Six months ago, I got off a Jet Blue plane from Washington DC after having spent 8 hours in a terminal at Dulles, and before that 17 hours on a plane from Addis Ababa, and before that 7 days in Ethiopia (mostly Addis Ababa, with a harrowing two-day car trip to the Sidama province). I was carrying a Little Boy who was tired, hungry (having refused all food but a single little boiled potato, piece of apple, and bite of banana bread on the entire journey), yet entirely game for the journey. Mr. P met us in Boston. The minute we strapped the Little Boy in his car seat, he began bawling. He cried all the way home. Mr. P had prepared a lovely meal of meat stew and root vegetables; he selected a CD of African music for dinner music; he totally child-proofed the house and set out a selection of toys, but all Little Boy wanted to do was sleep. I set him down gently in our bed and listened as he slumbered, his breath affected by the omnipresent wheeze that marked his first month home (“kennel cough,” someone in our travel group jokingly called it, as it affected all the kids in the orphanage.) And as I held his little body, I thought…. is he still alive? I placed my hand on his chest, searching for the raspy breath for reassurance.

At that time, I could never imagine “Six months from now.” The goal was simply to get through each day, to establish a routine, to gain his trust, to forge attachment. I remember how when, if either Mr. P or I left the house, he would sob uncontrollably. And this broke my heart, because I know he thought we were never coming back. We’d respectively sneak out of the house, praying he would not notice and chase after us with screams of protest. Heart-breaking, because this Little Boy had experienced so much grief in his short life already.

But, he is resilient. I believe this. He has a strong spirit, buoyed by intelligence and affability. He has been with us six months, and I don’t think any of us can imagine or desire a life any different.

Language

His manners have bloomed suddenly, fiercely. He says “thank you” almost to excess, and gets very sore if I say “Sure” or “Okay” instead of “You’re welcome.” NEED to have the “You’re welcome,” or he makes a fuss.

Colors still seem enigmatic to him. For awhile, every color was red; we’ve reviewed colors extensively, and he seems not to grasp them. We considered that he may be color-blind but he can tell when colors are the same (he’s very, very good at pointing out things that are the same — almost obsessed with matching) and an online color-blind test proved he can probably see colors, although he is at a loss to tell us what they are.

I’d say his English vocabulary is well past 100 words, and it is such a relief to be able to communicate with him on a basic level. His pronunciation is also markedly improved. Of course this is thanks to day care, but this is a mixed blessing, as he is also picking up some annoying linguistic tendencies. “You’re not funny,” he says, whenever we’re laughing about something that he doesn’t get. At first it was cute, but it quickly became rude. I’m sure this is something his teachers say when the kids are fooling around when they’re supposed to be listening, but when used in the context of the dinner table, it’s pretty rude and we’re working to stop these “You’re not funny. It’s not funny.”

Skills

He can count to 10 and beyond. There was a time when he’d skip 6 or 7, but he’s pretty solid now. He can usually get to 14 before it disintegrates into “teen, teen, teen… twenty!”

The alphabet is a little hard for him. He knows the word “letters” and can identify things as being “letters,” but he only knows a few of them without prompting (W, X, S). I’m not really worried about that because, developmentally, phonics comes in a few years.

I still believe this kid is a little engineer. He’s obsessed with arranging things, meticulously and in accordance with some internal logic.

He loves, loves his bicycle, and he’s pretty amazing on it. People stare with wonder at this Little Boy, zooming down the sidewalk or bike path with Mom chugging after him. “How old is he?” people ask me. Of course, his training wheels are still on, but he’s got speed, precision, and dexerity. He’s getting strong, too; hills that I used to have to push him up are now a breeze.

