My magical boy: Carrot

Large sack of fat carrots

The first time we meet him is at his foster home, an old farmhouse with a rambling yard. Jake and Keaton were moved to this foster home a few months earlier, after things deteriorated with a previous foster home. Their social worker Craig described the ugliness of quickly collecting their belongings in garbage bags and bringing the boys here – all on Jake’s sixth birthday.

There’s us, Craig, foster Mom and Dad, older foster sister and younger foster brother named Foster. And Jake and Keaton. And a large German Shepherd.

We’re invited in through the mud room. This is where we meet Jake. He’s with the dog, sharing a fat carrot. He’s holding it out, and the dog is gnawing at it, groove marks from his canine teeth visible. When I say fat carrot, I mean the kind you feed to a horse. There’s a hip-high bag of these carrots, with the circumference of a donut. We know he’s been sharing it, because Jake is orange from cheek to cheek, from the tip of his nose to his chin. And before we’ve even said a word or locked eyes, I love him even more.

In an instant, Jake is Jake. Completely unafraid of and in love with the large dog who is torn between barking at us and eating his treat. The boy with dog scratches on his arms and stitches over his left eye. And a boy who, when he’s into something, is all in. At that moment, it was carrots.

As Craig makes introductions and we settle in, we learn that the stitches happened over the holidays. The kids were learning in-line skating on the shag carpet. The foster Mom, Tracey figured it was safe because the shag kept it all low-speed. But Jake was eager to show the Christmas tree to a visitor and forgot the sofa had been moved and skated right into it and hit the wooden arm with his eyebrow which the boys proclaimed produced a magnificent pouring of blood.

The story made me realize that these boys were ours and not-ours. With a planned period of getting to know each other before making the move, it made me uneasy how I had to trust all these other folks to take care of our boys. The people who had been caring for them before we even knew they existed.

It was a strange mix of feelings – powerful responsibility and haplessness. I had the boys tucked on a shelf in my mind, to come to life only in my presence. It had been a month since knowing we were selected to be their parents. A month of breakfasts, classes, recesses, dinners, bath times, dreams and nightmares. And we had no say or part in any of it.

To be clear, the stitches incident wasn’t anybody’s fault. In fact after witnessing the shag carpet skating myself, I thought his foster mother was brilliant and could make a fortune with beginner in-line skate training in shag carpet studios. Seriously, zero speed hazards and a soft ground for spills.

The stitches brought their fragility into focus, and our dependence on the commitment and ability of these strangers to keep them safe. It was a keen awakening of my protective mother lioness. But my cubs lived in another savannah and I could only see them on a schedule.

We did lots of training and research before heading into adoption. We learned how key routine is. In our case, we knew the boys had had no routine and little supervision in their home life before foster care. We wanted to carry over as much familiarity as possible to ease the transition.

After dinner, I sit with Tracey on the infamous sofa to go over routines and preferences. Bed times, chores, favourite foods, toys, activities, what they love, what they hate. I’m a good student, taking notes. We hear sniffling and Jake skates up to the sofa with a booboo. Tracey understands what’s happening and settles back on the sofa. He places himself right between the two of us, looking down.

It was a textbook scenario: adoptive children need to find out if they can trust the new parents, and instinctively put them to the test. Within hours of meeting me, Jake literally placed himself between foster mom and new mom with a typical mommy issue to see who would take care of him.

Fervently thankful for this super foster mom, I lean forward to examine and question and comfort in a soothing tone. He looks at me with his orange-tinged face, decides it doesn’t need a band-aid and skates off. Tracey and I look at each other in wonder. I had passed my first Mom test.

My magical boy: Candy cane

Cover of children's book Make Way for Ducklings by Robert McCloskey has an illustration of a contented mother duck surrounded by ducklings

My magical boy.

Before we ever meet him, we cry when we learn that the plans to sneak us into the auditorium to see him as a dancing candy cane have been dashed. The number was cancelled; such are the vagaries of the stage, but still.

