On National Adoption Day, we couldn’t help but celebrate the superhero whose story first changed OURS. THANK YOU, Superman, for showing us what “super” really looks like in this life. We know our beauty comes at the cost of your brokenness, and we will never take for granted the price you’ve paid to be a part of this team. Honoring forever the courageous mama who chose for you life. Love you to the moon and back.
From the moment he came into our home at age 2.5, we knew he was something super.
The boy we called Superman could do with four fingers what took me five and with one arm bone what took me two, and by the time he was 9 years old, this little warrior had undergone 11 surgeries and 14 casts and put us ALL to shame with a pain tolerance on the scale of Rambo.
(While Superman has spent two separate weeks of his life NPO — without food or water preceding and following major surgeries and hospitalizations — this weak girl can barely survive a late lunch before she has to apologize for all the things she said to other humans when she was hangry.)
His tender heart, tenacious spirit and contagious smile have captured our hearts from second one. But what’s been so fun this year is to see the boy we’ve adored and admired for nine years finally begin to recognize in himself the super we’ve seen all along.
At age 11, Superman has finally emerged from his former tentative stance of occasionally hiding behind his cape. Little by little, he’s now starting to believe that God indeed intended him to fly.
And FLY is the word we find ourselves constantly using to describe this fast-as-a-speeding-bullet boy.
Of all the kids in the home, Superman is the most naturally athletic.
For the last several years, he’s utilized this speed on the soccer field, where he transforms from a quiet, reserved kid to the competitive one commanding every member of the team and leaping through the air in celebration any time his team scores a goal.
Since he’s been in elementary school, soccer has by far been his “thing.” Orange and white jerseys have been the colors of our wardrobes and weekends on the soccer field have been our permanent place.
But this year, when I asked Superman if he wanted me to sign him up again for his traditional rec soccer team, he actually paused.
“Actually,” he responded, “I’ve been thinking about this. Superheroes 1 and 2 didn’t really try new things by the time they got to middle school, and this is my last year of elementary school,” he said wisely. “I think I’d like to try something new before it’s too late.” He then paused. “Could I sign up for flag football?”
Even though Superman is Super-Spouse’s fellow college football-watching fan, I was still shocked.
Firstly, because our garage is filled with soccer goals and soccer balls and bags of soccer socks, because comfy socks are one of the highest priorities in Superman’s life.
And secondly, because up until this year, even with his keen athletic prowess, Superman has never willingly stepped out of his comfort zone to participate in a sport that involved anything other than his feet.
His feet are fast. His feet are reliable. His feet have served him well.
And his feet have all their digits and bones.
Playing a sport other than soccer with balls typically involves hands. And for a boy with radial dysplasia, that means it involves courage.
“That’s amazing,” I told him, still surprised but so incredibly proud of his boldness to try something new. Then I paused.
“Just one question. Buddy, do you have any idea how to play flag football?” I asked, having only seen him throw a ball in the yard with his brothers and their friends.
“I play at recess sometimes,” he replied with a shrug. “I’ll be fine.”
“Fine” happened to be the understatement of the year.
At Superman’s very first flag football game of all time, this boy who had up until now always protected the hand he had been self-conscious about caught a ball IN THE CROOK OF HIS ARM and ran it down the field for a play that eventually landed his team a touchdown.
In the second game of the season, he scored the only touchdown of the entire game (which was awesome, because the score was 40-something to 6 against the kids five times taller than ours who apparently eat their Wheaties and could have eaten our small humans for football dessert).
And at the end of the season, he and his precious teammates made it to the semi-finals of the rec flag football play-offs.
“Let’s GO!” he cried in victory with fists in the air after the game that led them there.
Sports are definitely Superman’s happy place, and they are unexpectedly the place where the only kid in our home missing body parts (and thankfully, my genes!) absolutely, positively SHINES.
Although Super-Spouse was a high school athlete and a 20-year combat warrior, I come from a family line that doesn’t “do” sports. We do music. We do Odyssey of the Mind. We do band and academic bowls and school newspapers and things solidly in the “geeky” plane of life. Sports are not just outside of our wheelhouse; they’re like outside the galaxy where our factory is located.
This is why the superheroes in our home do things like running. Because putting one foot in front of the other is about the extent of our athletics abilities. Balls are just outside all realms of possibilities.
So this summer, after a regular family maintenance meeting where we discussed what we could do better as a team and Superman told us, “I wish our family played more sports,” my Theis genes just shuddered.
