4

JIMMY

“You wet the bed? Don’t worry, Jimmy. I also used to wet the bed.” He stared at me. I smiled and winked. “I was ten before I stopped and you have a cousin Spencer who wet the bed until he was eleven, maybe twelve.” Jimmy stared at me. “My cousin wet the bed?” I smiled, “Of course he did! It’s a sign of intelligence! We have more important things to think about than using the bathroom.” Jimmy smiled.

“Now climb up there and toss me down those sheets.” He stripped the bed and handed me the pile of strong smelling sheets and blankets. He had been hiding it for a few days. I swallowed hard not to choke on the smell of ammonia. “Nothing to be embarrassed about, Jimmy. We bedwetters stick together.”

Jimmy was having a hard time transitioning. Of course he was. He’d been in one foster home for almost six years, probably the only home he could really remember. Just days before we had helped Jimmy and his sister unpack their black garbage bags full of clothes and meager playthings, and put them into their new dressers and toy boxes. We still had eight months to go before we could legally adopt them but Dan told them, “You aren’t foster kids anymore, we’re your parents now. As far as we’re concerned you are our kids, we are your parents and this is your home.” We wanted them to feel permanent and welcomed. To feel loved.

Jimmy was a quiet boy, afraid to be alone. He refused to use the bathroom unless Dan or I stood outside the bathroom door and talked to him; he didn’t feel safe unless he knew we were close by. He was eight when we met him, though he’d been told he was nine. “I’m eight? I’m eight?” He couldn’t believe it.

We set up a routine for our kids, one that was predictable and consistent. At the end of every night, we’d get the kids into their pajamas and then I would tuck them into bed. I taught Jimmy the Eskimo kiss, where we rub noses, and the butterfly kiss, where we take turns blinking and brushing our eyelids on each other’s cheeks. He would put his head next to mine on the pillow when we read together after school, Ruby’s head on my other shoulder. We swam together, sang together, and rode the swings at the playground.

But despite these little moments of joy, things weren’t easy. Mornings were especially hard. Jimmy and Ruby had trouble getting up and ready for school, not used to the routine. I tried to make a game out of it. I put a chart on the fridge, one star for every day we were on time, ten stars and we’d go to the toy store. Our nemesis, “Evil Mr. Time Man,” was a sinister force bent on making us cranky, late, and above all, divided. Sticking together and helping each other was our only hope. I would hold my analog watch up to their little ears, “Hear that? That faint click . . . click . . . click? That’s him laughing his evil laugh.” The kids totally went with it, pitting us against him instead of them against me. Evil Mr. Time Man was mean and relentless, but we as a family would rally, fall back, and scramble to regroup behind a hot breakfast, the kind worth fighting for, “if only we have enough time!”

Jimmy struggled with school: he was bright but had trouble learning. He was good at math and enjoyed it until he got a problem wrong. When that happened, he would slump over the desk and slide slowly to the floor, defeated. He would lie there crying, motionless and unresponsive. We would encourage, cajole, tease, and bribe. “I can’t do it,” he’d whine, lying on the floor. We’d take a break and I’d make him read to me from a joke book. “How do you make time fly?” I’d look puzzled, “Um . . . I give up.” Jimmy would smile. “Throw the clock out the window!” But Jimmy was stressed about failing. I’d tell him, “It’s okay, Jimmy, you can’t know what you don’t know.”

Jimmy’s anxieties about school seemed to unleash other issues. He opened up about the bedwetting over dinner one night. “They would punish me if I wet the bed at the foster home.” Ruby interrupted him, “They’d put him in the bathtub and pour cold water on him and then take his covers.” Jimmy looked at his sister, “Then she’d hit me on my hands with a metal spoon.” Ruby added, “Ten times on each hand.” I looked down at my plate. “Would you all excuse me for a minute? I forgot something. I’ll be right back.”