Music

Musical hits: The Pogues (fast paced songs only; “Waxie’s Dargle” is a fave); “Tubthumping” by Chumbawamba; “Punching in a Dream” by Naked and Famous; “Love Rollercoaster” by the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Anything song by Stevie Nicks (he loves her cover of “Free Fallin'”). He likes “Ant Music” by Adam and the Ants

Muscial misses: Hates anything by the Beastie Boys. Usually unimpressed by U2 and demands I change the channel. Classic rock and anything guitar-heavy is pretty boring to him.

Social

It’s hard to gauge him socially since so much of that happens in day care, but he seems to be pretty well-liked in his class. His favorite friends are two twin Chinese girls. He is definitely getting bolder on the playground, but sometimes tries to make friends with older kids and they humor him briefly or sort of ignore him. This doesn’t seem to bother him. One time, an older boy (6-7 years) asks to borrow his bicycle, and then rode around the basketball court for 5 minutes, ignoring Little Boy who ran after him, waiting to “play.” I finally made him give it back. Little Boy was oblivious to being taken advantage of, and I had to remind myself that he’s only 3.

Food

For a long time, I worried about Little Boy’s diet, and its lack of fruits and veggies. Having spent the first 2.5 of his life malnourished, it is essential that he receive ultra-proper nutrition on a daily basis, yet he refused all produce except what I could hide in his meat stew. Then, one day we were in Costco and they were offering samples of beef vegetable soup. I took a sample for Little Boy, and was amazed when he eagerly slurped it up. “Soup, school!” he exclaimed, excited, and I realized that he will willingly eat in school what he eschews at home. I bought 12 cans of the soup (it’s Costco, after all) and, wow, he eats every little bit. While canned soup isn’t as optimal as fresh veggies, it’s a relieving step in the right direction.

Little Boy has finally discovered pizza, and it has become a fast favorite. I’ve managed to temper down the unhealthiness by concocting “dabbo pizza” — whole-wheat bread with a coating of pasta sauce and grated cheddar cheese. He’s fanatical. He likes cheese in general, and yogurt, which we encourage because he’s got a lot of lateral height to catch up on (although he’s almost outgrown all his 2T clothes).

I was cooking dinner when I realized Mr. P and Little Boy had been playing quietly for a good 20 minutes. The house had not seen this level of calm in the evening since the night of the Toy Story stickerbook. I wandered to the living room and asked “What are you guys doing?”

“Playing chess,” Mr. P answered, and then I saw that our travel game box had been dissembled and the chess pieces arranged on the board.

“Chess? But… he’s three,” I said.

“So? I’m not going to play cars and trains forever,” Mr. P said.

I watched Little Boy twirling a pawn in circles in the middle of the board. “Don’t you think he should learn his colors first?”

“He’s still getting a feel for the game,” Mr. P hedged.

“My Dad didn’t teach me chess until I was, like, ten,” I said.

“And look how that worked out,” Mr. P said. (I can move the pieces correctly, but to mount any type of strategy more than one move in advance makes my brain mushy.)

“Horsey!” Little Boy said, holding up a knight to me.

“He likes the horses,” Mr. P explained to me.

“I see,” I said. “So…who’s white and who’s black?”

Mr. P soon abandoned the chess lesson, leaving Little Boy to “play” “chess.” At least he seems to understand the concept of one piece per square. It’s a start.

Little Boy was just tucking into part 2 of 3 of his evening meal (a slice of wheat bread with peanut butter and a touch of nutella) when the doorbell rang. “You stay here,” I told him while using the personal sign language that I developed to reinforce this notion way back on our first full day together in Addis Ababa — pointing at him, then pointing at the ground — though by now he can understand me without the gestures. I walked downstairs and opened the door to the small blond woman that I immediately recognized as a neighbor who lives in the property that adjoins ours from the back. I’ve seen her, coming and going with her two young super-blond child and her smiley, chipper blond husband.

“Hi there,” she said warmly, and formally introduced herself before asking urgently, “Do you have a ladder? A big ladder?” She explained that she had locked her and her kids outside of their second-floor condo, and her husband was on a business trip, and her downstairs neighbor was helping her but they needed a ladder. A big ladder. Which we happened to have in our garage, thanks to the owner of our downstairs condo who was also the former owner of our condo.

