Heart Strings

By Deborah Atkinson

Adopting an older child means labor pains that can last a whole lot longer than nine months. Adopting an older child through a government agency creates enough red tape to encircle the planet a few times. Yet taking in and loving a child no one else wants can bring the most wonderful feelings of accomplishment, as well as the deepest regrets and doubts. Heart Strings, inspired by real-life adoptions, is the story of a discarded child, recycled into a new family then ripped away by his past, as told through the eyes of his adoptive mother.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Deborah Atkinson
• Release date: Feb 14, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311823045

Deborah Atkinson

Fiber, photographic and digital art tickle my creative desires, itching to escape my soul. I love to quilt, crochet, knit, sew, embroider, design, digitally manipulate, garden, bake and write when I'm not on my bicycle, cross-country skis or any of the awesome trails anywhere in Colorado. I'm almost always found with camera in hand. And smile on face.

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Heart Strings

by Deborah Atkinson

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

Published by Deborah Atkinson on Smashwords

Copyright 2016 by Deborah Atkinson

Thank you for downloading this ebook. Although this is an electronic book, it remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be reproduced, scanned or distributed for any commercial or non-commercial use without permission from the author. Quotes used in reviews are exempt. No alteration of content is allowed. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download a copy of their own.

Your support and respect for the property of this author is appreciated.

This book is a work of non-fiction, and any resemblance to any other persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental.

( You will have success in whatever you adopt. )

— Chinese fortune

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Epilogue

About the Author

Bonus Chapter

Prologue

He was the neatest boy in the world.

Sure, he had some problems, like the time he punched a hole in my favorite living room painting. With a bowling ball.

Or the time he hid dirty dishes in his closet so he wouldn't have to wash them. For three weeks. Until I realized we had no dishes.

My son had his moments. And when they hit, they were grand.

He netted eighty four dollars for his seventh birthday and bought himself a bike. The next year, he received only five dollars. He was ten times more aware of his surroundings. He wanted Nikes, Hot Wheels, a motorcycle and a haircut. He actually had enough money for a haircut. But he spent his money on me instead. He bought roses.

He was only seven when my little brother died. My son didn't know what alive meant, much less dead. But he could see I was hurting. He wrapped his tiny arms around my neck and hugged me tight. Then he pointed to my chest as he lovingly assured me, He's still in here, Mom.

Mom. What a precious word.

I thought it would be my name forever.

Losing my son the way I did was harder than losing him to death. For he was still alive. Out there somewhere.

My heart ached every time I heard a Disney tune, each time I watched the sun paint the dusk sky pink and purple, whenever I heard laughter of children.

Knowing I could never hold him again when he cried. Or when he succeeded.

He was such a big part of my life.

Until he was stripped away.

[Back to Top]

One

Eight childless years. Ninety six cycles of wondering if this would be our lucky month. Four hundred and sixteen weekends of wishing we had a miniature person to show all the wonders of the world. Two thousand, eight hundred and forty-eight nights of setting only two places at the dinner table. Countless nights praying we'd be blessed with a child.

Sleepless nights wondering what we'd done so wrong that would prevent us from attaining our dream of becoming loving parents.

The more we tried to focus on the time we had alone together, the more stressed we became. The emptiness and yearning magnified with each celebration of the freedom we treasured. Over the years, spontaneity gave way to haunting depression and the overwhelming sensation of being incomplete.

The phone call finally came Labor Day weekend. We had planned a big camping trip, but at the last moment, in the midst of an angst-driven argument, we opted to stay home and avoid each other. Our wistful yearning had left us miserable, wrapped up in unspent dreams and desires. Greg felt as though his manhood never existed. I had continually questioned my womanhood. Why tolerate PMS and all the associated distress and inconvenience if I could never conceive?

The phone call changed everything. We hadn't expected it. We had given up all hope. We had acknowledged our irreversible plight and abandoned our aspiration. We had all but swum away from each other in our pool of discouragement.