I ran down the five flights of stairs and out onto the street. My sobs turned to steam in the freezing January cold. “Dammit,” I said, “Dammit.” I felt sick inside. I was not giving Jimmy a line when I told him I was a bedwetter. I knew what he was going through; so I knew that you don’t need to punish a child for wetting the bed; it is punishment enough. When I wet the bed, I would help my mom strip the sheets and we would move on with the day. My siblings were not allowed to tease me and it was not spoken of outside of the house. It was not my favorite part of growing up, but I was never made to feel it was my fault.

Crying in front of a child about something bad that happened to them was warned against in the adoption books. The child would perceive the parent as weak and unable to protect them. In addition, the books suggested the parent show controlled anger towards the child’s perpetrator following a disclosure of an abuse. So, I breathed in the cold air, got my game face on, and went back upstairs. “Thanks, guys, sorry about that,” I said, taking my seat at the table. They were still talking about the foster home. I said, “I’ll tell you one thing, Mr. Jimmy. Nobody’s ever going to hit you again, not on my watch.” Jimmy and Ruby stared at me. “That woman made a bad choice. That’s not how you help someone who wets the bed.” Dan smiled at me. We had dessert.

Especially after that episode, I wanted the children to know this was a safe place to show their emotions and cry if they needed to. I chose Where the Red Fern Grows for our after-school read-aloud book; I remembered reading it aloud on a family road trip and everyone, even my parents, were bawling. The kids and I had been reading for a week before we got to the sad part. Jimmy and Ruby lay on either side of me, the three of us snuggling on the daybed, light streaming in the windows. Sure enough, I started crying, tears running down my cheeks as I struggled to keep reading. I stopped and smiled at the kids. They stared at me, not moving, stiff and still. “It’s okay, guys, I’m just sad. It’s okay to cry when you’re sad.” They nodded, still staring. I smiled and said, “It’s a part of living. Is it strange to see me cry?” Ruby smiled, “Yeah, it’s kind of weird.” I stroked her hair, “It’s alright, nothing’s wrong. It’s what we do when we’re sad. It helps get it out.” I winked. “You guys okay?” They seemed fine with it.

“If I have to keep reading through this sad part, we’re going to be here all day. Jimmy? Would you mind?” Jimmy took the book and finished reading. Ruby said, “It’s alright, Mom.” She stroked my hair. I winked at her, “Thanks, Sweetie.” When it was over I dried my eyes, “Just a part of living.” It was a family moment.

They talked about it, over and over. “Remember when you cried, Mom, about Big Dan?” I would smile, “I sure do. That Big Dan was a good dog.” Ruby went on, “You couldn’t keep reading because you were crying. Jimmy had to finish reading.” I said, “That’s right. That sad part always gets me.”

The next afternoon, Jimmy put his head on my lap while I read aloud. I stroked his head, stopping only to turn the page. Half way through our reading time, he sat up and looked at me, then went silently to his room and shut the door. I wondered if something was up with him, but he seemed okay and I wanted to respect his space.

That night on my desk I found a drawing on an index card of an inky, blotched, knife impaled heart with red marker drops oozing from a jagged cut. Around the heart in thick, permanent marker were the angry words, “Ann is the worst mom ever!” I picked it up, touched and excited. I took it back to our bedroom and showed Dan. “Look, Dan! He feels vulnerable! We’re winning!” Despite seeming bad, it was actually a positive response. It was textbook reactive attachment behavior: the child feels close to you, it makes him feel vulnerable, and he tries to push you away before you can abandon him. You don’t abandon him, the cycle repeats, and over time he comes to trust you and attaches. This was a huge victory for me. Jimmy was telling me he felt close to me. And thank God for textbooks! I might have thought he was telling me I was the worst mom ever. I put the card with my most precious possessions. That week we celebrated our one-month anniversary as a family.

* * *

I waited for Jimmy on the sidewalk with the other parents outside his school. The bell rang, the children ran out, but not Jimmy. He finally appeared with his fourth grade teacher, who wanted to talk with me. “Jimmy’s not paying attention in class. He’s playing during our reading time and has not turned in any homework. I just thought you should know.” I smiled weakly, surprised. “Well, thank you. I appreciate you keeping me up on things. We’ll follow through at home.” We shook hands.