What if we played more Scrabble? 😊 Or more instruments? Or more grammar games? Or really, more anything but games that put Theis genes embarrassingly on display?
We knew this guy whose love languages are physical touch and quality time needed us to put aside our own inabilities to fill his love tank, so, despite my best judgement and every middle school gym class reservation in my body, we told him we were all in.
There was no way we could keep up with the kid in soccer or anything that involved running, and we knew we needed to devise a way EVERY member of the family could be included and participate in whatever new sport we learned to play.
Superman suggested volleyball. We were all equally horrific at volleyball, and we could install a net in the backyard in a single afternoon. At least the playing field would be level.
Or so we thought.
Only it turns out that the kid who attended a singular volleyball camp this summer is actually a BEAST on the court, to the point that, a few weeks ago, when we attended a volleyball party at the home of dear friends, every adult on the court took two steps back when Superman was up to serve.
“They’re bringing in the ringer!” they would all cry as Superman’s powerful serves launched over the net I simply hit with mine time and time again.
At one point, one sweet player looked at the two of us 40-something adults, who were missing every ball coming our way, pointed to Superman, who made every bump, and asked, “Could we please trade both of you for him?”
Listen, we would trade ourselves every day of the week for that guy on our team, too.
Especially on a running team.
Earlier this year, after watching his biggest brother tackle his cross country 5Ks, an inspired Superman asked Superhero 1 if he could please help him train for and run his own 5K.
In February, the two of them ran Superman’s first ever 5K and crossed the finish line in 28 minutes. (Huge big brother points for Superhero 1, who generously gave up his normal sub-17 5K time to run alongside and encourage a baby brother doing three miles for the first official time.)
He was hooked.
This fall, Superman and Superhero 4 attended middle school cross country practice with me every Thursday so I could serve as a parent volunteer for Superhero 2’s team on the course.
After a few practices, the coach, a dear friend of mine, noticed Superman chomping at the bit to run himself, even though he has another year until middle school.
“Do you want to practice with us?” she asked him.
You couldn’t hold that boy back.
He started running with all his older brother’s teammates at practice all fall, and in October, he even ran an invitational race, where he completed two miles in 15:12.
After unofficially running with the middle school team all fall, we asked him if he wanted to complete another 5K, this time, sponsored by our church.
On Sunday, this fierce little runner dropped SIX MINUTES from his 5K time earlier this year and crossed the finish line with very little effort in 22:07.
“I have a new goal,” he told us after securing the Top 10 Male Finisher slot.
“In middle school, I want to run cross country in the fall and play soccer in the spring. And I want to be Top 5.”
Out of 100+ 6th through 8th grade runners.
With his competitiveness and grit and a big God who has carried him every step of the way, we have no doubts he’ll do it … or die trying.
Because although this private little man can be deceivingly quiet, he’s internally fiercely competitive and intensely goal-motivated. And not just in sports.
At Superman’s school, 4th and 5th graders have the opportunity to log Reading Theory points by reading passages and taking quizzes on their own time. Last year, when Superman found out that the class with the most collective points each quarter scored a treat, he didn’t just focus; he nearly fixated.
He started borrowing my phone to complete passages in every pick-up line and parking lot and, when another student started closing in on his personal total or his class began trailing by any number of points, this guy would set alarms to wake an hour early, just to log a few more passages for his team for the day.
By the end of the year, thanks to some other super readers, Superman’s classroom didn’t just win the award for the most Reading Theory points in their grade; Superman himself won the award for the most points earned by any individual in his grade.
With 30,000 points.
(After three months of the 2022-2023 school year, this boy has already logged 14,000 points, which is apparently 1/3 of the way to his newly-decided 5th grade goal of 40,000 points. Because Superman doesn’t know how to dream small.)
What’s beautiful about Superman is that, while he’s wildly competitive, this serve-behind-the-scenes kind of boy doesn’t seek accolades or recognition; just the joy of achievement.
He hates his name being announced for any reason, and he despises pictures and videos, even when the spoils of his hard work are on display. (This is why there are exactly half the number of photos of Superman as there are of any other kid in this home.) While he loves to goal-set, challenge himself, strive and strain, he hates being the center of attention in any way.
He doesn’t even like parties because he hates when something becomes all about him.
For his 11th birthday this year, the boy who hasn’t held a party since the year after he came home from China asked us for a non-party.
“What’s a non-party?” we asked.
“It’s a pancake playdate with three friends,” he explained. “No theme, no decorations, no balloons, no cake — just a pancake breakfast followed by a game of football in the yard.”
