What I mean by that is that when I have to correct some behavior (say, walking into the house and across my freshly cleaned hardwood floors with his muddy shoes on), he can almost always be counted on to overreact. For example, I might say, "Kobi, you need to take your shoes off."
He might respond, "You want me to move? You don't want me to be your son anymore? You love Kameron better?"
To which I might answer, "No, I just want you to take your shoes off."
And so it goes. Kobi joined our family when he was a year old. His story is, of course, tragic as most of the histories of foster children are. His mom gave birth to him a month early, in a Motel Six in Denver. Honest to goodness, his birth certificate reads Motel Six, Denver Colorado as his place of birth. Too bad they wouldn't change that along with the mother's name when I adopted him. 'Course, we could put a fun spin on it...I bet no one else at his elementary school can say they were born in a discount motel. Wonder if I can wrangle it into free stays for life.
Anyway, his mom had several other children (something like six or seven), and abandoned each of them. Kobi, she left at the hospital. Literally, she just dropped him off there and left. I am grateful though. At least she took him to the hospital and didn't just leave him at the motel or something.
A few days later, an aunt showed up, and when he was discharged after a month long stay, she got custody. For two months. Until a social worker saw him and immediately removed him. He was almost dead - malnourished and catatonic in the crib. Back in the hospital he went. He was diagnosed Failure to Thrive.
Praise God, he was discharged into a terrific foster home, and I found out about him through his worker. She was visiting another one of my kids, and had pictures of little Kobi. I fell INSTANTLY in love. When she said she couldn't find an adoptive home for him, I practically begged her to consider us. Really, it was just God that we got him. He should have gone to a two-parent, ethnically appropriate family, but thanks be to God, I got him. A crazy oldish white lady with an odd assortment of children.
He adds such a sweet flavor to our family. As an old friend used to say, he's the pickle in our soup. And he's brilliant. And someday, when he wins his first Oscar , I will be able to retire comfortably in the style to which I'd like to become accustomed.