Spiderman

A couple years ago, a three-year-old lad (whose name I won’t disclose; his nickname was Spiderman) was placed in our foster home.  He was burning through foster homes at a high rate – not because he had Down Syndrome, but because he had an extraordinary gift for climbing and escaping.  He was the modern-day, pint-sized, ever-grinning, tow-headed Houdini.  Keeping him safe was a full-time job that required eyes on every angle of your head.  You see, he could scale walls.  Fences?  Why bother!  7-foot walls?  Hah!! His former caregivers, each of whom adored him to the moon and back, could not keep up with him.  Could I?  Well, I assured the caseworker, I may not be a spring chicken, but I am an avid runner!  If anyone could do it, it would be me.  The afternoon that his caseworker dropped him off at our home, she set him down with his two duffle bags of belongings and proceeded to give me the typical 3-minute quasi-exchange of information: he doesn’t know how to eat food, so good luck with that; he likes to suck on his entire hand, but don’t let him suck on his feet; here is his medical card; he has two doctor appointments upcoming; he can disappear as quick as you can blink an eye and -- WHERE IS HE??????!  Less than two minutes from arrival, he’d already departed.  Introducing:  Spiderman.

A cherub.



I laugh when I hear stereotypes about children with Down Syndrome.  “They’re so SWEET!”  (True.) “So GENTLE!” (Mostly true.)  A picture is painted of pudgy cherubs, sitting angelically still.  But if you asked parents of children with Down Syndrome to describe their child/ren in a few adjectives, two top contenders would be “stubborn” and “BUSY”!  Our kids may be “low tone,” according to physical therapists, but their sheer love of life and adventure gives them extraordinary determination and superhuman powers….  Spiderman. 

For the next year and a half, Spiderman took our community by a storm:  We collectively fell hopelessly in love with him:  His grin, his chuckle while steaming full-speed ahead, his cowlick, the way he’d climb up you like a totem pole when he wanted a hug.  We learned how to manage.   Neighbors would keep Spiderman Vigil.  Preschools assigned special Spiderman helpers, whose jobs were to never let him out of their sight.  Bus drivers, well, prayed.  The term “attractive nuisance” took on a new, colorful meaning, as neighbor’s ponds, ladders, scaffolding, etc., lured Spiderman into action. 

After months of battling to keep him off the tops of cars, the tippy-top of the clubhouse, the top of the refrigerator, dancing on table tops, etc., we compromised and let him have the van.   I learned that if I parked it next to the kitchen window, I could actually prepare dinner AND watch him boing up and down on top of its roof Tigger-style, while it made that popping/denting sound. He was busy, content, and IN EYESIGHT! Passersby would stop to knock on the door, “Do you know there’s a child on the top of your van?” “Yes,” we’d sigh. Never mind explaining.

Spiderman's Forever Family found him last Fall.  He lives a few states away but remains forever etched and interwoven in our hearts and thoughts.  Parenting him was a gift.  Knowing him was an honor.  Letting go was the hardest thing I've ever done.  We are so grateful to his birth family, with whom we grew fond, for entrusting their boy to us, and we are especially grateful to his Forever Family who saw the cherub in him:  He is living the perfect life, rich with siblings, parents who worship the ground he runs on, and no shortage of love and opportunities. Oh, and did I mention a tracking device?  :)   We love you, Spidey!