I was devastated. I’d failed him. Jimmy and I started walking home. After a block he said, “Are you going to punish me now?” I put my hand on his shoulder, “No, Jimmy, I’m not going to punish you. You just need more support. We’ll get it going, don’t worry.”

Jimmy said, “You’re going to punish me.” He started to cry, shrugged my hand off his shoulder and started walking ahead of me.

“No one’s going to punish you, Jimmy. We just need to spend more time on homework.” I ran to keep up with him.

Once inside the apartment, Jimmy dropped his book bag on the floor, took off his belt, and held it out for me to take. “You can punish me now.” I tried to hide my surprise. “Jimmy, I’m not going to punish you, Sweetie. Put that belt down, let’s have a snack.” Jimmy sat at the table, his face tight and strained. He took off his shoes, crossed his legs and resting one foot on his knee started to whip at the sole of his foot with his leather belt. I took his hand and wrestled the belt from him, “Not on my watch, Jimmy. No one hits my kids, not even my kids.” He was agitated. He tried to grab the belt back, stood up and pushed me. “Nobody’s going to hurt you, buddy.” He pushed me again, “I hate you! I hate you!” his breathing fast and shallow, hands clenched.

He was looking for a fight, growling, panting, his arms stiff and shaking with tension. I ran ahead into his room and pulled his pillow down from his bed. “Come and get it, Jimmy! Hit the pillow! Work it out!” He came into the room swinging. I held the pillow in front of me and let him have at it. “That’s good, Jimmy, get it out! Hit hard, it’s okay. I can see you are mad.” He punched and punched. I held tight. His eyes looked wild, mouth open, his lips curled back away from his teeth. My heart started racing and I felt like crying. I could feel his distress; he was enraged, frightened, and fighting for his life.

He grabbed the pillow and tried to pull it away. “Punch it, Jimmy, keep punching.” He wouldn’t let go, he kept pulling and then charging, growling, breathing hard. He tripped and fell, pulling the pillow down with him. I held on and let him wrestle it on the ground. He was tearing at it. Do something! Like what? Should I stop him? How are you going to that? I knelt beside him, holding the pillow to him, providing resistance in his struggle. After twenty minutes, exhausted, he let go of the pillow and began to sob. I stroked his head, “It’s okay, buddy, you’re going to be fine. I love you, Jimmy.” He sobbed and sobbed and then suddenly fell asleep. “Jimmy?” He was out.

I looked at my watch. Ruby’s bus was due any minute. “Jimmy?” Nothing. He was sound asleep. I left the apartment door open behind me as I ran down the five flights to the street and propped open both entrance doors to the building. If Jimmy called out I would hear him and more importantly, he would hear me answer.

I could see Ruby’s bus stuck in afternoon traffic halfway down the block and ran towards it, waving at the driver to let Ruby off. “Hi, Sweetie! How was school?” I helped her with her pack. “Good! Ms. Priscilla let me sit at her desk during independent study. . . .” I pretended to listen as I rushed her back to the apartment, worried Jimmy might wake to find that I’d left him, rejected him. That would be terrible for a boy with abandonment issues who was also afraid to be alone. “That’s awesome! Sounds like a great day.”

Once inside the apartment I could see a sleeping lump on the floor down the hall. Jimmy hadn’t moved. “Shh, let’s be super quiet. Jimmy is taking a nap.” Ruby and I had a snack, and got her homework done. Jimmy slept for two and a half hours. Sweet boy. Sweet stressed-out boy. But under the calm, I was flying blind. I had held it together during his tantrum, but was worried he had sensed my lack of composure. I had felt a chemical reaction to his violence that left me unsure of myself, uncalibrated, like shooting baskets after lifting weights.