May I speak to Mrs. Stone, a stranger inquired when I answered the phone.

This is Mrs. Stone, I replied, not recognizing the male voice on the other end.

Mrs. Stone, this is Paul Lubber with Child Protective Services. Are you available for an emergency placement this evening?

I stopped breathing. I almost choked.

Hello? Hello? Mrs. Stone?

I'm sorry, I blurted. You caught me off guard. It has been so long since we were approved, I had forgotten we even applied to become adoptive parents.

Are you and your husband still interested in taking in an older child?

How old, I wondered? And what would Greg think? We hadn't spoken to each other at all that day. Had we spoken to each other at all the entire weekend?

I think so. Do I have time to talk this over with him?

Absolutely, Mr. Lubber answered. Let me give you some information so you may discuss the details of this particular child.

My heart soared as he filled me in with the limited background available on Eugene. In my heart, I knew this child was mine, even though Greg and Mr. Lubber didn't know it yet.

* * *

Greg was so absorbed in his computer schematics, he didn't notice when I entered the room. His desk faced the trickling Little Thompson River flowing much more like a tiny creek than a river on the other side of the picture window. His back was to me as he typed. His study doubled as his bed away from bed when we weren't speaking, which seemed to be most of the time the last couple of months. The spare bed was a mess, as if it hadn't been made in several days. I'd not dared enter his lair when both of us were experiencing extreme territorialism. Even now, bearing the news I sought to deliver, I hesitated to enter this private sanctuary that seemed a separate entity from the rest of our home.

We were becoming two strangers who happened to share the same abode.

I tiptoed to his bed and quietly sat in the middle of it, pulling the brown and bamboo comforter around me as I drew my legs up beneath me. The light from the window spilled onto Greg and onto the floor near him. His wavy blonde hair needed combing, but it was clean enough to glisten in the sunlight. Even the peach fuzz on his unshaven face picked up stray light and glowed. To me, he was the main attraction in an earthen museum. The spotlight was focused on the most important fixture in the room.

He sensed my presence but did not look up from his work. The architectural designs he was reviewing were to be presented Tuesday in Fort Collins. He would have to leave early in the morning to navigate The Narrows of Big Thompson Canyon and rush hour traffic in Loveland and Fort Collins. He probably would leave without even saying goodbye. Unless something happened now to ignite the fondness for each other we sometimes still shared.

Inside, my heart was doing somersaults and loop de loops, but the tension in the room tempered my anxiety to share the good news.

How much more do you have to do? I asked, quietly and respectfully.

I think I'm done, came the monotone reply. I'm just bored. I have nothing else to do.

I could feel the resentment he harbored for the weekend lost. It would be Thanksgiving before he had extra time off again. This three-day break from his routine commute to the big city was almost lost forever. The sun was beginning to hide behind the cliff facing our mountain retreat. Not many hours of daylight remained.

Would you like to hike down the stream with me? I cautiously offered. They might still have a few cinnamon rolls left at the country store. I've been craving one all weekend.

Greg seemed startled. He looked over at me with such surprise, I couldn't help but smile.

Deep inside, he still was the young man I'd fallen in love with a decade earlier.

You'd have to shave, of course, I said with a hint of a smile and a twinkle in my eye. I winked at him as I rolled over on his bed and curled up in the warm pile of blankets.

He seemed to be in a trance as he gazed upon me in his bed. He translated my invitation into a peace offering, and a twin spirit of forgiveness settled in the room.

He stood and took the short two steps to the bed before reaching down to caress my cheek.

What were we fighting about anyway? he whispered as he lifted the comforter and crawled into the rumpled bed next to me.

Probably something silly, I replied, trying to make room for him in the tiny twin bed as it bowed in the middle from our combined weight. I think you wanted pizza and I wanted spaghetti. Something so meaningless, I've forgotten.

We should have skipped dinner and gone straight for dessert, he concluded, pasting his mouth over mine and bringing a temporary but pleasing end to our brief conversation.

* * *

Greg held my hand as we walked along the stream to the main highway.

