I have made the comparison between adoption and knitting before.

The analogy was used heavily in Tapastry, likening all our individual stories into separate threads that we must weave together and then view, from afar, in order to see the truth about adoption as a whole.

This past weekend, I was struck by the analogy again.

When you are knitting something, and you leave off for a while, when you start back up again, you can’t just pick up where you left off. Either you forgot where you were, or you need to reread the instructions. You have to pick up the stitches where you left off. If you want to add something, then you have to manually being in that new addition and work its way into the pattern. It takes longer, it’s harder and often…just the difference in time…you can see the place where the break happened no matter how you try. The subtle differences in the way one’s hands move, or the strength of the fingers, will break the continuity of the pattern.

If you think about a family in the same way as a pattern, then this holds true for adoption too.
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Yes! My surrendered son came to my 40th birthday party!

It turns out that there are immediate, good reasons to not only turn 40, but to have a big bash as well. It was one of the reasons that I gave into the idea of this party, though while I hoped, I was not too sure if he would make it.

Earlier in the week, I had strong suspicions, confirmed by a certain 7 year old child who cannot keep a secret but whose name is withheld for her own protection. She was not supposed to leak it, but when being told that “Someone special is coming to your party”, I had to break it out of her. Of course, my heart raced that it would be Max, but God forbid it was someone else. Not only would I have been sad in the midst of a celebration, but my facial reaction upon seeing a non-Max guest would have been very rude to whoever the real special guest was.

When Rye tried to be all slick and pretended to be upset that he “forgot to call Max”, then I knew he had, indeed, not forgotten. He tried to pull the same crap with my chocolate and peanut butter birthday cake. I said fine, no biggie, just pick up an ice cream cake from Hannaford, until Eileen called the day of and started the conversation by telling me that she had just finished up my cake. My husband is pretty bad at keeping secrets. Must be where the 7 year old gets it from. In any case, I went into the celebration weekend with a huge list of things to do and a quiet anticipation of see my son again.

The party itself was excellent. We opted for having it at the house which gave me the added bonus of pressure for us all to massively clean up and also finish so many of the backyard projects early. I have to say that now my back yard has a beautiful Zen like character to it with the newly installed Koi pond and natural waterfall. I felt proud to invite over guests.

About half of the invited folks showed up at different times throughout the night which was a good thing! As it was the final count of people who came was close to 80 and even with the new patio, the borrowed tables and chairs ( thanks to great neighbors Bob and Kim), more chairs from Colleen and Claude, and great food brought by many, there was no way that we could have pulled off 150 folks at our house. So as guests arrived, I am suffering form that spinning momma head syndrome of racing eyes, knowing my child can be here any second, unable to ask as I am faking my secret, and waiting, looking, watching for him with ever increasing nerves. All while greeting guest, getting serving utensils, opening presents, etc., but all while having a great time. The pomegranate martini pre cocktail cocktails didn’t hurt either.

And then, it started getting later. Rye broke out the 1969 slide show of my baby self naked in the tub and every one I knew got a good look at my girly parts. We finished off the vodka for the martinis and moved onto the first of at least 8 pitchers of mohitos. The sun went down, the candles and the bonfire were lit and before I knew it, here came the cake, overloaded with candles. Still no Max.

It was sometime after that, when finally I sat and actually ate something, feeling like he wasn’t coming after all, that a shot of Jameson sounded about right especially since that bottle too was almost gone, I hadn’t had any, and either had Moses who had brought me the dern gift. ( Thanks Moses!). I was still recovering from the liquid fire, when Kevin came in and said “Claudia, there is someone named Max for you at the gate”.

Now my brother, who was there, is named Matt. And we do have a few other friends named Matt as well, so I was wise to verify with Kevin. Shot glass in hand, yelling over the cranking tunes, I check: “Max did you say?”

“Yeah, Max… he’s at the gate” I don’t think I heard the end of the sentence as I was out the door.
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When you ad in adoption separation, not hearing from your child for four months is not a big deal at all. By time this whole birthday nonsense started, I was jonesing for some direct communication.

He had called me for Christmas which was lovely. But after that, my last email to him discussing a proposal to write something together adoption related, which he had brought up, and feeling out for possible interest regarding the upcoming Adoptee Rights protest, went unanswered. I, being the best non freaking out mother who relinquished, tried to take it with a grain of salt. Months of salt intake makes you kind of in a pickle after a while.

