one of his trains was “too big” to fit into a tunnel.

We were bemused to discover that Aitch is singularly incapable of sorting objects. In task after task, he failed to sort by shape, size, color, utility, chemical composition, or political affiliation. This clarifies the whole two mommies debacle — he can’t sort by gender either! He did much better on the gross motor portion, balancing on a board, running, spinning, and even dancing on command. They were a bit concerned about the muscle tone in his face, because of the copious drool, but I coaxed him to whistle and they chalked the drool up to teething.

Aitch’s “strengths,” they said, were his social and emotional skills, assessed at 7 months ahead of his age. Basically, this means that he is charming. This charm was one of my original concerns. Various checklists for attachment disorder, for which adopted children are considered at risk, cite “overfriendliness to strangers” as a potential indicator. The evaluators reassured us that, although friendly, Aitch appeared to be “checking in” with us appropriately before becoming too comfortable with them.

The Early Intervention team was extremely polite and professional, explaining the developmental milestones behind each activity and giving us lots of feedback on Aitch’s progress. Even more important were the things they didn’t do, to wit:

• *They did not, by word, gesture, or telepathic thought, explicitly or implicitly criticize our parenting skills, housekeeping habits, or lifestyle. Can you imagine how difficult this must be for them? They visit dozens of homes each year; they see all the warning signs. Either we were perfect, or they were extraordinarily restrained. I expect they were yukking it up over a few mid-morning beers afterwards: “Great Jogging Jesus, did you see the size of those dust bunnies?”
• *They did not roll their eyes when the gross-motor expert said that Aitch could not walk down stairs with someone holding one hand, and Husband and I lunged at her and said, “Of course he can! He can walk down shallow stairs by himself!” as though Aitch were being unfairly denied admission to Harvard due to her faulty assessment of his stair-descending skills.
• *They did not make us feel like idiots for wasting their time, even though, as it turned out, Aitch did not qualify for services.

So there it is. Aitch is ready for the Early Intervention Toddler Pageant. He’ll excel in poise (board-balancing), talent (whistling), and congeniality (social and emotional). And he can so go down the damn stairs.

Some musings upon loading the dishwasher, with apologies to Johnny K:

Thou oft-resorted bride of quiet time,
Thou foster-child of whole milk and slow leaks,
Plastic historian, who canst thus betide
A tale more sweetly than our parody speaks:
What merchandising tie-in haunts thy shape
Of anthropomorphic mice, or cats, or both,
In animation of Saturday morning TV?
What Looney Tunes are these? What cartoons loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What TV jingle? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; so, ye Roadrunner, beep on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d
Taunt Coyote with beep-beeps of no tone;
Fair Duck, beneath Fudd’s gun, thou canst not leave
Thy blind, nor ever can that gun discharge;
Bold Pepe, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;
She cannot smell, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and stench be barred!

Ah, happy, happy Bugs! That cannot cry
“What’s up,” nor ever bid Elmer adieu;
And, happy Porky Pig, revitalized,
For ever stuttering for audiences new;
More Tweety Bird! More tweety, tweety Bird!
For ever warm and still to be pursued,
By Sylvester panting, and for ever young;
All breathing feline passion with the words
“Sufferin’ succotash!” but, thwarted, rued
A burning head wound, and a scorchéd tongue.

O ergo shape! Fair attitude! With lid
Of comic forms in relief overwrought,
With faulty valve that e’er asunder slid,
Thou, Sippy Cup, dost tease us out of thought
With luckless, fatal spill: Cold Apple Juice!
When preschool shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, eternal thirst to sluice,
For us, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st,
“Fruity is juice, juice fruity—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.”

A recent blog entry has highlighted what is, for me, a disturbing trend in the adoptive community.

Figlet notes, “Sometimes I think there are only a handful of adoptive parents out there who don’t believe that divine intervention created their families.” She is referring to the tendency of adoption bulletin board posts to credit $DEITY with the success of their adoption efforts and invoke the “everything happens for a reason” mantra at every phase of their adoption process. She opines, “I just don’t believe that God sits up in Heaven on his throne creating families with an invisible red thread.”