Is that okay? he asked, rubbing the palm of my hand with his thumb.

Just try and get away, I teased as I gave a gentle squeeze in anticipation of him slipping away.

Why would I want to do that?

Well, I thought you might turn and run when you find out you're going to be a father.

Greg immediately stopped walking. His grip on my hand didn't change. His eyes lit up, and his mouth was frozen in a gesture of unbelief.

When did you find this out? he queried.

I'm not pregnant, I confessed, not toppling him with the revelation.

Why does that not surprise me? Greg chuckled.

I laughed with him, then pulled on his hand to resume our walk. We would have to stay on track if we were going to be home in time for the blessed event to be set in motion. I had only until four o'clock to return Mr. Lubber's call.

There's a little boy in Estes Park who needs a place to stay, I began. Tonight.

Just tonight? Greg asked, stopping again.

They don't know. He was abandoned in a motel room. If we don't take him, they'll have to take him down to the valley. They don't have any homes available here but ours.

The Valley was how mountain folk referred to the metro and outlying cities at the foot of the Front Range. I never really understood how they turned high plains against foothills into valley, but I'd become ensnared in the misnomer just through associating with neighbors and friends.

He's not free for adoption yet? Greg asked.

No. He may never be. It's too soon to tell.

Greg began walking again, still holding my hand. I felt as though I was his partner in this decision, even though officially it was up to him. I'd already made my decision.

We've talked about this, he finally said. We were just a few steps from the aroma of handmade cinnamon rolls and out of mountain shadows into daylight.

I know, I admitted softly.

You know we'll both get attached, and then we'll lose him.

I know.

Greg stopped once again. He took my other hand and looked me straight in the eye as he spoke.

What we've been through may never, ever in a million years be as bad as having a child we love yanked from us. Are you sure?

I swallowed hard and tears welled in my eyes.

Yes.

Greg studied my face, then he dropped my hands and put his arms around me. He continued to hold my waist as we walked along the road toward the store. The spices in the air filled our senses and our imagination.

We'd known from the beginning one of us could be diagnosed with cancer. One of us could die of a heart attack. One or both of us could be killed in an auto accident. There might come a time when we couldn't be together anymore on this earth.

Yet we married anyway.

We didn't want to forfeit the time we could spend together evading the time we might spend apart. We believed wholeheartedly in our ability to create and maintain an eternal unit.

I felt equally as connected and committed to a child who might not get to be ours forever.

This was our first opportunity at parenthood. To me, it felt as though it would be our last. All the years of testing and waiting, waiting and testing. Eugene might be the only chance we ever received to share our lives with a child.

No matter how long the experience would last, it would fulfill our most heartfelt goal. If we turned him down, I feared another offer might not ever be made.

To open our home now would heal the emptiness between us. It would provide the outlet for us to express the love pent up inside. Not just for each other, but for another human being in need. A helpless human being in need.

What's his name? Greg asked as he paid for the monster cinnamon rolls, fresh and warm spiced billows of homemade bread with gobs of thick and gooey cream cheese frosting spilling over the edges.

Eugene.

Greg was silent for a moment. We nestled on the weathered wooden picnic bench in front of the now-shaded patio of the Glen Haven Country Store. Hummingbirds zipped from one feeder to the next above our heads, and the gentle trickle of the Little Thompson harmonized with the melodic chirping of songbirds awaiting crumbs. Neither of us lifted our forks.

If he does become adoptable, we could always change his name, I offered with a sheepish smile.

Greg met my attempt at humor with jovial chuckles.

That would be the first item on my agenda, he quipped.

I filled Greg in with the meager details Mr. Lubber had provided. By the time we began heading back up the canyon toward our cabin, Greg was verbally rearranging his office to make room for our miniature newcomer.