The next morning Jimmy wouldn’t speak. When he got home from school, he tried to provoke me; picking things up, pretending to drop them and staring at me angrily as he shoved piles of mail and papers off my desk. “Take it easy, Jimmy.” I said, using my crisis line voice, “Come sit down, let’s get a snack.” He ignored me and walked into his room, slammed the door, and started punching at the frosted glass window with his fist, harder and harder. He’s going to break it. What should I do? He is going to put his fist through the glass and cut his hands! Right. He is now a danger to himself. It is appropriate to intervene and neglectful not to. Go!

I threw open the door, ran past him and grabbed his pillow, “Okay, Jimmy. Work it out.” He just stood there, glaring at me. I started shifting my weight like a boxer, ducking, smiling, “Come on, Jimmy, show me what you got.” I had no idea what to do. He started throwing stuff on the floor, kicking toys, shoving Ruby’s things off her desk. “Come on, Jimmy. Let’s do this!” I moved towards him and shoved the pillow at him. “Hit it, Buddy! Hit it!” I taunted him, trying to direct his anger at the pillow. He wasn’t having it. He screamed and ran at me, swinging with everything he had. He was after me, not the pillow. “Take it easy, Jimmy.” Swinging wildly, he hit my chin with his head, grabbed one of his heavy new dress shoes, and brought it down as hard as he could on the bridge of my nose.

My head exploded in pain. I actually saw stars. I had never been hit before. Sure, I had bumped my nose on things, been injured while playing sports or rough housing with a sibling, but no one had ever hit me with the intent to hurt. I was in shock. We were both on the floor at this point and I rolled Jimmy over onto his stomach and lay across his back. I just lay there a minute, trying to take all this in. He was struggling and crying. “It’s okay, Jimmy,” I said, “I’m not going to hurt you but I can’t let you behave like this. Safety first, my man, safety first.” I was shaking, my nose throbbing, the pressure in my sinuses spreading like fire to my cheekbones and forehead.

I called my brother, who lived in the apartment below mine. “I need you to meet Ruby’s bus and bring her up here, I’m having a situation.” I could hear him running down the stairs in the hallway as he answered, “Can do!” I was still holding Jimmy down when John and Ruby walked into the back room. I didn’t get up.

“Hi, Babe,” I said to Ruby while still on the ground. “Thanks, Uncle John, for bringing her up. How was school, Sweetie? Do you want a snack? Jimmy’s having some issues, I’m not hurting him but I can’t let him up right now. Can you grab an apple and then come on back? Let’s get started on that homework.” Jimmy kept struggling. I just lay there across his back, smiling as if everything were normal. Ruby was a face watcher and she was taking her cue from me. Was everything okay? I winked at her. Ruby sat down next to me and we did her homework. “Good, now don’t forget to carry the one. Excellent. Next one.” Jimmy struggled for maybe thirty minutes before exhausting himself and falling asleep.

Ruby and I got up, went into the kitchen and sat down. “How are you?” She nodded.

“It’s alright if you have feelings about what just happened.” She shrugged.

I tried to explain. “I love you and Jimmy. I’m not going to let anyone hurt him and I’m not going to let him hurt anyone else, including himself.” Ruby smiled. “It’s fine, Mom. I’m okay.” I was pretty sure she wasn’t okay, but she was coping. Jimmy slept until dinner.

That night I filled Dan in on the day. I admitted, “That was the first time anyone has ever hit me.” He responded, “Imagine how Jimmy felt the first time he was hit.” Damn.

I closed my eyes and imagined Jimmy, tiny and frightened. He’s too small to hit back. No one comforts him, no one defends him, one hundred times more visceral, one thousand times more damaging.

* * *

Every morning on our way to school, Jimmy and I passed an old limo driver sitting in his black town car parked watching us. On my walk back home, I could see his eyes following me in his rearview mirror. He never said anything, never smiled or waved, just watched me daily failing over and over to connect with my new son. One day, the driver rolled down his window and waved me over. Here we go. New Yorkers love giving advice. I’ve been told how to lock my bike, how to parallel park, how to vote, walk a dog, and how to fuck myself. And now, it appeared, I was going to be told how to parent.