One of the first things he mentioned was recent personal bad news, in his words, a curse on his band members and himself. I was very upset to learn that one of his best friend’s dad had died suddenly. Through the glories of MySpace, I felt like I knew Taz even though I had never had the guts enough to “friend” him. But, a music loving, former freaky kid now parent like myself, I liked the idea that Max had this close connection with a cool dad who I related to on a parent level. Very sad to hear that he had passed.

The other bit of yuckyness was that the GF was no more. I got the sense that he was probably down playing it a bit, but was somewhat OK, though not happy with the outcome. I have to give him credit.. it sounded like he was dumped in a drama like way and had had not a bad thing to say about her. Very gracious and caring, understanding even. I did really like her and they were a good couple, but from what I gathered, I get it too. Plus really, they are young, so, it was bound not to last forever. Poor boy, I forgot to warn him of our tendency to be serial monogamists, so he might was well get used to heartache. Very rarely will we be the dumper, usually the dumpee, unless things really suck.

While it is hard to hear about tough life lesson’s that your child goes through without you, it also then, makes sense, that he didn’t answer emails and have the energy to deal.

But even with that, it was very smooth. While the party raged on around us, in some ways we were in our own world. My brother pretty much hung with us exclusively as well..and the three of us were thick like thieves.

Max had arrived literally two minutes after I had given Garin permission to leave the party and I was upset that they missed each other. I had been trying to get Garin to stay until Max got there without letting on that I thought he would be there. Max reported that he saw Garin just as he was on his way out. (Momma note: grrr. stupid teenagers… choosing to hang out with friends over long lost older brothers). The younger ones were hunkered down in my bed watching TV, so I had to pull Max in quick before sleep overtook their tired selves. Scarlett pretty much propelled herself down the stairs and threw herself at him. Even Tristan, who had been more interested in the whole understanding adoption concepts and getting that he had another brother, even gave a hug without being too silly.
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There is something very natural about tucking your child into bed, adopted or not:
Granted he is almost 21, and it wasn’t a tuck, but as I outlasted Rye as the non-exhausted host, so in the wee hours of the morning, sitting by the still warming fire pit, I was trying to do a body count and figure out what guests were in which bed. We had planned ahead and done massive room cleaning/sheet washing. All the cousins were in Tristan’s room, leaving Scarlett’s room as a girly guest area for Eileen. Garin happily got a reprieve from his grounding to stay at a friend’s, so we could have access to the other queen sized bed in the house. Then the couch could be pulled out and Claude and Col had brought their futon as well. That’s all we needed.

After the wedding in August, I had felt bad as I had given out and whoever was staying had to fend for themselves. No one complained, but momma guilt hit me when I woke to find poor Max and Caitlyn on “not bed” couches. With that in mind, even though I know this boy does not judge me on my bed making skills, I made sure to pull out the sofa bed, furnish him with a real blanket, a real pillow and point out where the TV clicker was.

I couldn’t help but note that he turn himself over on his side the same way I do to fall asleep.
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Some typical “bio mother needs reassurance” crap: In August, I woke up at 5:30 am and could not fall back asleep. It was just so exciting, so new to finally…almost 20 years later, be in the same house with my lost and found child. Being that I wasn’t in bed until almost 4, I was really worried that I would wake again and experience the same thing and I really needed to get some sleep in. Thankfully, either exhaustion of some normality crept in and I did sleep. Still, when your kid is almost 21 and you can measure the number of hours spent in your child’s presence by hours and it still adds up to less than a week of both of your lives, you don’t want to waste any precious visit time by sleeping.

Who would have thought that I would be happy that the little ones get up eerily and make noise. Yes, I was the first adult up and I cheerfully crept about and put on the beloved coffee. I can’t say I was unhappy when Max arose soon afterwards. Not rushing him, but because I was still on “my house is clean” mode, we put the sofa bed back to into a couch anticipating the three beasts’ need to watch TV.
He was puttering about, organizing his stuff, and he put on his shoes. We were standing by the front door and something told me that he was going to go out it. He asked me something that I now forget, but I know that my face had a look of panic on it. I felt my mind racing, my eyes darting about. My brain was trying to come up with some “cool-correct—non-possessive way of asking if he was actually leaving so soon! But my mouth could not get together with the brain to make something clear to communicate.

Max looked at me and said quite calmly, “Don’t worry, I’m not leaving. I’m just going on the porch to feel the morning air.”

Embarrassed almost by not only the fear that came upon me so fast, but by my inability to talk through it and communicate, I finally was able to catch myself,
“Wow you saw that panic rise in my so quickly?”

“Yeah, I’m good like that”

He’s right, he is. I hate that he saw that in me. I hate that I needed that reassurance.

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And this, is now, long enough. I’ll have to get into more Sunday happenings, later.