A few weeks ago, Process wondered about the future adoptive parents of a little girl with a family history of mental illness.
Huckle doesn't have a documented family history of mental illness. But he was born with meth, pot, and alcohol in his system. Every day I worry. I can't even ask myself if we would have said yes to him if we'd known the circumstances of his birth and of the first 18 months of his life before we met him, if it hadn't all been omitted until a week of visitation had been completed and we were sitting at the kitchen table with two social workers filling out placement documents, until after he'd started calling us mommy and daddy. We knew about the danger his family posed, we knew a lot about the situation, but that had been glossed over. Am I upset about that?
The answer is that I don't know, I suppose, but he's here, he's not leaving, and so I worry. I trace the divot above his lip with my finger, try to convince myself that its existance helps to rule out FASD. I ignore the droopy eyelid, Dr. Google doesn't help anyhow. I worry that his impulsiveness, his anger isn't just three-year old behavior, but an early indication of larger problems. Why can't he recognize an A as an A yet? We've been working on it. The only time he wants me is when someone else has me or when he's woken from a nap, any other time he rejects me -- he's bonding, but will he attach? The Time-Ins are