We learn that we have been chosen to become the parents of three beautiful boys. A difficult wait: I already knew – I KNEW – that I was their mother. Days of anguish at the thought that a bureaucrat could separate me from the sons I’d never met. Nights of anger at this imagined injustice.

When the call comes, such tears and laughter and impatience and panic and love. We want them TODAY, we want our nine months to prepare the nest, we are bursting with everything. At one point my husband stops mid-stride: with a breaking voice he says, “My. Three. Sons.”

Four hours later a few dozen family and friends join us at Astoria’s back room to celebrate. That morning, I’d had a cyst on my back surgically removed. I have tears in my eyes with each hardy back slap, in wonder that I could have surgery on my back the same day the world wants to slap it or squeeze it in hugs. I laugh that nobody would guess I’m in physical pain, because tears are the norm this day. Laughter, love, joy, tears and pain.

We hand out Laura Secord “It’s a boy” cigars. We share their photos printed out and placed in a red folder. My sister presents a copy of Make Way for Ducklings and it’s perfect.

I carry everywhere my folded paper with their three portraits. I ride the subway and I open it like a triptych. I stare at each one, falling madly in love. I touch them, study them, memorize them. More than once I consider sharing the photos with strangers. I struggle to contain the joy, wonder how passersby are not blinded by the dazzle leaking out of me.

Though it never happened, I still picture Jake as that dancing candy cane. I can see him so clearly, dancing to music that I can’t hear. He’s shiny and delightful and magical.

My beautiful boys

Three brothers pose for a picture while on a gravel road lined with Queen Anne's Lace

In 2001, my then-husband and I were excitedly waiting to find a child to adopt. In January, 2002, we started meeting three brothers who moved permanently into our home in March.

My husband called it “extreme parenting”. And it WAS. I want to share some stories about this journey to stitch together a family. I’m not sure how honest I’ll be able to be. But I’m going to try.

But apart from the honesty, I want to share the wonder of this journey. There is darkness, but, oh, the wonder, the gift of my beautiful boys.

Even a hermit crab

An empty seashell

A hermit crab without a shell

is a desperate thing.

Foolish to hide

Dangerous to seek

They risk it all to find one.

When they find one – home free!

But

they nudge

rotate

inspect from all sides

peek

wiggle their butt in to get a feel

before claiming it for their own.

Even a hermit crab

can reject a home

without clams clamouring

they should be grateful

for whatever they get.

Crossing Between Broadview and Castle Frank; the Trees in Early June

Like children fresh from baths

I want to pat their heads

Cup each skull under my palm

Feel the silky-soft spongy give of their new-growth hair.

Their squirming will not deter me from kissing each temple

Breathing in their newness

Then

With my hand still on top

I want to point them to their beds

And release.

Moira Dunphy, 2012

April eighteen

A palm-sized rock painted with a red heart

Sitting in the front row

and my heart stops.

Stuart Little is in danger

Grave Danger

-and he doesn’t know! But we know!

The tiara on my 4-yr old niece

twinkles as she leans forward

eyes and mouth wide.

Every muscle taut

her wand hand grips her tutu

and her other stretches out

fingers splayed wide

to reach Stuart

to grab him, to save him, to safe him.

My heart stops at the naked yearning

shining from her.

Sitting on my sofa

and my heart stops.

The Portapique memorial

-a year? A full year?!

and the people

who loved

twenty-two people

offer twenty-two vases

of long-stem white roses.

As a Mom bows her head and clasps her hands

my heart is a yearning 4-year old in a tiara

reaching with all my might.

Water talks

She awoke before she knew she was awake.

Before she opened her eyes, she would know the day that lay ahead. The water that lulled her to sleep at night would talk.

Sometimes she’d wake to the regular pounding of hard waves. A good day. They’d lure Dad in and he’d show her how to body surf and let kids climb him and jump. But the wind would make Mom’s eyes sharper, looking for blue lips or shivering. Then she’d have to spend time on dry sand, playing castle, pulling apart puzzle weeds and dominating ants.