“Excuse me, Ma’am.” I stopped and stood back a safe distance from his window. I was in a defensive stance and already close to tears. “I’ve been watching you work with that boy for over two months now. I don’t know who you are or what your relationship is to him but this morning, God told me to tell you, ‘Never give up on that boy. Keep working with him.’” I started crying. “Thank you, sir.” He nodded. “My name’s Aaron.” I nodded. “Thank you, Aaron. The boy’s name is Jimmy. I’m Ann, his adoptive mother.”

I don’t believe in God, but I could believe Aaron. He set a bar for me I could meet; I just had to keep working and never give up.

But as the weeks went on, Jimmy’s episodes were becoming more frequent and violent. One day he started hitting me and I just stood there, trying to see if I could talk him down. He was raging, circling me, “It’s okay, Jimmy. I’m not going to hurt you.” He lunged at me, reaching up to grab my neck, his hands tight around my throat. I looked down at him, my arms by my side, and said softly, “You’ve got the wrong person, Jimmy. I want to help you.” We stared at each other for a minute, he released my throat, dropped his hands to his side and started sobbing. His little body was shaking. I caught him as he dropped to the floor and held him until he fell asleep.

A few days later, Jimmy starting throwing things in the apartment. I told Ruby to go into my room with the dog and shut the door. Jimmy was not safe, high on rage and more aggressive than usual. He hit me. I grabbed him and wrestled him, the two of us thrashing and struggling to the floor. He let out a whimper, a tiny little cry, like a two year old and his body relaxed. He looked up at me, strangely calm and childlike. “Mommy,” he whispered, “Mommy, Mommy.” I was still holding him. He reached up and touched my hair, playing with it in his fingers, “Mommy, Mommy . . . ” He quickly fell asleep.

And while Jimmy struggled to adjust to his new family, I was trying to manage the effects of mothering a violent child on my performance career.

During the intermission at a recital, a friend came backstage to say, “You have a smudge under your chin, it looks like charcoal or grease.” I lifted my chin to the truth of the dressing room mirror, its surround-sound bulbs revealing a bruise on the bottom of my chin. “Thanks,” I said, “I wonder what it is.” I pretended to wipe it off, knowing full well it was a bruise from one of Jimmy’s head butts. My worlds were literally colliding. I put concealer on it and walked out for the second half.

Later that week I played on another recital down at NYU. Dan was home with Ruby and Jimmy. I was standing backstage listening to the performer before me. I was in pre-game mode. My phone rang on vibrate. It was Dan. He wouldn’t call unless it was important. I whispered, “Hi.” His voice was quick, “Jimmy’s freaking out, come home as soon as you can.” I could hear struggling and crying in the background. I put my phone down, walked out, and performed. The audience clapped, I bowed and walked off stage. I packed quickly and ran to grab a cab on West 4th Street.

It was dark outside. I stared out the window as we flew up the West Side Highway in that eerily quiet traffic lull when the Broadway shows have started and the crowds, parked and fed, are finally sitting in their seats. We hit the timed traffic lights up 10th Avenue and rode a wave of green, the Red Sea parting before us. I felt numb and hollow on the inside. Something enormous was happening to my life. I closed my eyes and thought of Jimmy and imagined what he must be feeling. I was an adult. I chose this change. Jimmy was a child. No one had asked Jimmy what he wanted.

* * *

When I got home, Dan was sitting on the floor cradling Jimmy. He looked tiny, biting and scratching at Dan’s massive arms. Ruby was in her bed looking at a book. I waved up at her and smiled. She waved back. Dan said, “We need to have a family meeting.” I nodded and climbed up next to Ruby in her loft bunk and gave her a hug. Dan said, “Okay, Jimmy. I’m going to let you go. You are going to stand up and climb up into your bunk. We are going to have a family meeting.” Jimmy did as instructed. I was amazed. How did Dan get him to do that? The curtain between the beds was open and Ruby and I sat side-by-side facing Dan and Jimmy, our heads almost touching the ceiling.