Do we still have those Mickey Mouse sheets? he asked, configuring ways to transform his thirty-something yuppie hideaway into an amusement park bedroom. The sheets had been a gift from my little brother when we found out I was pregnant years earlier. We prematurely decorated the bedroom in preparation for our bundle of joy. Five months into the pregnancy, I contracted strep throat. My fever soared to one hundred and four degrees, and I lost the baby. The doctor had tenderly explained a fever that high would have caused brain damage. I'd cooked my baby. Literally. The miscarriage was for the best, our doctor concluded.

When I failed to conceive again, I vented my grief by replacing all the Disneyland comforts in the spare bedroom with bland and meaningless décor. It wasn't long before Greg moved his computer from the den into the spare bedroom. It was a way of filling the void. The longer the room sat vacant, the more we ached. And yet, the unspoken decision to make logical use of the empty space had seemed to divide us even more. It was visual evidence of having given up hope.

Those Mickey Mouse sheets now seemed like a different lifetime. A different world. One I'd like very much to return to.

I think so. I'll check in the linen closet, I began. But I have to call Mr. Lubber first. If I don't call him…

Race ya! Greg winked at me as he pushed the remainder of his cinnamon roll back into the bag and took off running up the trail, glancing back occasionally to see if I was on his heels.

I'd always loved to run, but I was no match for my former track star husband. He had the phone number I'd scribbled on a notepad next to the refrigerator dialed by the time I came through the front door.

Two rings later, the deal was done. Eugene would be arriving in about one hour. We scrambled to prepare his bedroom.

Greg practically tossed his computer and equipment into our bedroom and pulled the door closed. He had no intention of spending even one more minute of this long weekend on work-related endeavors. Each time I passed him in the hallway, there was a glimmer in his eye I hadn't seen since I'd been pregnant.

Greg was as elated as I. The nervousness and fear of potential loss had given way to the overwhelming anxiety of becoming parents. Instant parents. Add two drops water, skip the diaper/pacifier stage, and straight on to kindergarten.

I wonder if this is what a new dad feels like while he's waiting for word in the hospital, Greg muttered as he adjusted a stack of magazines on the coffee table one more time.

Decidedly not! I responded as I dusted the bookshelf for the third time. You'd be right in the delivery room with me, coaching me in my breathing.

And you'd be spouting comedian humor about morphine! he said with a grin.

I may yet spout that in the middle of the night. Just wait until Gene cries for a drink of water for the tenth or eleventh time in one night.

Greg cocked his head and smiled at me.

Gene, he tested the single-syllable moniker like a chocolate from an unlabeled box. I think I like that.

Yeah, well, we'll see how much you still like it when we have to change sheets in the morning because of all the water the kid drinks tonight.

Greg laughed and rolled his eyes.

I think I like how you're solving all our parenting dilemmas before they wreak havoc, he smirked.

Finally, the doorbell rang. It seemed to have taken an eternity. I was quite sure I had developed a handful of gray hairs while we waited. The last hour most assuredly felt like nine months.

Eugene was hiding behind Mr. Lubber's legs when we opened the front door. We couldn't get a good look at him because he shadowed the social worker's every move. When spoken to, he made growling noises. He seemed to have more energy than an entire kindergarten class.

I made repeated efforts to coax Eugene out into the open with the few toys we'd found in storage. We would definitely need to go shopping. We had a 500 piece puzzle, a die cast Jeep and one of my old cameras. Hardly the makings of the perfect playroom.

When I caught my first glimpse of Eugene, I mistakenly assumed he must be of Hispanic or Latino descent. His skin was brown, but he had blue eyes. Bright and darting blue eyes that refused to make contact with any adult, even Mr. Lubber.

His muddy, dull hair was matted, his clothes tattered. He was in dire need of a bath. When he showed no interest in any of the material temptations I presented, I boldly reached over and picked him up.

I think what you need is a very warm bubble bath, I cooed. What do you think?

What's a bubble bath? he replied, trying to growl like a bear as he spoke. He seemed to be putting on a show of toughness, presumably to keep us at a distance. We were strangers in his world. And I had just invaded his space.

He squirmed and wiggled trying to break free. I got my first taste of rejection, and I wasn't quite sure how to respond.