The blond woman and I went into the garage and began moving rakes, shovels, and bags of soil out of the way of the ladder. She revealed that her family moved to the Boston area from Utah, which given her wholesome blondness really didn’t surprise me. We walked the ladder over to her property. Her 2-year old son was toddling around the lawn, the 7-month old baby was crying loudly in his carrier, and the 50ish downstairs neighbor rejoiced at seeing the ladder and began plotting her heroic entry into the house.

I explained that I had to go back to my condo to see about the kid, but when I was upstairs, I looked out the window and watched them trying to position the ladder onto the house while looking after the frenetic toddler and soothing the manic baby. So I told Little Boy we were going outside and we walked over to her yard.

Little Boy looked at the 2 year old warily. They were about the same size, but the 2-year old moved with developmentally-typical jerky motions and stilted steps. The two boys peered at each other curiously until the 2-year quickly sat on his little riding car, as if to claim it. Little Boy gave a bored look and told him, “It’s a baby toy. You baby.”

Ha ha ha. As abhorred as I should have been by his impoliteness (though I know its very typical “kid”), I couldn’t help but to be a wee bit proud at how far he’s come. Five months ago, upon seeing the little blond boy, he would have tried to flee; failing that, beg to be carried; failing that, he would have gotten as far away as possible and avoided any possible contact. The idea that Little Boy would speak understandable English to another kid, that he would assert his prerogative and his seniority, would have been unthinkable. It’s moments like these when I realize that, someday, Little Boy will be fully assimilated with no linguistic, social, or developmental barriers.

Long story short, the blond woman climbed the ladder into her house, the little blond boy and Little Boy are mortal enemies, I made friends with two neighbors and got the ladder back.

Later, Little Boy and I went to the playground, where more than a few dropped leaves littered the basketball court. A new phenomenon for Little Boy: Autumn! Earlier this week, he was asking to go to the ocean and I had to explain that the water was too cold. “Cold?” Little Boy asked, disbelieving since it was 80 degrees and humid outside. Ah, but just wait. You’ll soon have a full understanding of the word.

It’s been slightly more than 5 months home. The other monthly milestones have been marked by profound gains in growth, behavior, and general adjustment, but this month, it’s all about the language. And the bicycle — rarely a day goes by without a ride around the neighborhood, and this Little Boy is getting fast, adroit, and a bit of an attitude. He’s in heaven when Daddy comes along on his bicycle, but he also likes pedaling up and down a slight hill on the sidewalk that adjoins the park, while I sprint beside him, terrified and breathless.

Little Boy is now speaking in full sentences, replete with verbs, though they’re grammatically rough. “Where’s it?” he’ll ask, looking for something. “It is good. It is no good. It’s not working. You do it too. Mommy talking loud.” I’ve stopped being surprised at what comes out of his mouth. “It’s not funny,” he said, pointing at the evening news. “Please” and “Thank you” are still not automatic, although “Sorry” is. His teacher reported to me on Monday evening that he was talking nearly non-stop that day, as if someone flipped a switch. I wouldn’t call him fluent by any means, but thanks to day care, he is making astounding linguistic progress. In later years, peer pressure will involve drugs, drinking, sex… but for now, it’s speaking English and wearing shoes that light up with every little step.

I have reached the point where I no longer think of Little Boy as “my son who is adopted” and simply “my son.” As Oprah once said, biology is the least of what makes someone a mother. It’s day in, day out of feeding him, dressing him, showering him, wiping him, taking him to the playground, hugging him when he falls down, and driving him to school. It’s quickly become enmeshed in my identity: Mommy.

