This little piece isn’t so much about adoption as about having (or being) a two-year-old. Some of the ideas come from as far back as when David was two. I didn’t write this when Dani was two, but thoughts like this often helped me keep strength, and even to be a little bit more understanding than I could have been otherwise.

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My name is Dani. I have a Mama, a Dada, and my very own David. I love them all. They make me laugh, and play with me. They bring me food when I’m hungry, and milk or water or juice when I’m thirsty. They give me hugs and kisses. They say nice things to me. I can’t say all of their words, but I understand most of them.

Sometimes, I think they’re very smart. They know how to do things I just haven’t been able to figure out yet. But, at other times, they miss the most obvious things. They bring me milk when I’m clearly thinking of juice. Unless I figure out how to say it in exactly their words, they often miss my meaning entirely. Oh, I know I should be patient, but, sometimes, they’re just so IRRITATING! Are they trying to not understand me?

Ah, but, if that were my only problem, I’d have a pretty easy life. They are nice a lot of the time. They usually get me what I want, if I’m patient enough. But I’ve come to realize that it’s all on their own terms. I’m subject to their slightest whims, because they’re bigger than I am. I’m helpless in a physical contest with any of them. Now, a lot of the time, I don’t care very much where they take me, or what they choose to do. �When I don’t care, I don’t make a big fuss, but maybe I should. I don’t think they appreciate just how often I give my silent consent for them to do with me as they please.

They never even question their right to choose who takes care of me. They come and go at will, and their only rule seems to be that there has to be someone within shouting distance, who may or may not give me what I want or need when I call for it. When they want to take me somewhere, they just do it. They almost never ask me if I want to go. Sometimes, they’re kind enough to tell me where they’re taking me, but they use those words that I’m still working out how to use. They get to choose what I can have and what I can’t have. They decide when it’s bed time, and my bed has bars, so I can’t get out! There’s very little pattern to what they decide. They just choose, and mess with my life at will.

And, oooh, this is the worst part. If I, tiny little insignificant Dani, choose to resist their will, if I choose to make my voice heard, they IGNORE it! They don’t just ignore it. They PHYSICALLY invade my PERSONAL SPACE to impose their all-powerful will on me! Oh, the unmitigated GALL! It makes me mad just thinking about it! They pick me up like a sack of toys and cart me off where-the-scream-ever they screamin’ want me to be! They use their senseless brute strength to pry things out of my hands, and I’m dead certain that they know I don’t like it.

I said I sometimes can’t say all the words I understand; but there’s one word I know solid: it’s “NO!” I know they know what it means; they say it to me sometimes. �But, if they don’t want to hear it, I might as well be talking to a great big locked door. No! No! NO!!! Can’t they hear me screaming? Don’t they know that nothing’s right, and, with every movement, based on arbitrary whim, they’re making it worse? Yes, I know they can hear me. It shows on their faces. They don’t like it. Well, too screamin’ bad for them! It’s all I’ve got to fight with.

I can run, but they’re faster. I can go limp, but they just pick me up — it’s a minor inconvenience for them. I can tell them no, but it doesn’t even get their attention unless I scream it. Sometimes, yes, once in a while, I can wear them down. I can put up such a fuss that they decide their senseless whims can yield to reason; but OH, what a bother I have to go through just to get that to happen — and even that isn’t reliable! When they dig in, when they make up their minds, there is absolutely nothing I can do, no matter how wrong they are! It makes me SO MAD!

The conflict comes and goes. I put up with their whims when I can, even though they don’t recognize it. I know it could be worse. The cage I live in is a gilded cage. I get fed, cared for, and loved. I love them all, too, and I don’t want anybody else to be my Mama and my Dada and my David. But, when they really cross the line, I will NOT be silenced. I will not allow them to forget that I am a person, and that my deepest desires and needs are WAY more important than their arbitrary whims. Until they really show me that they understand, until they really choose to recognize my depth, my honor, and my dignity, I will not yield, and I will not back down. They can impose their will upon me, but they cannot make me be quiet. I’ll pay whatever price they impose to make my voice heard — and I’ll see that they pay a price, too.

There is hope for this. All three of them have moments when they’re absolutely wonderful. They may even be wonderful more often than they’re insensitive and mean. Sometimes, even when they’re imposing their will, they try to appear sensitive. I don’t buy it for a second, but maybe it indicates there’s hope for actual sensitivity in those circumstances. Maybe they’ll learn to recognize me for who I am, all the time, and not just when they’re feeling kind. I really hope we do work this out. It’s such a hassle having to scream and cry and fight. I’d really rather not have to bother.

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Hi, this is Steve again. I do realize parents are more understanding than this piece portrays – and I don’t pretend I have any special insight into any child’s mind. I certainly hope I was (and am) more understanding and fair than the Dani of this piece portrays. Experience shows that children that age live mostly moment to moment, so the moderating part, where she’s still grateful for what she has, would probably never go through her mind at the same time as she’s raging about injustice. I guess I’m artificially spanning time here.

But I stop short of claiming, as so many do, that a two-year-old is incapable of this complexity of thought. Sure, I’m projecting my own feelings on her situation. That’s the purpose, really – to help me understand. But I think little ones are smarter than many give them credit for. They certainly have a lot more going on than their words portray. I don’t know the child language to express the feelings I’m projecting; so I have to try using grown-up language, instead.