It's a bath with big, white bubbles you can put all over your face and pretend you have a beard. And a Mohawk, if you want. I drew a beard on his chin with my fingers as I carried him into the bathroom. Mr. Lubber and Greg remained in the living room as I set sail on my voyage into parenthood.

I placed Eugene on the bathroom floor and turned on the bath water. I pulled a bottle of perfumed bubble bath from the cabinet, then winced. Yes, we definitely would be going shopping.

Here, would you like to pour in the bubble magic?

Magic? Eugene gasped. I had captured his attention!

You pour a little bit of this into the tub where the water is coming out, and it will make big bubbles. Have you ever done that before?

He grabbed the bottle away from me, immediately twisted off the top and began pouring the whole bottle, upside down, into the tub.

What's that smell? he growled as he turned to look at me for the first time.

Yeah, this might be a little feminine for you, Bud, but it's a big improvement over body odor and urine, were the words coursing through my head, but from my mouth came the more tolerant and acceptable, That's roses. When we go to the store tonight, we'll get a different kind that boys like. Maybe bubblegum?

You put bubblegum in your tub? he asked, visibly shocked.

No, of course not, silly, I replied. The bubble magic comes in different smells. I think they have one that smells like bubblegum. But we can get peppermint or jellybeans or daffodils. You'll have to smell different kinds and see what you like best.

I took the nearly empty bottle from him and pointed to the tub.

See the pretty bubbles? Look how the light makes rainbows on them.

Eugene was mesmerized. He punched his fingers, then his fist, then both hands into the mountain of bubbles. Then he drew out a handful and mashed them onto his chin.

I'm old! he squealed. He hunched over and bobbled, pretending to use a cane, as if he were an old man. He was quite comical to behold.

Let's get you ready for your bath, I announced as I tried to lift his shirt over his head. He promptly slapped my hands and pulled away.

No! You can't be in here when I'm nekked!

I tried to mask my surprise as I stood to leave him alone in the bathroom, wondering if that was such a good idea. I was still reverberating from the feel of the fabric on his body. I hadn't initially noticed when he was struggling to break free. His clothes were crusty. What was I going to dress him in when he got out of the tub?

Okay, you do this on your own, I said. I'll be right outside if you need me.

I handed him a towel. He looked at it, then buried his face in it, complete with suds.

Do you know what that's for? I asked.

Is it my blanky?

No, it's a towel. You dry yourself off after you get out of the tub.

Then it's my blanky?

I couldn't help but giggle at that one.

No, we have soft, warm and dry blankies in your new bedroom. But you have to finish your bath first, okay?

He followed me to the bathroom door, then reached up and began fumbling with the doorknob.

How do you lock this thing? he curiously inquired.

You don't, I answered. This one doesn't lock. But you'll be safe. There's no one here but me and Greg and Mr. Lubber. We won't come in unless you ask us to.

Do you promise?

Yes, I do.

With that, he shut the door. I could hear him playing with the doorknob again. After a couple of minutes, I could hear water splashing. I retreated to inform Greg we needed clean clothes. NOW.

Mr. Lubber apologized for the lack of personal belongings. He told us Eugene had been in the hotel room alone for at least two days, with no food and no civilized behavior. He hadn't bathed, and he hadn't made use of the toilet to relieve himself. Instead, he'd soiled himself and the room.

The police believed Eugene was about five years old, and Eugene couldn't tell them where he lived or went to school. The family had left nothing behind but the boy. This child literally had nothing but the clothes on his back.

What did he do in a hotel room for two days? I gaped. How could no one know he was in there alone?

Labor Day weekend was always phenomenally busy in tourist-flavored Estes Park, where the little boy had been found. I could not fathom how any of the hotels in the nearby town could have gone two days without room cleaning, much less an empty room. But then again, I hadn't stayed in any of the rooms in Estes Park, and from the looks of this child, the accommodations would have had to be inexpensive. Perhaps some of the smaller places didn't have full staff going into the off season. Or maybe the housekeeping staff assumed the family was in the room with the boy.

