The Story of A Boy

He was born 6 years ago this month in the town of Kazanlak, Bulgaria, population 52,930, to a woman I’ve never met but with whom I share a bond. I do not know the time of his birth. I do not even know how much he weighed. He was taken from the hospital directly to the orphanage.

He was a happy baby; content. He ate. He slept. He was rarely rocked or held, except to be given a meal. He wore clothes donated by other adoptive parents or agencies. He shared toys with the other 15 children in his room.

I met him when he was 8 months old. He was awakened so that I could hold him. He was soaked with urine and therefore quickly washed up and changed into fresh clothes. He didn’t mind that I held him. He smiled at me serenely and held the toys I offered. He was doped up with Phenobarbital,an unfortunately often used medication to slow active children; to ease the workload of caregivers .

The color of his eyes was black; so black that I walked to the window and held him in the light to be sure he had a pupil. He did.

At the appointed time, he was taken from me and fed pureed vegetable soup from a large spoon. The layla (caregiver) held him in a reclining position and shoveled the food in as fast as she could. He ate every drop. He wanted more. There was no more.

I held him again, rocked him and loved the feel of his little self in my arms. Then he began to buzz. The strange low buzzing sounds, accompanied by sucking a knuckle on his right hand, indicating that he was sleepy. He was whisked out of my arms all too quickly to be put back to bed. Sleeping babies are much easier to care for when you have so very many children to look after.

I didn’t see him again for two years. He had grown. He had learned to walk. He no longer buzzed. Now he screamed and cried. He threw so many fits during his first year home I wondered if we had made the right decision to expand our family just one last time. He would not sleep unless I sat by his bed.

He has a favorite CD of toddler songs. “Oh I wish I were a little bar of soap. Oh I wish I were a little bar of soap. Then I’d slippy and I’d slidey over everybody’s hidey. Oh I wish I were a little bar of soap.”

He is still prone to screaming when he doesn’t like the way things are going. He is a pouter. He endures the time-out he gets for pouting and screaming. He is learning.

He spoke no English when he arrived. He didn’t speak at all, in fact. Eventually he learned English. He learned to answer the three questions others asked of him; fine, three and Chase. He gave one of those three answers no matter the question.

He has brown hair and olive skin. People ask if he is Hispanic; if he speaks Spanish. He isn’t and he doesn’t. He is Roma Gypsy. Sometimes people think I am babysitting him. He does not match me. He matches his biological brother, another of my children.

He is a kindergartener now. He is full of smiles and energy and a love for learning. His teacher says he is ready to read. He likes homework. I think he will be good at sports. He is as limber as a wet noodle and quicker than greased lightning. Or maybe I’m just old.

He has a hard time not being a little naughty. He takes toys to school in his book bag when he isn’t supposed to. He takes pictures with his big sister’s new camera. He tattles. He loves to sit in my lap in the evening and snuggle. That makes up for a lot of his naughty behavior.

This is the year he will begin to stretch his wings. He will play soccer. He will learn to swim. He will dance in his second recital. He will stop screaming when he doesn’t get his way; at least I pray he will.

He is the child who will have the “oldster” parents at his high school graduation. He is the child we did not expect. He is the child who has stretched my heart, my parenting abilities and most of all, my patience. I cannot imagine life without him.

He is my son, Chase Mihail Tate and I am a far better person for the privilege of being his Mommy.

Copyright 2006 Jill Jacks-Tate