I don’t know what was more frightening to me-
this shark over and over again in the circular tank
(I am the person who thinks she felt a shark brushing across her leg in the swimming pool),
or having absolutely no idea why Sam was in full blown tantrum mode in downtown Boston today.
As in, on his stomach at one point beating the pavement.
It’s been over seven months since the last one.
It started when he was told we were going home after lunch, and not to the nonexistent playground that was circling around in his head instead.
He cried, threatened to throw away his aquarium souvenir (light saber-why aquariums sell light sabers is reason for another post all together), and screamed sarcastically to every pedestrian in ear shot; “Fine! Fine! I am really loving this day. This is so much fun. I just love this day!”
I walked alongside him wondering why, hating the scene, exhausted, frustrated, perplexed.
Was there a bigger why beyond the early departure, complete lack of all that is routine, new people, tremendous excitement, and sharing me with a handful of people, let alone the several thousand we passed during the morning? Or was it just that he really needed to run around and he knew it?
My cousin and her husband did such a lovely job not making us feel mortified. Had it been me, I might have had a few choice words for that person’s unruly child. Instead she actually had an email waiting for me inviting all of us back for an overnight this summer. Now that’s generous. Truth is, that is probably exactly what we would need for Sam to be able to relax, and take it all in. His processor needs MORE time. This is very common in adoption. Transitions are hard. Transitions mean loss, like losing your birth mother. Losing a day of magic, an aquarium and the possibility, albeit fabricated of taking a trolley to the best playground ever is probably a comparable loss to a five-year old. Loss is loss, Mom I can almost hear him saying.