Dan began our meeting by asking Jimmy, “Did anyone ever hit you, bud? It seems like you’re looking for a fight. Did anyone ever fight you?” Jimmy nodded. “Yeah,” he said. Ruby started talking, slowly at first, then faster and faster. Jimmy joined in. The stories they told were chilling and sad. I was speechless. Ruby sat on my lap while she talked. Dan sat with his arm around Jimmy.

The social workers had told us that theirs was the perfect foster home, a dream home; no complaints, no trouble whatsoever. Monthly visits were predictable and stable, the children quiet and polite. It turns out the foster kids were beaten regularly but the foster mother, a nurse, would sew up the kids herself. There were no reports or hospital visits because there was no evidence. The kids lied to teachers and social workers about the cuts and bruises, threatened with more beatings if they told.

As the children talked, Dan would ask a follow up question, then ask it again in a slightly different way. He was interrogating them, gently. He is a mandated reporter of child abuse. The kids were consistent. Scars were revealed and details fleshed out, all of it holding up. Then, a round of nervous laughter, shaky and relieved. Dan assured them they were safe here. There would be no retribution and no one would ever hurt them again. Jimmy and Ruby worried aloud about the other foster kids still living there: Jason, Susie, and Anthony. I couldn’t help but share their worry.

After that first family meeting, the kids would break into stories about the foster home spontaneously; at the dinner table, on the way to swim, after reading aloud. Dan made a report to social services and was told there would be an investigation on the foster home.

A woman from social services came to visit us. She sat with Dan and me, while Jimmy and Ruby played nearby. The woman turned to Ruby. “How is school going, Ruby? Do you like your teacher?” Ruby popped up and sat on the edge of Dan’s knee to answer. The woman looked at Dan with Ruby sitting there listening and said, “I would suggest not letting her straddle your leg like that. You don’t know what these foster children are capable of, she may accuse you of sexual abuse. These kids know the system and they know how to work it.” Dan stood up, “Ruby and Jimmy, I need you to play in your room now, head on back.” He turned to the woman, “The suggestion is not appreciated. Please finish your questions.” The woman dismissed our concerns about abuse in the foster home, explaining that the children’s perception of abuse was actually discipline and we needed to allow for cultural differences.

Hitting is hitting. As a foster parent, that woman had signed the same form we did saying we would not hit.

After that visit, it seemed like the Administration for Children’s Services was investigating us instead of the foster home. Social workers were talking to the kids’ current teachers, meeting with the kids at school, calling me with questions and talking to our neighbors. We learned through the grapevine that the investigator was a friend of the foster mom and that she’d done an investigation on her home before. As the investigation continued, I could feel our credibility as parents begin to erode in the eyes of our children.

* * *

We needed a break. Two months into our parenting, we flew with Jimmy and Ruby to the West Coast to meet their new grandparents, new aunts, and new cousins. Jimmy met his cousin, Spencer, another intelligent bedwetter. Spencer wrestled in high school and kept Jimmy laughing and in a headlock, half nelson, or some other wrestling move for the entire visit. I had never seen Jimmy so happy. The kids jumped on the trampoline, dropped from the rope swing into my parents’ pond, caught frogs, and let them go. We picnicked at the beach and lay on quilts on my parents’ fresh cut grass and watched the clouds. It was blissful.

Back home in the city, we built an even firmer routine around the playground, reading together, and homework. Saturdays we went to our favorite diner for breakfast, then to the piers to ride bikes. Sunday was basketball in the park, swimming, then library. Breakfast at 7:00, snack after school, dinner at 6:00. Reading was encouraged, aloud, alone, and together in silence. There was no television, just books. Jimmy and Ruby would carry them around, rearrange them in the bookshelves, lay them out in stacks or in a circle on the carpet in their room and play school with them. Ruby carried around a score of a Brahms symphony for three days in a row, giving me the heads up that they weren’t necessarily reading them.