The drip-drip-dripping of drops off leaves was a sweet good-morning, even if it meant no lake time. She’d bundle up on the long screened-in porch, playing cards with cousins and looking out at the crooked pine silhouetted against the grey water. She’d listen to the grown-ups tell stories and play euchre. A day of scheming and laughter, radio and hot chocolate.

If the wave sounds were varied, this was a harder day to figure out. There’d be water time, but the weather could change on a dime. If they saw the line of rain marching across the lake, the cousins would line the shore, head starts arranged by age. Someone would screech “GO!” and they’d tear off to race the rain up to the cottage.

If the waves were lap-lap-lapping, sighing through the wet sand – oh, this was the best wakeup call. She’d be changing into her bathing suit right after breakfast and wearing it until forced into pjs at bedtime. She’d join the kids wheedling the adults grudgingly awake and sipping coffee. Someone would eventually agree to act as lifeguard.

When the lake was still, she could stay in the water all day. If her cousins ran out to lie on towels, she’d look for minnows. If she kept her feet still long enough, they’d come in close and nibble her toes. She’d dig her feet into the squishy sand then peek her toes up and wiggle them. She imagined it fooled them into thinking they were juicy worms. Sometimes she’d join the minnows, palms down and pulling her body behind her.

The clear mirror water would show her shells and rocks that hadn’t washed up on shore yet. The real treasures, the ones no human had touched.

She never wanted to dry. When tired she’d sit where water met shore. She’d feel the gentle push-pull of waves, watch the slow progress of sand mold itself around her. She’d grab fistfuls of wet sand and try to keep it from weeping out between her fingers. When the sun warmed her she’d go back in.

She’d only be forced out of the water for suntan lotion or snacks. She’d be the last child retrieved off the beach for lunch. Mom would tightly wrap a towel around her like a sarong and carry her back up the path to the cottage. Mom would rinse her feet in the ceramic tin bowl that lay beneath the tap, a beachy welcome mat. She’d be planted on a bench beside the noisy cousins eating sandwiches and potato chips on paper plates.

She’d shiver and nibble and listen.

Freedom by Louis Dudek, Canadian poet

My two dogs
Tied to a tree
By a ten-foot leash
Kept howling and whining for an hour
Till I let them off.

Now they are lying quietly on the grass
A few feet further from the tree
And they haven’t moved at all since I let them go.

Freedom may be
Only an idea
But it’s a matter of principle
Even to a dog.

Louis Dudek (Poetry in Motion series on TTC, 2004 – still looking for publication date)

Impeachment to Insurrection: Stupid, orange baby diaper

4 graphics in a row: IQ with a brain inside the Q, an orange slice, a crying baby and a poo with flies buzzing around it.

Everyone loves the classic insults: intelligence, age and bodily functions. One unique to Trump is his orange hue. These categories are often combined for a more forceful epithet – for instance, “stupid orange baby diaper”.

I curated these insults for Trump from Twitter posts. Some insults appear in more than one category. They are presented here with each author’s stylistic choices. I proudly disclose that one of my own made the list. Hint: starts with “piece”, ends with “poo”

