Someone Else' Child

About a year ago, the Reynolds five somehow became the Reynolds six. I'm not really sure how it happened, although I am fully aware of where babies come from, and I am even less certain how long it will last. Little D made his first appearance last August. He is the son of Big Daddy's brother and has had a tough three years, to say the least. It's a strange feeling when to have responsibility for a stranger's child. A child you are completely unsure of the history or the future. A child who has the ability to melt your heart and make you think you are truly insane all in the same 24 hour period. You learn a lot about yourself, most of it not pleasant and you get a clear picture of who you really are, most of the time not the person you thought you were or want to be. You also learn a lot about the power of "mom and dad", for good or bad.

How is it that long before we make our appearance into the world, two people are able to screw us up. And when we do make our appearance, that power to wreak havoc grows exponentially. The best part by far is that once the havoc is there, it is almost inevitable that the havoc spreads wherever the child goes.

Whatever the reason, right now I am "Mom" to a three year old. An adorable three year old with chocolate button eyes. A three year old I did not grow or deliver, but who was delivered to me.

A three year old who has experienced hurt, more hurt than most will experience in their lifetime.

A three year old who cannot say that he is hungry or tired or cold, he has no idea those are things you don’t have to feel.

A three year old who has no idea what it feels like to have a “go to man”, someone who has your back no matter what. And because of the power of "mom and dad", he is unable to let me be that man.

A three year old who manipulates and controls at all cost, there is no cost too high. He has lost everything already.

A three year old who cannot look me in the eye without trembling and sobbing at the very request. I might see his fear and hurt and he, he might see my love.

A three year old who has no trouble looking me in the eye to lie. Who stares at me with cold dark eyes full of hatred and contempt. And when I see the intensity there I am relieved he can’t find the words to express what he feels. And I dread the day he does.

A three year old I am struggling to like. A three year old I fiercely love, and wish with all my heart that love would heal his.

Aliens on my Wall

As the afternoon sun hit my family room windows today, I was sitting and holding and rocking Little D and the coolest shadows of tree limbs surrounded me. For fifteen minutes, I watched the branches dance and sway across my walls. And I spent those fifteen minutes convincing myself that there were aliens outside in the trees. I swear I could see an alien riding a bike and then stopping to catch her breath and then pedaling with all her might again. I don't know how I know it was an alien woman, but I just do. I was convinced to the point I went and got my camera and headed outside to take a picture for my daily photo blog with my sister, Mel DropZoneS2.blogspot.com. I got outside and there was no alien to take a picture of. I went back inside and the alien was still on my wall riding her bike. Once again, don't ask how I know it was a her, I just do.

Little D started chatting incessantly about pirate ships and snacks and how he loves to read books and how his mommy makes him happy and how the black on the socks is on the bottom of his foot and whatever else came to his little mind.

Minutes earlier he was in an all out screaming rage, staring me down with dark, intense eyes that could give a terrorist a run for his money. The rage started because I reminded him if he was asking me a question, he needed to look in my eyes. I know it is a scary prospect but those are the rules in our family. I can see the talk bubble above his head now, "You want me to look you in the eyes, then I'll give you something to look at!"

I looked at Mr Chatterbox and thought how much he has seen and experienced in his short life, how he knows pain and has given up things I can't even begin to imagine the loss of, how he showed up in the Atlanta airport with a small suitcase full of belongings and that was all he could claim as his own. If I, who am the proud recipient of a college degree and a can say I have a relatively sane brain and am full adult (notice I did not use the Grown-up word), am able to convince myself that there is an alien riding her bike behind my house, it's not a far stretch that this little guy is able to convince himself the world is out to get him and that he cannot trust anyone farther than he can throw them.

My job is to convince him he's wrong. Unfortunately, I'm sure it will take more than a look-see at the trees in the backyard.