We just don't have a lot of information about this little guy yet, Mr. Lubber said. "I think he watched a lot of television before he finally wandered out to see if his family was coming back.

The family checked into the motel with fake names. They paid with cash. We don't have a lot to go on yet. But the investigation is continuing. Likely, the parents will be charged with abandonment, so he'll be here at least three months.

That was the reality check neither Greg nor I wanted to hear. We exchanged our farewell greetings with cheerful smiles and tried not to think about the potentially temporary nature of the placement.

Within seconds, Greg was headed back down the canyon to a neighbor's house to borrow some boy-sized jeans. He opted to let Eugene wear one of his own T shirts, even though it would be too big, because he thought that would help Eugene feel as if he was part of the family. Sort of a male bonding thing.

An hour later, Eugene still hadn't exited the restroom. I was beginning to mentally account for each of the knickknacks and toiletries. Were there things he could hurt himself with? Had we left razors in there, out in the open?

I knocked on the door and asked Eugene if he had drowned.

Splash, splash, splash, went the answer.

Have you turned into a merman? I chuckled.

What's a merman? came the reply.

A fish with a little boy head!

No! I'm just a fish. I'm a killer whale! You better not come in here, or I'll eat you alive!

I think you'd spit me out because I don't taste very good. Wouldn't you rather have pizza?

Pizza Hut, making it great! he sang out. I could hear the splashing of a tiny body being hoisted from the tub, along with half the water.

That's the song from the commercial. You're pretty good at that. Do you know any more songs?

No.

He opened the door, and I couldn't help but laugh. He'd taken his bath fully clothed. His brown clothes were pasted to his body and dripping all over the floor. I could see the bath water, considerably darker than it had started out.

Wow! Did you take a chocolate bath? I asked as I wrapped the towel around him.

For the first time, I noticed his skin was a little lighter. I scrubbed his head with my fingers as I tried to dry him off a bit, and I noticed the grungy texture of his hair. It was still filthy, even though he'd bathed. I rubbed on his cheeks, and the white towel looked as if I'd stuck it in camel-colored paint.

Is that chocolate bubbles? Eugene asked in response to my humor. Only I think he wasn't joking.

No, I think that's dirt. Can we fill the tub again and stick you in there one more time to make you smell nice and squeaky clean? Like a killer whale?

Eugene peeled out of my towel hold and jumped back into the tub, cherry bomb-style. I was quite sure he must have bruised his bottom on landing, but he acted as though he hadn't felt a thing. Dirty water now dowsed the entire bathroom. And me.

Let's put some fresh water in there and see if you can turn it chocolate again, okay?

Okay!

I drained the tub and began pouring a fresh bath. There wasn't much soap left in the bubble bath bottle, but it would have to do.

If I turn around and don't look, will you take off those dirty clothes so we can put some clean ones on you when you get out? You have to look nice to go to Pizza Hut.

Turn around! he demanded.

I complied. I used the soiled towel to wipe up some of the water off the floor as he dropped his soaked clothing over the edge of the tub, creating a whole new muddy pond for me to clean up.

Okay, you can turn around now, he announced upon completion. The act of undressing was not allowed to be witnessed, but in-the-buff apparently was fair game.

Killer whale didn't really fit his personality. He seemed a lot more like an ostrich.

It took all the rest of the towels in the cabinet to dry up the bathroom floor. I took the pile to the laundry room and returned with the jeans, T shirt and socks Greg had scrounged.

The once-red sneakers Eugene had been wearing probably would have sufficed long enough for a trip to the department store down the canyon, but he'd worn them into the tub. They were now soaked. I tossed them into the washer along with the towels. I tossed his old clothes into the wastebasket. Upon seeing the condition of his underwear, I decided these clothes weren't worth washing. I succumbed to the burning desire to wash my hands after touching his clothing.