Amen, sister. I’m reluctant to bash this philosophy, because it gives so many people comfort, but I’m also irritated by the assumption of predestination that is expressed in so many adoption conversations.

First, it’s simply illogical. If $DEITY is up there pulling strings for you personally, assuring that everything happens according to $HIS “perfect timing,” how to explain the tragedies that are strewn in the wake of $HIS efforts to bring you your child? Many people who come to adoption through infertility, secondary infertility, or subfertility believe that these conditions are trials sent from above to teach them humility and make them trust in a higher power. Fair enough; you can’t prove they’re not. But do we really believe that $DEITY is creating unintended pregnancies along with economic and social conditions that make it difficult for women to care for their birth children just so we can have our perfect families?

When the threads get too tangled, your fallback position can be that the Lord works in mysterious ways, but if that’s so, then how can we be certain we’re ever interpreting $HIS intentions correctly? If you’re truly devout, isn’t it supremely arrogant to assign divine motives to the referral call that arrived on the day when you felt most hopeless, or the well-baby update that came just when you needed cheering up? I mean no disrespect to those who espouse this belief system, but I do invite you to expose it to some tough scrutiny.

This fuzzy thinking goes beyond mere foolishness; it’s downright dangerous. A book by Evelyn Burns Robinson titled Adoption and Recovery: Solving the Mystery of Reunion states, “In one sense, every adoption is a tragedy, as it means that a child has been separated from his or her parents and families.” While I wouldn’t want to see that embroidered on a pillow in my son’s room, it is a painful truth at the heart of adoption. By indulging in magical thinking — our adoptions are preordained, and thus sanctioned, by $DEITY — we avoid any discomfort associated with that truth.

An extension of this thinking is the “received” adoption jargon that we absorb or are taught overtly in a pre-adoptive class. In general I think replacing loaded terms, such as “gave up for adoption” or “real mother,” with something less hurtful is a good thing, but the jargon can obscure. The party line with regard to birth mothers, what you are supposed to tell your child when he or she is old enough to understand, is, “She loved you very much and she wanted what was best for you, so she made a plan to place you for adoption.” This is certainly appropriate to tell young children and probably represents part of the truth, but we parents should not accept it at face value. Birth mothers can be selfless; they can also be selfish, impoverished, desperate, coerced, drug-addled, immature, or naive. A selfless birth mother doesn’t make the adoption any less of a tragedy, but a birth mother with a less-than-ideal story doesn’t make the adoption any less of a success, either.

It’s very easy for those of us adopting internationally to gloss over the pre-adoption story, because we are far removed for it and often have little information about or contact with the birth family. But conditions are changing. South Korea recently declared the hoju birth registry system unconstitutional. This system entrenched men as the head of the family, but also (as I interpret this article from the Korea Herald, excerpted on the Holt site) resulted in discrimination against adopted children who, even if adopted by other South Koreans, could not be registered under their birth or adopted family chiefs.

In South Korea, the concept of domestic adoption is also being destigmatized, albeit slowly. A popular Korean actress who starred in Wit, Yoon Suk-hwa, has gone public about her adopted child in an effort to promote acceptance. More Korean birthmothers are requesting some degree of openness.

There is an increasing possibility that our adopted children will have contact with or someday meet their birthparents. Does a “God is my caseworker” mindset mentally prepare us for that scenario? I don’t think so.

Yesterday was the first warm weekend day this spring. I celebrated by taking my kayak, Loretta, for a spin on the lake, our first outing this year.

Loretta is a bright yellow, flat-bottomed, 9 1/2 foot Perception recreational kayak. She has no flotation, no hatches, no spray skirt, and no rudder. She’s basically a floating bathtub. Loretta’s one great advantage is that she is short enough for me to load and unload by myself. Even before Aitch came along, Husband was not all that into kayaking, so I knew that any paddling trips would be a solo effort. After Aitch arrived, I assumed that kayaking was a no-go activity, as babies, water, and tippy boats are incompatible. But toward the end of last summer, when we had finished moving into our new house and our travel schedule let up a bit, there were suddenly windows of opportunity. A sunny, mild spell would coincide with a nap, or a husband willing to take the baby and dog for an extended walk, and I would load up Loretta and go before the wind could change direction, or Husband his mind. That’s pretty much how it happened yesterday.

