November 4, 2010

Dear Joshua,

I love the family photos here, taken not in China, but in downtown Des Moines. Beautiful gifts from a gifted friend, photographer Sarah Franczyk. They are some of the many gifts you've been given since your arrival, so many welcome presents that I know I haven't kept up with the thank you notes and I'm sure some have fallen through the cracks.

Goodness, it has been awhile. Tomorrow, we'll celebrate four months together and people wonder where we've been.

You don't wonder. You know it all firsthand. The routines. The chaos. The joy.

We don't carry you out of bed anymore. When you wake up, you come find us. And when you do, you get a silly grin on your face, hold out your arms for a long hug, and then sign “Hey, where are my clothes?”

It's not your style to eat breakfast in pajamas. You don't sit idly by and wait for life to happen. You step up to meet it. You're a take-charge little guy – telling your big brothers to go to sleep, directing traffic when we cross the street, and making sure I don't leave anything (or anyone) behind.

You love oatmeal with nuts and dried fruit for breakfast, you don't trust asparagus yet, and you know where all our candy is hidden. Once, I tried sneaking a piece, and you came up behind me and tugged on my shirt.

“What?” I asked, mouth full.

“Candy?” you signed, and held out your hands. I was caught.

We've been taking inventory of your signs – a little homework assignment from your deaf ed teacher and speech pathologist. After 264 signs, I stopped counting. We're all learning. Together. And that reminds me. I forgot to add we, all, and together. So 267 and counting.

You like your hearing aids. Oh. Forgot to add hearing aids, too. And where. We use that sign all the time! When you wake up in the morning – after that hug and after you're dressed – you want to know where your hearing aids are. We aren't sure how much you hear with them, but we know you hear more than without them. At Andrew's band concert, you told us that you heard music – saxophones, even – and you love to listen to the piano and stereo. You're a bit of a rock star, too, strummin' on your air guitar or entertaining us with your jazzy pretend saxophone.

A few mornings ago, I left your hearing aids out intentionally. Our kitchen was humming with machines – the washer, the dryer, the dishwasher. Who wants to hear all of that? But you put a CD in our CD player and ran over to me. Listen. Music, you signed. Where are my hearing aids? When I put them in, you ran over to the stereo. You pointed to your ears to say I hear this, and then you stretched your arms around both speakers to feel the vibrations. I love the way you take life in, seeing details I would miss, touching, feeling, tasting, smelling. You teach me to sense the world more fully than I did before I met you.

You babble more since receiving the hearing aids. Sometimes you can talk a blue streak, and I have no idea what you're saying. I can tell that it's not Chinese, and I'm certain it's not English – though you do say some words with more and more consistency – mom, dad, ball, bath, home, purple and bye bye.

You have a beautiful voice, and I do not just mean your spoken voice – though it has the sweetest sound. I mean your inner voice, the one that speaks to us with expressions and signs, that asks where did the sun go, why are your hands cold, when are the other kids coming home . . . the one that, at the end of the day, speaks in folded hands. I. Love. You. We touch our fingertips together, then our noses, and end with a kiss goodnight.

We love having you home, Joshua.

Love,
Mama, Daddy, Andrew, Anna, and Jacob