We kept a very predictable schedule so Jimmy and Ruby could anticipate rather than worry about what was going to happen next. They were more relaxed and in the present.

On school nights, the kids were in bed by 8 p.m. and had thirty minutes to read before lights out. A few nights a week we would have a guest reader come to the house. To create suspense, we would turn the lights out at 8 p.m., open the curtain dividing the room and sit the guest in the middle of the room and then, ta da, turn the lights on. Who was it? Uncle John? A neighbor? Maybe the lady from the Christmas party or the guy who plays trumpet in Mom’s band? The guest would read aloud from the current read-aloud book: A Wrinkle in Time, James and the Giant Peach, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. Then, lights out.

At the playground, Jimmy made friends with a kid named Booker. His mom and I would visit while they played, toughing it out together in the miserable February cold. I asked Jimmy if he would like to invite Booker and his mom over to our apartment for hot chocolate. Jimmy nodded, wide-eyed and excited. This was a big deal for him, his first time having a friend over to his house. Our guests accepted and we started walking together towards the apartment. Shit! Jimmy had overslept that morning and we hadn’t stripped bed! “Guys,” I said, “let me run ahead and get the water on, just ring the bell, and I will buzz you up.”

I ran like the wind, two stairs at a time, put a pot of water on the stove, and made a sheet change worthy of the America’s Cup. The buzzer rang as I stuffed the wad of stinkies in the hamper. “Hi guys, come on in!” Jimmy was animated, giving Booker a tour of our tiny apartment. They walked into the kids’ room and Booker saw Jimmy’s loft, “COOL!” and started up the ladder. Jimmy tensed and looked back at me in horror, remembering the sheets. I was ready for him, smiling, winking, and giving him every “I got it” hand gesture I could think of. He turned and climbed up anxiously after Booker. As Jimmy’s eyes met the freshly made bed, he turned back and looked at me. Booker was talking to him, asking him questions, but Jimmy just stood on his ladder, staring back at me. I held his gaze and smiled reassuringly. He smiled back and turned quickly to Booker, “That’s my Lego alien ninja spaceship, it can also fly underwater. . . .”

A few days later, Jimmy and I waited outside with Ruby for her school bus. We waved goodbye to her as she boarded and I turned stiffly to Jimmy, “Son, you’ve got a giant booger in your nose.” Jimmy smiled under his scarf. We were freezing; I would have preferred giving him one of my kidneys over taking my glove off. “If I get that booger out for you, our relationship is going to be at a whole new level, do you understand that?” Jimmy was grinning. He nodded. “Only a mother would take her glove off in this cold to get a booger out. Do you want me to get it out?” Jimmy chuckled and nodded. I took my glove off and made a very big deal of cleaning out his nose. Once out, I pretended to wipe the booger on his coat. He laughed and tried to jump away. I grabbed him and we play wrestled. He broke free and I chased him around the corner. I chased him with the booger for three blocks.

We stopped to catch our breath, bent over, our hands on our knees, the vapor from our gasps making clouds of mist around our heads. We stood up and sighed. As we walked the last half block to school, I put my arm around his shoulder. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t pull away. Parents and kids were around, nannies dropping off, everyone would see him with my arm around him. I said, “Hey Jimmy, how do you feel about me having my arm around you?” He said, “It’s okay. A lot of parents put their arms around their children.” I got a thumbs up from Aaron.

As time went on, Jimmy’s meltdowns grew less intense, fewer and farther between. He still slid to the floor when math was hard and wet the bed every night, but the violence stopped and we were able to get back to building our family. One afternoon I was in the hallway, deep in thought, standing perfectly still and staring at nothing. Jimmy popped his head out from around his door. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. I turned to him, surprised. He was smiling. “Really? What am I thinking?” Jimmy said, “That you love me.” I laughed, “You got me, Mr. J.” He smiled again and popped back into his room.