Early spring is not the lake’s best season. The trees are still bare, always disconcerting (Silent Spring, anyone?) in 60-degree weather. The runoff from the wet winter has overflowed the banks, leaving the lake’s perimeter ragged and untidy. The birds are still on vacation. Also, the wind kicked up at inconvenient times. My paddle can be put together so that the blades are “feathered,” or at 60-degree angles to each other, so that the out-of-water blade is not catching the full force of the wind. I, however, have never mastered the special stroke required to use a feathered paddle, so as I have to use the non-feathered configuration. I’m about as aerodynamic as a block of wood. Yet — alone, quiet, sun, water! Glorious.

Also, guilt. It’s the curse of the adoptive parent. We spent so much time and effort bringing Aitch into our family, and now, on a weekend, our two days of family time–I’m walking away voluntarily? It’s not like I’m terribly stressed out or never get any time alone. My work-at-home job is just busy enough to necessitate 30 hours of day care a week for Aitch, but not so busy that I can’t have a cup of coffee or go for a run during the day, or take an afternoon off, or, occasionally, have a whole week off because there are no projects. I always seem to have more free time than the other mothers I know. Is it because of my situation, or because I insist on it?

Maybe I feel guilty for not feeling guilty — for enjoying the silence, the exercise, and the solitude.

Then again, as the next day brings 40-degree temperatures and 20-mile-an-hour winds, I feel grateful that my selfishness allowed me that time on the water.

Construction is set to begin shortly on Dickens World, an “entertainment complex” based on the life and work of Charles Dickens, and is expected to be completed by 2007.

Attractions will include rides loosely based on characters from his novels, and reproductions of Victorian street scenes.

Here’s what I want to know: has anyone on that planning committee ever read a Dickens novel? Wasn’t the adjective “Dicksensian” coined to describe corrupt, squalid conditions such as those prevailing in the Victorian era, as chronicled by Dickens in austere masterpieces like David Copperfield and Little Dorrit? Bleak House, Hard Times — do these sound like kiddie rides?

Personally, I’m looking forward to the Oliver Twist food court (tiny portions of gruel, accompanied by beatings) and the Great Expectations function hall, which you can rent for weddings — complete with the services of a wedding planner, Miss Havisham, who attends in her own tattered bridal attire.

Coming soon: Kafka Adventure in Prague, with the Cockroach roller coaster and The Trial multimedia presentation! Algonquin Times in New York City, where visitors interact with drunk, witty, sexually confused “intellectuals” for a realistic 20th-century experience! The Magic Mountain in the Swiss Alps, with a Take-the-Waters Flume Ride and white-coated attendants who make sure that guests never get too excited!

Full disclosure: I have made a solemn vow that I will never, ever take Aitch to a theme park. Oh, I won’t deprive him of the roller coaster/cotton candy experience — I’ll be happy to spend a few hours at Six Flags or other generic amusement parks. But Disneyworld, Hersheypark, any other place based on a cutesy central theme or with an inappropriately elided title–forget it.

When I make this vow in public, people react as though I’ve said, “I’m going to raise Aitch with no religious training whatsoever” (which is something I have said, but that’s a whole other post). They look at me severely and say, “Of course you will,” as though I’m depriving Aitch of some fundamental childhood experience and will reconsider once the enormity of my decision hits me.

I don’t think Disneyworld is essential to a healthy psyche. Strolls on the beach, nature hikes through the woods, museums, libraries, music, theater, yes; Pirates of the Carribbean, no. It’s not harmful — I would not complain if someone else wanted to take him. But if I never see Disneyworld again, it would be too soon, and I won’t change my mind.

