The Sweetness of a Child
By Andi Rivarola
We start every morning at 6 a.m. I get up first and go to the bathroom. I check out the morning sky by looking out the window. I enter the kitchen half-asleep to get my tea. I go to the computer room and turn on the computer and let the system check my e-mail. I go back into the kitchen. I get the soy milk out of the refrigerator, pour a cup into a glass and warm it up for a minute in the microwave before pouring it into a sippy cup so that I can take it with me when I wake up Matthew. He's a good sleeper. So I turn on the light and open the blinds as soon as I enter the room to give him a chance to wake up to the light. It's already morning. I call his name.
"Good morning, Matthew. Good morning, bebe. Buen dia, Matthew."
He sees me and yawns a couple of times. He stretches like a kitten, first one hand high up in the air, then the other. He smiles.
He says, "Papi." It is one of just a few words he is able to speak clearly. Sometimes he calls me Daddy, but we have reserved this parental title for his other father, my partner, Ruben.
Matthew is still in bed. He stretches his arms towards me as if the rest of his body is frozen, unable to move. His little fingers are twinkling, energizing, waving, pointing my way. I kiss him several times while I pick him up, then hold him tight. He rests his head on my shoulder, as someone who wants to be cared about, nurtured, protected - as he knows he is and always will be. His body is warm, as it should be, for a babe who has just woken up. He's totally surrendered his body weight to my arms. He gives control.
Today is a special day. I wonder if he knows. The county social worker is going to court to petition to quit the family reunification process, a step that precedes termination of his biological parents' rights. I wonder if he knows that we are "only" his foster parents, that guarantees to our relationship lie with the discretion of a judge.
I stopped being nervous about it awhile back, but a small part in me is still scared. "What if they take him away?" I wonder. Ruben and I had to consciously come to the acceptance of this possibility before we brought Matthew home the first day. We had to know in our hearts that it would be OK to let him go if the adoption were not granted and that his time with us would be precious, no matter how long it lasted - a day, a week, a month, our entire lives. I let go of the thought and focus on the moment, on the cherub in my presence.
I pick him up and take him to the TV room. We watch "Sangwa," a cartoon about a the life of a kitten, because he so much loves to watch it every morning. I go to the bedroom to change and he follows behind, as he does when he's bored with his toys and wants my company. He comes crashing into my legs and holds them in his own version of a son-father embrace. I love his little tender hugs, accompanied by his giggles, smiles and deeply felt happiness. I pick him up and hold him in my arms while I sit down on the changing bench by the closet.
"I love my baby," I say and give him a kiss on the forehead. He just smiles and cuddles in my arms. I give him another kiss on the nose, and he closes his eyes. He relaxes and lets go of everything. I kiss his cheeks, his eyes, his lips. He says nothing but shows a peaceful half-smile. He's radiant while absorbing my affection. This, our little child, our son, is receiving love. And I -- I feel God's presence in my arms.