Becoming Family

Joe came to live with our family the day before Halloween the year he was 12.  He came from a facility in Pennsylvania, flying across the country to Seattle, where Geoff and a couple of our kids met up with him.  Then north to Alaska.

Joe’s background was a painful one.  We’d been briefed on him to see if we thought he would fit in our family.  The more we learned of the chaos and abuse, the neglect and turmoil, the more amazing it seemed that this kid had come through all of it.

He’d first been institutionalized at age 3.  The next nine years were a confusion  of transfers from foster placements to residential placements. There was a brief interlude with some biological family.  But by age 12, Joe had essentially grown up in institutions.

The adjustment in coming across the country to our home was a tremendous one for Joe.  And for us. He was pretty easy-going, obviously bright, loved to read, and would gobble up whatever we fed him and always ask for more.  He never smiled, never laughed.  Whether due to the medications he was on, or the heaviness of his life, he had absolutely no affect.  No facial expressions.  At times more like a mannequin than a boy.

One of Joe’s frequent statements those first few months was, “I don’t know what it’s like being in a family.  I’ve never done this before.”  It wasn’t said as an excuse, so much.  It was a statement of confusion:  the rules changed midway through and I don’t know how to respond to this.

We would explain that this is what a family is like.  Families are messy.  People argue. They say mean, ugly things to each other and then expect it to be okay again a few minutes later.  It doesn’t mean they don’t want you around anymore. It means they really just wanted you off the computer so they could check something.

But Joe had never had those kind of rules before.  He’d never dealt with “normal” family arguments that flare up and fade all in a matter of minutes.  He’d always had staff available to resolve anything, and if the staff couldn’t resolve the conflict then someone would be removed.

It was a difficult adjustment.  At first Joe wouldn’t say what he wanted.  Or didn’t want.  So the other kids would roll right over the top of him, often.   Then he’d get angry and either threaten to run away, or kill himself, or kill someone else.  Still playing from the only hand he knew.

One night about four months after Joe had come to live with us our son Ben, who was 13 at the time, had a friend over.  Ben and his friend were out in the driveway shooting baskets and we’d instructed the younger kids to leave them alone.  In a family our size, boundaries and personal space matter a whole lot. It’s okay to have a friend over and not have to share that friend with half a dozen siblings.

Joe came out to the living room and started getting his shoes on to go out and shoot baskets with the boys, even though he’d been told not to.  Martha and Emma, then both 11, were in the living room watching a movie.

“You can’t go outside,” Emma informed Joe, probably not in a nice tone.

He didn’t say anything, and just kept putting on his shoes.

“Joe, Mom and Dad said to leave the boys alone,” Martha added authoritatively.

He still didn’t respond.  Nor did he see that I had just come into the room from behind him.

“Joe!” both girls chorused, now irritated that he didn’t apparently think he needed to follow the rules.

And that’s when it happened.  Joe looked over at the girls, stuck out his tongue at them, and in a very ugly, taunting tone said, “Nyeeaahhhh.”

They were shocked.  He’d never done anything ugly like that before.  Also, they had an advantage over him.  They could see that I was standing a few feet behind him.

“Mom’s behind you, Stupid,” one of them taunted.

He turned to look at me.  Instantly worried.

I started to laugh.  I patted him on the back and said, “Joe, welcome to the family.  THAT’S how people in a family act.  You’re there, Buddy.”

“Huh?” he said, sure that I was somehow mocking him, or setting him up.

I told him that the girls were right, which he already knew.  He couldn’t go outside and join the boys. That it’s okay for someone to have time alone with a friend.  And it isn’t really okay to stick your tongue out and make taunting noises at each other. At the same time, that’s what siblings do.  They don’t threaten to run away for being told they can’t outside and shoot hoops. They don’t threaten to kill themselves because they’re being called on the carpet.  And they don’t threaten to kill someone else because a sibling butts in and tries to enforce the rules.  They just stick out their tongues and make ugly, taunting noises.  Or they yell, call names, threaten to tattle on, etc.

He didn’t really seem to get it at the time.  And I’m really not sure when it ever did really sink in for him.   I just know that eventually it did.

But that was a long time ago.  Joe probably doesn’t even remember that evening anymore.  He probably remembers his transition into the family as being a long, drawn-out progression.  He probably doesn’t remember the exact moment that it happened.

But I do. It was right there in the living room that evening.  That was the exact moment when Joe became family.

J—Thanks for letting me tell your story.–Love, Mom