Eugene looked so tiny but adorable in the oversized Fleetwood Mac T-shirt, one of Greg's favorites from high school. I now could tell the boy's skin was white, and his hair was sun-streaked blonde. Chunks of hair were missing from his head. A five-year old with bald spots. He almost looked as if he'd been through chemotherapy.

I also noticed a few scars around his ears, as if someone had missed while cutting his hair. Either that, or he had squirmed. His tiny body was alarmingly slender unclothed. His ribs showed through his skin, and his knees and elbows were so bony, his skin looked like flesh-colored Saran Wrap over a skeleton.

His arms had scars that appeared to be cigarette burns. I didn't ask. It was more important right now to make him feel welcome and loved than drudge up the past.

The more I looked at him, the more I was convinced this little boy wasn't going back to any family that would leave him in such condition, much less put him in such condition in the first place.

This little boy was going to be mine.

[Back to Top]

Two

Eugene fell asleep in the backseat of the car as we made our way down Big Thompson Canyon to Loveland. We later would learn car vibration often proves therapeutic for sleep-deprived kids. Sleep is a high altitude parent's godsend. It prevents vocal outbursts relating to carsickness on curves and earaches all the way down the eighteen hundred-foot drop in elevation.

We woke Gene at the bottom of the canyon to show him the bighorn sheep above the river in the Narrows. He immediately expressed a hunger for rock climbing. He wanted to be a mountain goat. If it hadn't been for the guard rail, the river and the sheer two hundred-foot cliff separating us from the sheep, I'm not sure Gene would have still been with us twenty minutes later.

In the department store, we thought he'd pick out a toy or two, and we planned to buy a lunchbox and some school supplies. Plus a complete wardrobe. We went to the toy section first.

We were awed by his reaction to the aisles of merchandise, which must have looked like canyon walls to him. Just more colorful.

He was so spellbound by the height of the shelves and all the magnificent colors, he couldn't focus on any of the toys we tried to point out to him. If we took our eyes off him for a split second, he was scaling the shelves, pulling down stuffed animals and books as he climbed.

We managed to talk him into a giant stuffed Littlefoot, a brachiosaurus, or long neck in little kid vocabulary, who would be his friend at night when the lights went out. We also chose some building blocks, thinking that might quench a small measure of his thirst for elevation.

The more things we exposed him to, the less surprising it became for me to watch him marvel at common everyday stuff we'd had all our lives. But every day was an adventure nevertheless. There was always something new he'd never seen before.

On his first day of kindergarten, he learned how to write the letter E. I stayed at school with him to make sure he didn't feel abandoned. It took the entire day to teach him how to hold a crayon. He wanted to eat them at first. He didn't know what they were for, but he liked the pretty colors. The taste didn't seem to bother him. After his seventh or eighth sample, I wondered if he could taste.

The second day of kindergarten consisted of teaching Gene the letter G, how to hold scissors and what to do with them. The third day, and, well, every day after that, was a lesson in staying in our seats and not jumping up every two or three minutes. Or seconds. We also had to modify language in the classroom. He came up with some pretty disturbing words on occasion.

During a field trip to the Denver Zoo, he unexpectedly shouted, Penis! while a staff volunteer explained polar bear habitat to the children. Gene was suspended from class for two days and forbidden to participate in the next field trip. He didn't seem to comprehend what he had done wrong. He repeated the incident the day he returned to class. All his classmates giggled as he got sent to the principal's office yet again.

After a few more incidents, I realized the laughter was exactly what Gene was seeking. He'd discovered a certain set of magic words that could incite the class into bursts of laughter. He fed on it. He loved being the class clown.

Gene had problems in the boys' bathroom. He had to be accompanied, which was a problem because his teacher was female. Often she would have to escort him into the girls' bathroom after all the other children had taken their breaks.

He enjoyed peeing designs on the bathroom walls in front of the other boys. Again, the laughter would keep him going, even when he knew the behavior would get him in trouble. Sometimes he would miss the wall and accidentally hit one of the other boys, causing nothing short of a riot.

