Thank Goodness For Elastic

A year ago we were busy getting ready for our trip to Ukraine. What we thought to be the culmination of everything that we had been working toward.

(Silly us, it was just the beginning!)

I packed toothbrushes and toothpaste donated by dentists. I packed toys donated by McDonald's. I packed socks and underwear donated by many friends. (The little boys were jazzed about the "pockets" in their underwear. Bah ha).

And I shopped. For an eight year old boy that I had never met. But he was eight. And I had a nine year old that was wearing size 10 and so I figured I was set. I bought size 8 clothes; shirts and shorts. Matching outfits for Wyatt and Daniel. I guessed what size shoe he might wear and I bought size 13.

And then we flew to Ukraine. And met with the SDA (or DAP) and saw this picture, taken when he was 5:

That face. I can't even.

We took the overnight train to Slavyansk, a sleepy, friendly town, which is now a hot mess thanks to the conflict in Ukraine. We got off the train. Went to our hotel. Showered. Drove around to all the necessary places to get all the necessary papers and then went to the orphanage.

As I was walking up the sidewalk I saw a group of children on one of the playgrounds. Not playing, mind you, but sitting. And I saw a quarter profile of Daniel. And I knew that it was him. I didn't say anything, but my heart sang. Because I knew.

A short time later we were seated in the director's office and Daniel was ushered in.

Eight year old Daniel. He looked to me like a five year old, except for all those permanent teeth. All I could think was how very tiny he was. Short and round and puffy.

So here we have a kid. Eight years old. And we have all these size 8 clothes. And he can fit them because he is roly poly.

His little feet are bent from wearing shoes that were chronically too small and (as I have since found out) had been caned as a punishment for "naughtiness." Those size 13's go to his little brother and I pick him up some 11's.

He comes home and gets off the psychotropic medications. And drops 13 pounds by the time summer is over.

Winter worked. I had sweat pants with drawstrings. 

Now summer is here and the shorts come out. And they fall down. So I safety pin them. And there is Daniel, constantly pulling up his pants. No complaints. Just a constant tugging.

I had to go to the toddler section and buy size 5T with the adjustable, elastic waistbands. The toddler section for my, now, 9 year old son.

He is as happy as a lark.

"Mommy! My shorts aren't falling down!"

We still have those size 8 shorts. And I am convinced that someday he will fit into them.

And that is how expectations go.

Expectations, that you can't hold loosely, are the killer of relationships. And of happiness.

I got an email yesterday that Daniel said the "F" word at school. Yep. That's right. Fart. No lie. I got an email that my nine year old boy said "fart."

To be in this game we have to hold things loosely and roll with the punches.

And cry copiously.

And laugh outrageously. 

And roll eyes. A lot.