The temperature is rising. The snow has (almost) melted. Jogging Jesus was recently spotted in short sleeves. Spring is just around the corner.

Jogging Jesus is a local marathoner, a bearded man who lets his long hair flow freely as he logs miles and miles on the roads around town. Everyone in town knows Jogging Jesus, because he’s ubiquitous. You drive out to the farm stand, and he’s running along the High Road. You drive out the back way to the interstate, and he’s running along the low road. You take the baby for a short walk in the south end, and he’s running through town. You go for a hike in the park with the dog, and he’s running the trails. You go to the gym, and 70 miles a week must not be enough exercise for him, because he’s there too, running on the treadmill. And, believe it or not, if you log on to Match.com, he’s one of the bachelors on offer. (No, I’m not looking, but I have single friends who keep me posted on the latest Match.com appearances.)

Jogging Jesus is one of the benefits of living in a small town. I grew up in the suburbs and hightailed it to the city as soon as I had a steady paycheck, so for years my only experience of small towns was through fiction. Books, movies, and television made small towns seem claustrophobia-inducing, until “Northern Exposure.” After I got hooked on that in the early ‘90s, I thought it would be great to move to a remote village, interact with hip, quirky characters, and see livestock roaming through the center of town. I even quit my job and joined the Peace Corps where, alas, I was posted to a capital city (but with plenty of livestock).

When I moved back to the States and met Husband, he told me (on our third date) that he would never leave Urbanity, and my vague wish to experience small-town life seemed poised to die a natural death. Then Husband and I married and decided to start a family. We both wholeheartedly believe that a city is the best place to raise a child. This conflicts with another deeply-held belief, however, that one thousand dollars a square foot is too much to pay for living space, which coincides nicely with other beliefs that 1. we don’t have a million dollars and 2. all our stuff won’t fit in a 1000 square foot apartment. Hence, our move to Port City .

Port City, however, does not disappoint. It’s like Peyton Place, Stars Hollow, and Harper Valley (of PTA fame) rolled into one. Each stroll through town is another installment in the running entertainment that is town life. The local luminaries are a cast of characters that everyone knows, sources of gossip and speculation. There’s Jogging Jesus, of course. There’s the Mayor, whose husband punched out the soccer coach after uncovering a salacious e-mail exchange. There’s the overwhelmingly popular county sheriff, one of the few African-Americans in town. There’s the best-selling novelist whose last name nobody is quite sure how to pronounce. There’s the editor of an influential political tabloid that everyone disparages (but everyone advertises in, too). There’s the wealthy New Yorker who moved to town, bought up a bunch of properties, and then died in a mysterious fall from the third story of her inn, leaving behind a husband who subsequently made a million dollar donation to the local women’s shelter. You couldn’t make this stuff up.

I sometimes wonder how Aitch will feel about growing up in this environment. I hope he will enjoy it, but I will not feel heartbroken at all if he decides to move away after college. In my experience, the image “my hometown” lives in close proximity to images of “shaking off the dust of” and “getting the hell out of.” That feeling seems essential to the process of separating oneself from one’s parents. Hell, I know someone who grew up on the Upper East Side of Manhattan (which is Mecca to me and the place to which Husband and I will retire when we are old and alone and can reconcile ourselves to living in a studio apartment), and she escaped…here, to Port City. Where we’ll know it’s summer as soon as we see Jogging Jesus running barechested.

When I returned from my business trip, I discovered that a band of terrorists had attacked the mini Isle of Sodor in Aitch’s play area, uprooting every bit of track and toppling the wooden conductor and two porters stationed along the rails. The group seemed to have no agenda other than wanton destruction.

Husband tried to rebuild the track, but he failed to consult the detailed Sodor Disaster Recovery Plan (complete with video) I had left behind in anticipation of such an event, and the resulting configuration was far inferior to the original. So I spent a significant part of my morning (about 20 minutes) reconstructing Sodor. Alas, the video map I followed had been made before certain significant improvements were implemented, and I ended up with two extra unused sections of track.

I’m so efficient.