by Margot Callahan, Contributing Writer
We adopted our boy when he was three. He had come from neglect and abuse from his bio family, and a foster care system that didn’t treat him much better, having five placements, including one failed foster-to-adoption before landing with us. He was hyper-vigilant and hadn’t bonded with any adult in the important first two and a half years of his life. He didn’t like to be touched and we would discover how those important first years would affect him to this day.
The counselors who worked with him pre-adoption said that putting him into daycare and a routine would help him feel safe and learn to get along with others. We had an excellent one near our house and enrolled him there. We are a cycling family and it was close enough that I could ride him there on the back of my bike. I considered it another way for us to feel close, and we would chat on our roundtrip with lots of teachable moments and chat away about what we saw and thought.
Our boy, even with his undeveloped ability to attach to others, wasn’t shy and had a good vocabulary. This didn’t hide his shortcomings – his constant need for attention and inability to play independently, his risk-taking, his severe learning disabilities, his disinterest in anything that wasn’t physical. He loved to play ball, run and jump, doing the things he could do and wasn’t confused by. And when he felt “less-than”, he would get agitated and aggressive. Although well-liked and given a lot of room for error, our boy was different from the other kids and took up a disproportionate amount of the caregiver’s time. They were patient and understanding, but he was a challenge and made for long days when he didn’t want to do what was programmed, especially art or anything resembling learning.
Trying to make up for lost time and healing his early neglect, my feelings were profound for this boy, knowing how being different can affect your whole life, and wondering if he had what it would take to shake it off and be okay or even thrive, as some do once they find their calling or people who are accepting and understanding.
So the bike ride was an exhilarating way to start his day and then shake it off on the way home. We always wore helmets and I taught the importance of them. When we would go on longer rides, my boy would often fall asleep and his helmet would bounce lightly on my back as I pedaled along. Others, passing on their bikes, would smile and whisper, “He’s napping.” It was joyous thinking that he would learn to ride a two-wheeler soon and we knew that he would love the freedom and speed of it.
One day, I lost track of time and had to rush to pick him up. I never wanted him to think that I had forgotten about him and always arrived a bit early. He had so much inattention in his short life, that any slight felt like it could take him back not just two steps, but a mile.
I made it in time, and lifted him on my bike, as usual, putting on his helmet and pulling out for the ride home ready to talk about our day.
Then, he noticed something that I had not and asked urgently, “Mamma, where’s your helmet?”
“Oh my goodness, I forgot it. I’ll be extra careful going home so that we arrive safe and sound.”
Then, my boy, who still hadn’t allowed us to hug him, reached his arms around me, just far enough to rest his tiny hands on my hips, to keep me safe.
There would be many years ahead when he would have moments of tenderness toward us, but we could never have imagined then how his early years of fear, neglect and never trusting or bonding with a caring adult would affect him, and how many times I would wish that I could simply put my arms around him and keep him safe, feel loved and wanted, and a part of our family.
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Margot Callahan called Highland Park home, but now enjoys the beauty of Lancaster County. Writing for many years, she now shares her short stories with others.