The water fountain was a problem. Gene quickly found that one particular spigot would spray into the air if he held the spring-action knob taut long enough. He could squirt his classmates, or just make a mess on the floor and then dance in the water, trying to make splashes to cause a commotion among the other kids.

The playground was a problem. Gene liked to push other kids on the swings, but he would push too hard, causing them to fall out of the swings. He liked to push kids on the slide, but he would push too hard and hurl them off. He liked to push the merry go round, but he would push too hard and too fast and make almost every kid who dared a trip on the Gene-Go-Round sick enough to warrant a trip home. Gene would not let his classmates off when they got scared or sick.

On the days I couldn't spend the whole recess with him, the school arranged for a few teenagers from the neighboring high school to alternately serve as big brother to Gene on the playground, mostly to make sure he didn't hurt the other children but also to surround him with positive role models. Even these honor students could lose patience with Gene's mischievous shenanigans. He stained their slacks with ink, he tried to tie their shoelaces in knots, and he tried to stick chewed bubblegum in their hair. They developed a search game they had to conduct every single day to make sure he didn't have any ketchup or mustard packets after lunch to prevent such condiments from being used against them in makeshift paint-gun warfare.

Pencils were a problem. They could be used for stabbing, drawing on walls or crushing on the floor. Gene's fifth suspension from kindergarten was the result of breaking every pencil in his classroom while the other children took their bathroom breaks.

One day he came home with holes in his backpack. Scores of holes. He'd stabbed it with a pencil over and over and over. That night, he did the same thing to his mattress.

A few days later, I had to take him to the pediatrician to have an eraser removed from his ear. He'd inserted the pencil, broken off the eraser in his ear, then twisted the eraser in further until no one could pull it out.

Tall things were a problem. Gene would search and conquer every peak he could find – swing sets, two story buildings, trees, fences – anything tall became a mountain. He would climb it, then jump off. Then race back to try to climb up again before a teacher or supervisor could catch him so he could repeat the feat.

I thought I could help him channel his hunger with rock climbing, so I took him to Rocky Mountain National Park on weekends to let him climb the Alluvial Fan. In the fall, nearby Horseshoe Park becomes an attraction all its own as the elk herd into the meadows for an annual mating ritual. Gene would try to imitate the bugling, to the delight of all the crowds gathered to behold nature's spectacle. When we weren't watching elk, Gene was scrambling up fifth-class gullies as if the rocks were glued in place. The kid had no fear.

One of the most difficult things to endure the first two years was potty training. I couldn't believe a five-year-old didn't know how to go to the bathroom on his own, but Gene didn't. Apparently, the grownups in his life before us thought all you had to do was slap some underwear on a toddler, and the rest would come naturally.

It doesn't.

I had to deal with soiled sheets, urine odor in the car and a change of clothes in his backpack every day. Official potty training commenced despite his consistent refusal to allow anyone in the bathroom with him while he undressed.

Within the first six weeks, it became clear to me I would not be able to hold down a job and be a mother to Gene, too. Greg wanted me to stay home; and, I must confess, I liked the idea. Most domestic engineers are busy teaching their precious little offspring to complete all the educational and hand/eye coordination activities in a quiet book, like tying shoes, pushing buttons through buttonholes, zipping zippers, slipping felt triangles and squares into matching triangle and square pockets and matching red circles to red buttons and orange stars to orange snaps. Most new moms are cooing to bright eyed babies and filling bottles or washing diapers.

My maternity leave was filled with trying to teach a five-year-old child how to be five years old. My first few days back at work at the bank were strained by continual calls from the school. Within just a week, I dreaded answering the phone. It was never good news. And it usually resulted in yet another suspension.

Part-time work didn't work. I couldn't be relied upon to be at my desk at any given time. My boss was patient ─ far too patient. He didn't want me to leave, but he couldn't deny that my presence was hurting my co-workers more than it was helping them. So I resigned. I left the career I had trained all my life for to devote all my time to what seemed like a wild animal just freed from a cage.

I loved Gene from the moment I set