And therefore, as Mommy, I must brag. Little Boy is decidedly mechanically-oriented, a little engineer who is determined to understand how everything works, from faucets to microwaves to light sensors to garlic presses. He is also athletically gifted, having mastered swimming and bicycling (by 3 year old standards, that is) and having a killer ball kick. We’ve also taken him on several long hikes in the woods, leaving the kiddie backpack behind and goading him to simply walk. It doesn’t always work…

But he’s gone more than one consecutive mile in the woods on his own. His incentive? Nutella sandwiches by the water.

He’s always up for anything. Yesterday, it was apple-picking in 80-degree killer humidity.

He picked about two apples (little ones, he insisted) and a pear.

When he started getting too frisky to handle in a sweltering orchard, I hastily picked about 8 pounds of apples in one minute and we fled. To our next adventure…

Mommy wants me to put on this bear outfit that a co-worker lent to her as a potential Halloween costume? Whatever! I don’t know what Halloween is. I don’t know what a costume is, or for that matter, a co-worker. I don’t care if I’m blinded by my own sweat from running all over the house in this big, heavy one-piece bundle of fur and Mommy is begging me to allow her to take it off so it won’t have to be dry cleaned. All I know is.. bear! RAH! RAHHH!

On one of the big Yahoo Groups for Ethiopian Adoption, there is currently a debate about how much information one should reveal about their children (adopted or otherwise) on a blog. The impetus for this rather-heated discussion came from a link to a blog written by a woman (Southern, uber-Christian) with 3 bio kids and 2 recently-adopted older kids from Ethiopia, who admitted that, after the euphoria faded from bringing her kids home and being greeted in the airport by 500 screaming white people from her megachurch, parenting adopted children was harder than she thought it would be. The reaction to her blog post on the Yahoo group was mixed — a bare majority admired her honesty, while others thought she was too self-congratulatory for undertaking the challenges she so valiantly outlined, while still others jumped all over how she posted pictures, used her kids’ names, and revealed personal details about them (everything from their fears of being abandoned again to her son’s uncircumcised penis) on the big, bad, scary, unforgetting Internet.

Obviously, I blog a lot about my wonderful son. I’ve had this website way before I had him, and when he came into our lives it seemed natural to write about him. But I never really considered that though it is my life, it is his story and I am making it public without his permission. When he gets older, will he be angry at me for blogging about him and posting pictures? I always assumed he would be thankful that a part of his childhood was written down. My parents kept for me a baby book, and I treasure all of the pictures, stories and momentos within it. This was my version of Little Boy’s baby book. And sure, I could keep a private journal for this purpose, and not a public blog. But having an immediate audience spurs me to write. And there are family and friends out there who love to read about Little Boy…

Some of the Yahoo people feel it’s okay to blog about kids, but only if you carefully guard their identity, including not posting pictures of their faces. Others feel that blogging about kids is never okay unless you have their explicit, informed permission because it violates their privacy. I can only imagine how these people would react over how I once posted a picture of Little Boy on the toilet. (Okay, that was cute, but way over the top — I took the photo down.)

But though I may continue to blog a bit more guardedly, I must confess to different notions about privacy. I feel privacy is not something that needs to be totally protected on principle. I know a person who doesn’t have any supermarket loyalty cards because he doesn’t want anyone to know what he is buying; it’s not that he cares if someone notices he primarily buys frozen and prepared foods, it’s a singular rebellion against creeping intrusion on our private lives.

Blogging about how Little Boy likes riding his bicycle and going to the playground is, to me, as harmless as telling people that we eat premium butter, generic-brand cream cheese, and a shitload of European cheese. But yes, there are some things that should be kept private. My yardstick is if I would tell something to a group of co-workers over lunch. Yes, I tell them he’s on daily antibiotics and it takes us 20 minutes to give him his medicine every morning– what shame is there in that? Yes, I brag about all the new English words he’s learning. Yes, I hint at how hard the first 3 months was and I gloat about how awesome everything is now, and I won’t shut up about what a consummate little boy he is.

There’s a lot worse things that people do to their children without their consent. Blogging about children is not exploitation, it’s good ole-fashioned parental pride.