Birthday Boy

This is a very personal entry for me. Not a lot of people know Tomas' full story. He doesn't remember it and doesn't seem to have a need for the details. But, I can't help and think of them each year on his birthday.

But I am sure, one day, he will want to hear it all. It never gets easier to tell. It always ends with me in tears and usually my mom being so mad she is swearing under her breath.

In December of 2007, I took a call about a two year old boy he needed a foster home. As always, I said yes (I never turned down a placement.) The supervisor was actually bringing him to me as she was the one on the investigation. Yes, it had been that crazy of a day for our DCS office.

At this point in our fostering time line, I had seen a wide range of reasons for removal. But, the director recommended I take a few minutes to prepare. She said I had never seen anything like this before.

I was stubborn. I was strong. I was Super Foster Momma and could handle anything.

I was also wrong.

I walked out to drive way. She opened the car door and I peeked in to get a glimpse at my new kiddo.

I turned around and walked away.

I was NOT prepared to see what I had seen. Nobody in their right mind could look at that and not want to immediately find the nearest toilet and vomit.

There was this beautiful, dark skinned Hispanic boy. Thick, fluffy, jet black hair. Chubby little cheeks with a definite pooch in his belly. Dark, deep eyes. A blue button up shirt, jeans and cowboy boots. You know those grown Hispanic men you see in the west that are all cowboy-ed up and handsome. That was him, just 20 years early. This is how I saw him at second glance.

At first glance, I saw a very sad little boy with fear in his eyes. A little boy who was beaten black and blue across his face. A little boy with dried blood in his nose. A little boy with "boxers ear." You know after professional boxers fight, the inside depths of the theirs look like hamburger meat. I saw a little boy with scratches and very defined hand print bruises on his face; on his identity. 

I had to step away. I had to compose myself. I could not let him see the disgust in my face. I could not be another adult who he was scared of their reactions.

I walked behind the car where he couldn't see me. A million thoughts ran through head. And to this day I can only think of two of them: Who did this? Why? 

Unfortunately, I will never have answers to those questions.

Finally, we got him inside. We learned his name was Tomas. He was just over two years old and the only two words we could decipher was "Momma" and "juke," which turned out to be juice.

The following day was a blur. It was the hospital for an exam. No broken bones, no long term physical effects. Just surface injuries. His hearing was fine, despite the evident trauma. His vision was fine, despite the violent beating to his face and head. Nothing we could do to help him other than love, patience and understanding.

Tomas was a very meek and quiet toddler. He barely made a sound. It was obvious he was scared. Scared of adults, scared of loud noises, scared to be left alone.

 He took harbor with our teenage foster daughter. She was somewhat familiar to him. She was Hispanic, also. She talked his language. She knew his culture. She had those some deep, dark beautiful eyes he had under those bruises. He took solace in her. And for that I will ever be thankful to her. (To this day, they still have a bond. She is now 23, engaged and on her own. But, they have a bond that nobody can take away.) I think she was more his saving grace than I was at that time. And it takes a lot for me to say that.

Slowly, like molasses in January, he came out of his shell. We learned together. I learned I could not cut his hair like the other boys. He learned it would not hurt. I learned to pick up on his body language. He learned new words with his Speech Pathologist. I learned how to expose him to food other than pop, juice and candy. He learned there were other things to eat that were equally as tasty. I learned to listen patiently. He learned he would not be dealt a beating.

No child should have to "learn" these things. It should just be a given.

Fast forward to his eighth birthday, today. Tomas is a happy, very healthy, well adjusted second grader. He has two brothers, two sister and a dog. He is mellow, calm and still somewhat quiet. He is a lover, but don't mess with him. He will kick your ass and take your name. He takes bullshit from no one. He loves soccer, his dog, Legos, building things in Papa's work shop and his new favorite song, Jesus Freak by DC Talk. He has all A's and one B in school. He just got a 100% on his spelling test last week. He is missing his front tooth. He would play his DS all day if I let him and he can almost beat me at Tetris.

He is stubborn and I am so thankful for that. I believe, without a doubt, that his hard-headedness is what got him through. I have never seen a fresh four year old teach himself how to ride with no training wheels in just an hour. But, he knew what he wanted and he didn't stop until he did it.

He is my boy. My first child, but third oldest. He is my fighter, he is my lover. He is the one who asks every night if I am coming to tuck him in.

 He is my saving grace, coming at a time and place in my life that I didn't how to make it to the next day. He gave me a mission. I may have given him a safe home, but he gave me hope. He showed me determination. He made me a mom for the first time. He was the one was broken and abused, but he healed me.

He is truly my Samuel, his middle name. Look him up in the Bible. You will understand.

Happy Birthday Tomas Samuel Alan Gilmore!