Warning: literally, potty mouth language

INTELLIGENCE
Oh noo these sound like very fancy and intellectual grievances… you must be a powerful loremaster
real galaxy brain you have up there chief
narcissistic tool 
You incompetent moron!!
Meow Meow
Deluded fuckwit
Racist ignoramous
One big troll #trollump
utter garbage
Absolute, unalloyed garbage
Cheeseberder
Completely void of any empathy or class.
*mindless Fools like Clowns in a Parade   *this was for his admin
you dumb, soulless, pandering ghoul
You irresponsible, idiotic clod
entitled fuckdoodle
one of the dumbest fucking people on the planet.
the reason why Superman capes have warning labels to warn the user that the cape does not actually enable the user to fly.
YOU FOOL
Complete dumbass
the world’s lowest I.Q. 
living proof of the Dunning-Kruger Effect
bloviating, incompetent buffoon
 pathological psychotic pustule
desperate fool
absolute fuckopotamus
Motivational speaker for racists 
Dumbest person on the planet
Mango Magoo
Orangeous Dumbasseous
Leaning Tower of Stupid 
you draft-dodging tool
*Clowns, rapists, racists, white supremacists, porn stars, nazis, klansmen, and idiots     *ok, this was for Trump, his admin and followers.
the epitome of incompetence, the embodiment of a political hack, and an inhumane, unhinged, perverted, racist, degenerate son of a klansman.
Corrupt, stupid and batshit crazy
ignorance and hatred had a baby–a 250-pound baby
you lazy, incompetent, Do Nothing, Fake, election-stealing Oval Office squatter
tiny, stunted, shrimp
ignorant asshat
 dangerous dumb-dumb
primitive, narcissistic, lizard brain 
#Duhligula
Spanky McDumbass
Crazy Donald Trump: stupid, nuts, nasty, racist, and misogynist
Don the cleaners bartender, his invention: Bleach on the Beach.
Yeti Pubes McLysol
President Can’t Read
that thing squatting in the Oval Office
*Mrs BeBest Lizard Brain     *this was for Melania, but deserves a place on the list, I think.
IQ45
44. 5
so-called “president”
man pretending to be President 
President Clorox 
ORANGE
Tangerine Wankmaggot
The Orange Skidmark
Orange Julius 
toxic game show host suffering from advancing dementia and untreated tertiary syphilis and with a fucked-up tangle of bullshit on top of his big dumb pumpkin head
The orange golem
A CHILDISH ANGRY ORANGE BLOB OF A MAN… A BUSH-LEAGUE FUHRER NAMED DONALD J. TRUMP. A SPARSE LITTLE MAN WHO SOMEHOW BECAME PRESIDENT, AND FEEDS OFF HIS SELF-DELUSIONS, PREACHING HATE AND DIVISION
Orangiarrhea Von Lysol
Tang
The Manchurian Pumpkin
Orangeskin
el diablo naranjado
mango Mussolini
Cheetolini
Mango Mussolini
Pumpkin Spice Hitler
Mango Magoo
Orangeous Dumbasseous
AGE
Petty full-diaper lunatic
Manbaby woke up again with a giant dook in his diapy
73-year old man-baby
my crybaby dude
whiny thin-skinned infant
whiny little 5-year old whose mommy didn’t hold him enough and whose father hated his guts
ignorance and hatred had a baby–a 250-pound baby
like a middle schooler who didn’t get invited to Madyson’s birthday.
big spiteful dirty diaper man-baby bunker boy
11-year old child
a 3-year old
Toddler in a soiled diaper.  Tiny Tantrum Trump. Traitor.
my whiny bro
President Babyfingers 
Toddler Don, Diaper-wearer-in-chief
BODILY FUNCTIONS
#ShitStainTrump
horse pucker
galactic fart noise
shitshow asshole
diarrhea bath
vomit 
Vagina Neck
Buttwipe
incontinent dick
you bloated piece of excrement
Toddler in a soiled diaper.  Tiny Tantrum Trump. Traitor.
racist piece of shit
you shambolic syphilitic chode
Piece of poo
Untrustworthy liquid fart 
Petty full-diaper lunatic
Manbaby woke up again with a giant dook in his diapy
heartless POS
lying racist, misogynistic, philandering POS.
Tangerine Wankmaggot
The Orange Skidmark
Orangiarrhea Von Lysol
lil’ Nazi shit
 Shitler
most authoritarian, corrupt, and incontinent president in U.S. history
limp dick-tator
 pathological psychotic pustule
PEETUS
Lord Dampnut
@TorontoMoira moiradunphywrites.blog

Impeachment to Insurrection: Dictator, Criminal, Patient

Black and white graphic of Hitler moustache, man wearing prison stripes, patient in a hospital bed,

Trump inspired thoughtful conversations on the threat to democracy, concern for the rule of law, and the ethics of attempting a long-distance diagnosis. Dictator, criminal. patient, or all of the above? Twitter weighed in.

