Nature vs. Nurture — Part IV

October 2, 2019

Dear Child, 

You did it again, kid. My heart is broken.

It is the second time in as many weeks that your choices have widened the scars that already existed because of you.  You stole from me, and now you’re moving away.

If there were ever a person I wanted to hate, it is you.  It would be so much easier.

Your mother sent word of your imminent departure this afternoon, and I didn’t receive it until it was time to leave the office. My memories of you – us – nudged all other thoughts on the long drive home today. I cried through three cities.

Damn you for that. 

I entered your life when we were both much younger. Those early years were tough for both of us, and anyone who ever felt they needed to pick a side. But we grew. Together.

Remember our first Halloween together? We convinced your mother to dress you in a more traditional costume, versus the biblical characters that embarrassed you so much. I always thought young Moses, with the basket around your waist, was quite creative and fun. Still, I understood your desire to wear ruby slippers and braided pigtails.

Do you remember sitting in the backseat of the car and giving me directions to the store? They were nothing more than guesses on your part. Though that episode remains among my fondest memories, it was hauntingly telling.

You spin yarn.

The golden versions have happened here and there, such as the time you informed us that you were the only beginner clarinet player to make the All-Region Band, or when you more recently announced that you received a scholarship to attend a distinguished school for aspiring beauticians. Far more often than not, however, your yarns are hued yellow, which is the color of deceit.

I love you. I hurt for you. I’m afraid for you. I’m afraid for me.

I fear that you are beyond the grace of anyone who offers it. I hurt because you keep falling and don’t seem to care anymore about standing. I fear that you have only one more of these emotional blows in your arsenal … except, you won’t be here to recover.

I’m heartbroken, kid. Please don’t take you from me.

Love always,

Dad

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Nature vs. Nurture – Part II

The author originally wrote and published this piece in March 2014. 

‘Mom, I’m glad I’m not adopted,’ the little boy said out of the blue.

‘Really,’ she responded. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because, if I was adopted you wouldn’t love me as much.’

It had been more than five years since the boy made the transition into his new family. He was about a year old when Child Protective Services placed him with his foster family.

He doesn’t remember the days of crawling around a small government-subsidized apartment as his biological mother and her guests — many of whom she didn’t know — lay sleeping on floors and couches. Though it was one of his earliest sensory experiences, he can’t identify marijuana smoke. Nor has he imagined that drinking straws are also used to inhale the poisonous vapors of scorched methamphetamine.

And he doesn’t recall the hours in court, where attorneys and social workers made their cases on his behalf.

‘Well, you know we love you more than anything,’ the mom said.

‘I know,’ the little boy responded, ‘because I’m not adopted.’

His young memory is instead crowded with Disney characters and Sunday dinners; a cruise ship that he refers to as the boat; a stuffed duck that was his Linus blanket; and pizza bites. Enough pizza bites to float a cruise ship.

The boy’s parents never considered having another child. In fact, they were done with diapers, well-baby doctor visits and school supply lists that included sleeping mats. All of their high-chairs and strollers had been given away or sold at a garage sale. They were ready for vacations and some weekends alone.

But they saw an injustice.

He deserved better than to be left alone or to witness his mother trade favors for drugs. Every child does. This boy, however, was one of the fortunate ones. For certain, his biological mother loved him. But her stronger bond was with her lifestyle. And he’d become a novelty.

‘You know, many people who put their children up for adoption love them very much,’ the mom explained. ‘And the people who adopt them really want them in their family.’

‘I’m just glad I’m not adopted,’ he responded. ‘And I’m glad you and dad love me more than an adopted son.’

In time, the boy will begin asking questions. His parents – my wife and I – will offer him answers. We will be forthcoming and matter-of-fact. That will include letting him know that life happens and that he is our grandson, but really our son.

We will also tell him that we love him with all of our hearts. Forever. And I suspect that he’ll believe us.