Right as my party-throwing, theme-thriving soul began to wither, he looked up to make sure any notion of side-stepping the no-festivities rule was fully executed on the floor.
“And Mom, only white plates. No colored ones allowed.”
Stick a fork in me.
So on the Saturday before his birthday, Superman gathered with some of his favorite people — his brothers and his three best friends — and he stuffed his face with his favorite food group (whipped cream — because pancakes are simply a delivery device in this life).
Despite my total dismay, this quiet, low-key, no-frills celebration was both quintessentially Superman and also probably one of his favorite birthdays of all time.
It’s one of our favorite things of all time to see this formerly reserved guy confidently and unapologetically just love what he loves.
Besides an absence of all things pomp and circumstance (or uncomfortable), these days, that includes math and robotics and drawing and art.
It includes 80s tunes he plays constantly on his iPod and old ballads he sings at high decibels in the car.
It includes animals and veterinary science and his long-time favorite animal, the wolf. (This summer, we took Superman on a wolf adventure, where he got to meet one-on-one with a wolf keeper and even feed his favorite animal from afar. His dream is to live in Alaska with 16 dogs — and enough children to use as straight slave labor to care for those dogs — while he serves as a wild animal vet who specializes in wolves.)
It includes camping and traveling and exploring states outside our own. (He helped choose our mountainous spring break destination because he loves him some snow, national parks and large animals free range in the wild.)
And, right after his all-time favorite human invention of socks (his feet barely make themselves naked for baths), it includes brothers and best friends.
This introverted extrovert loves his God and the people in his circle big and deep and wide and well, and his heart for those around him is beyond beautiful to see.
He somehow remembers not only the birthdays of his very best friends (and my brother, his birthday buddy) but also of their mamas, which he reminds me about on the way to school so I can be sure to text them on that day.
He loves group chats on iPod Facetime and doing his homework with a buddy or friend, and he’s the one always, always, always playing with a fellow brother inside or outside our home.
He’s Superhero 4’s bestie and the one who pushes him on his walker and practices his spelling words before tests and crawls into his bunk bed when he’s scared on dark nights.
And although we still often find ourselves categorizing him in the “little” category, this boy who has just come into his own this year has really grown just. So. Big.
He solves his own problems and fixes his own broken things, and he completely manages his lunches and homework and school schedule without anything but a signature from Super-Spouse and me. (He once figured out how to lower the ladder from our garage ceiling with a chair and one hand in order to get a stray football down from a gutter with just a ladder and a light pole. Because Superman is amazing. And because, four children in, we are horrible supervisors.)
And when it comes to cleaning and hygiene chores, this kid is the most thorough, responsible and detailed in the house. (At age 10, we told Superman that he needed to start wearing deodorant. Because #weloveourteachers. When we told him to put it in a place he would make sure not to forget it, he placed it not in his bathroom drawer or in his dresser but in the pages of his daily devotional. Because there, he said, he knew he couldn’t possibly forget.
Lord, teach ME this kind of discipline and commitment that if I forget my devotional, I forget my deodorant along with it.)
This year, independence and responsibility have kind of just become his trademarks.
Before school started, I asked this budding young helper if he wanted to be the one to make the last weekly Aldi run with Mom while the other (lovely but sometimes less helpful) brothers stayed home.
On the 20-minute drive to the store, this thoughtful and insightful guy asked me about everything from my favorite songs to my favorite childhood memories. He played 80s tunes on my phone as we laughed about stories and memories he’d never heard, and when we arrived at the store, he jumped out of the car without asking to take our quarter and grab our cart.
With his help, we made it through Aldi with a week’s worth of groceries in a record 17 minutes (I have receipt proof!), and when we moved to the counter to bag our lot, this guy sorted and organized everything by category better than the now-driving-himself teenager who was my former Aldi assistant in this life.
On the way home, I found myself stealing adoring glances at this too-big boy in this now no-longer-baby-looking body. He was handsome and hilarious and deep and complex and full of wisdom and insight and joy and grit. One-on-one, he just LIT UP.
It didn’t seem possible that this treasure had already spent nearly nine years inside our home.
As I just admiringly observed this butterfly who had finally seemed to emerge from his cocoon, Superman caught me red-handed.
“Love you, Mom!” he said with his adorable and contagious smile.
My heart melted.
Lord, may I never take for granted the privilege and honor of that sacred, special title.
“Love you, too, buddy.”
Forever, love you, too.