I curated these insults for Trump from Twitter posts. Some insults appear in more than one category. They are presented here with each author’s stylistic choices.

Warning: some Presidents may find this language offensive

DICTATOR
lil’ Nazi shit
#Duhligula
mango Mussolini
Cheetolini
 Shitler
Gropenfuhrer
Twitler
Manuel Noriega type shit
most authoritarian, corrupt, and incontinent president in U.S. history
dollar store Hitler
limp dick-tator
Putin’s puppet
Agolf
Mango Mussolini
Damn Donald Trumpolini
GASPY McFASCIST
fascist fückhead
A waste of flesh scumsucking world-destroying fascist fuckhead.
Pumpkin Spice Hitler
*Clowns, rapists, racists, white supremacists, porn stars, nazis, klansmen, and idiots     *ok, this was for Trump, his admin and followers.
Orange Julius
A CHILDISH ANGRY ORANGE BLOB OF A MAN… A BUSH-LEAGUE FUHRER NAMED DONALD J. TRUMP. A SPARSE LITTLE MAN WHO SOMEHOW BECAME PRESIDENT, AND FEEDS OFF HIS SELF-DELUSIONS, PREACHING HATE AND DIVISION
Unhinged Dictator
Covita
CRIMINAL
#CriminalTrump is a dangerous “leader.”
vulture waiting for an injured animal to become dinner.
Leading cause of death in the US
Rapey, Deranged Donald, the impeached president
Tiny hands covered in blood
serial killer
murderer
 The DEADLIEST American President EVER
Rapey 
Seven Fifty Grifty
*Clowns, rapists, racists, white supremacists, porn stars, nazis, klansmen, and idiots     *ok, this was for Trump, his admin and followers.
 inhumane, murderous, grim reaping, degenerate, son of a klansman
the epitome of incompetence, the embodiment of a political hack, and an inhumane, unhinged, perverted, racist, degenerate son of a klansman.
racist, misogynist, rapist, pedophile, pathological liar, malignant narcissist, lifetime criminal, damn traitor, corrupt shitweasel, and mass murderer
Corrupt, stupid and batshit crazy
 lying racist criminal
Toddler in a soiled diaper.  Tiny Tantrum Trump. Traitor.
Predator
dirty criminal 
tax-evading conman
toxic game show host suffering from advancing dementia and untreated tertiary syphilis and with a fucked-up tangle of bullshit on top of his big dumb pumpkin head
you draft-dodging tool
Hostile Foreign Agent working against The United States of America
ENEMY OF THE PEOPLE 
most authoritarian, corrupt, and incontinent president in U.S. history
Gropenfuhrer
Grifter-in-chief
mister impeached one-term delusional felonious crazypants president
you lazy, incompetent, Do Nothing, Fake, election-stealing Oval Office squatter
DIAGNOSIS
narcissistic blowhard
clear sociopath
SICK !!!!!! [poo emoji]
One sick puppy
#DementiaDon
Malignant narcissist
primitive, narcissistic, lizard brain 
soulless, greedy, sociopathic sadist
 PATHOLOGICAL LIAR
pathologically lying narcissistic psychopath
I’ve never seen a person with less compassion and empathy not named Hannibal Lecter.
dropped on his head as a child
you fucking psycho
you sad, miserable, pathetic @Morning_Joe-obsessed sociopath. So let’s get this straight
seriously deranged psychopath
Destructive and Dangerous Malignant Narcissist
PATHOLOGICAL liar
inhumane, murderous, grim reaping, degenerate, son of a klansman
racist, misogynist, rapist, pedophile, pathological liar, malignant narcissist, lifetime criminal, damn traitor, corrupt shitweasel, and mass murderer
Corrupt, stupid and batshit crazy
whiny little 5-year old whose mommy didn’t hold him enough and whose father hated his guts
you shambolic syphilitic chode
Rapey, Deranged Donald, the impeached president
 pathological psychotic pustule
mister impeached one-term delusional felonious crazypants president
@TorontoMoira moiradunphywrites.blog