only fifteen

It only occurred to me as I sat to write this what other fifteen-year-old boys are doing on their birthdays.

The cake is no doubt the same, or similar. And the family gatherings, too.

But not the presents. My son received only a small present from me, so hard to find the right thing–or something that seems right in a teenage world. Developmentally, he avoids most things boys his age like… but he is also no child, not anymore.

The other thing different is the utter lack of friends, at least friends his own age. If there were anything I could change in his life, this would be one of the first. It was not always this way. For a long time he went to camp, and we tried harder to create social opportunities. And then, even in the people who were older, the ones who taught him something, or who just had the patience to say hello to him everyday, he loved the interaction. I wonder now when he is alone in his backyard if he is sometimes lonely.

In August, it will have been five years since my son stopped living in my home, the home where his siblings remain.

I think back often to the day I made the decision, a decision that no parent should ever have to make. It came after I gave up a job that I needed, a job I think I would have loved, two weeks in, and already months of trying to be in school, make ends meet, care for everyone else… I think back to the thirty-one people I interviewed for personal care attendants, the ten who took the job, the nine who quit only days into the training process. I think more often of the one who stayed. She was wonderful, but obviously rare. It really does take a village, and the village where we live was a difficult one, with a few ogres, too.

I look at my son now, at age fifteen, and think back to him at age ten. Five years, and he has made very little progress in skills. He has no meaningful mode of communication, save a few signs, his own sense of humor, anger. (This is the other big thing I would change in his life if I could.) He has little stamina for walking, hardly remembers what sidewalks are for. He can only help a little to dress himself, is no longer toilet trained at all. The list goes on, the small steps we used to make toward his independence–not complete, but better.

I know people try, and people burn out, too. The day-to-day is love, that is sure, but it needs so much more, so much.

I miss him, and wish for so much more for him on this birthday.

I wish for a world that believes in his future, for one thing–a world where community-based services are the norm, and not a private expense, or a fight to receive. I wish for a world that wants to hear his opinion, that works hard to find the ways to give him a voice, a way to communicate as completely as he wants to, what he wants to.

I wish for a world that did not stare at him.

I wish for a world that works to remove barriers, a world where he is no more special than any other fifteen-year-old boy.

dehiscence

My daughter’s incision reopened yesterday.

It was not a cheerful discovery, as you might guess, but a reminder of all that has happened. The nurse assures me that it is good: her body is pushing out the bad things that remain. It is not an easy thing, this healing. It is not over.

I have moved my office from the attic to my dining room for the time being. I miss the lofty space in one way, but rejoice in the chatter in the other room now when I hear it. Laughter!–then tears.. because it hurts to laugh with an open wound.

I wish that I had been the one torn from the inside out. I know this is every parent’s wish when a child is suffering, but it must always be as intense a feeling every single time. Just cut me open instead.. If only that were possible.

But she will get better, and do great things. This is a special girl; she always has been. The type who found another new friend in the new kid alone on the nursery school playground, the one who always gives up one if she has two. And often splits one in half if she only has one. I have to wonder what such a traumatic event–and none the less traumatic for the quality of care she received once sick–will mean to her later?

I know what it means to me. It means I want better. It means I want it never to happen to another person.

Sometimes we never know what is inside that needs to come out.. until it does.

thank you for shopping at…

The red and white bull’s eye has its aesthetic appeal, you’ve got to admit–even if it is exploited ad nauseum. But still, it catches my attention, directing it in so many levels, taking me sometimes back to more innocent days of going to Howard Johnson’s for all-you-can-eat clam strip night, then heading over to shop there.. and also at Casey’s Sporting Goods, where we used to pick up a box of shotgun shells. But this is starting to sound like one of those “when I was your age” type discussions I occasionally have with my kids, the kind that embarrasses even me at the notion that I say such things. I think I even suggested that three miles is not so far to walk to school…

Somehow, strange things so often seem to happen in this life. This evening involved no farce, no odd encounters with people I have not seen in a long time, no discoveries of criminal records among those accompanying me.. Nonetheless, Target tonight was quite the adventure, my friends. Yes, yes, it was. And glad to say, also, I managed to embarrass my kids.

Sometimes I wonder.. now, I know it is every good parent’s duty to embarrass his or her child. I nearly always do a fine job of it. I find myself laughing, while their young faces stare at me blankly. Another pun. They ask me to roll up the windows when I sing in the car! My daughter even cried when she found out about my little foray into the world of karaoke. Do your children tease you?

Well, I suppose most kids do suffer the anguish of being seen with an unruly parent. What seemed to bother them tonight involved something like a free arcade, right there in the toy department. It’s true! Kids can press buttons to watch expensive toys work. It reminds me of something I sort of remember at Lake of the Ozarks in the 1970s (all right, all right: YES, I am from Missouri, for heaven’s sake), but back then, I fear the animals were not plushy stuffed, but real, and not the least bit happy or free-range. But back to the point, I am really sure that I am not the first adult curious enough to go hit all those buttons! So I did.

But you may be wondering why I was even in the toy department. Well, my kids are older now, more interested in nail polish, art supplies, and electronics than My Little Ponies. Or so I thought! Recently I have seen my girls with ponies, and with Barbie! And to believe that just a few short months ago, my younger daughter and her mischievous little friend were tearing the heads off the dolls and leaving them on neighbors’ door steps (ringing the doorbell and running, too). Sort of like the cat who keeps bringing you dead birds and other creatures… But no more. No, my daughters both have rediscovered toys, so I find myself wandering into those long-forsaken aisles again myself.

Things have changed. For one thing, there is a Barbie who has a webcam in her chest. Seriously. This particular rendition of Barbie disturbs me for reasons completely unrelated to the difficulty I envision dressing her. Or paying for her: she is expensive! This week, though, you can find her on sale at Target for $45.99, if you are interested in this sort of high-tech invasive Barbie experience. (She even has a screen in her back!)

But if you are not interested in spying, there are plenty of other choices. Ken goes Parisian in a shiny grey suit with a hot pink sequined tie and black shirt beneath. Go Ken! He is a man equally up to the fashion trends set by his hip girlfriend: he even has highlights in his hair now. He really has to: Barbie herself takes up a full half aisle.

Moving beyond Barbie, I liked a big cat face keyboard.. thought of buying it for my younger son, but then thought better of it. It is so easy to think of his developmental level in childlike ways that totally ignore that he really is not three and not interested in toys that meow. Except cats.

A monster toy in a plexiglass cage roars and does flips when you push the button. That was impressive. A set of Disney princess dolls sing their signature songs.. Being the purist that I am, I went for Snow White: “Whistle While You Work”. Such a cheerful number.

But the pièce de résistance tonight was… (and again I admit my classical tastes, friends): Mickey Mouse.

But this was not just any Mickey: it was a dancing and singing Mickey, and he is a thoroughly modern Mickey! Two buttons indicated the choices, undoubtedly limited to us window shoppers. I went for the “Moonwalk” selection, and pressed the button. Mickey introduces himself: “Go Mickey, Go Mickey. It’s your birthday, it’s your birthday…” And yes, he does moonwalk. I was laughing so hard that my girls would not let me press the “Latin” button, but I am sure it was equally entertaining. And oh: it is! Just look!

With tears running down my face, I took a quick look in the Princess Mirror just to make sure there were no more mascara smudges after all this. My girls told me that they can’t take me anywhere, but the mirror begs to differ (said I was the most beautiful of all).

At this point, everyone was ready to leave. One quick stop to buy that strange stuff they call yogurt (is it really?–it doesn’t taste like yogurt!)…. We paid for our Barbies, our yogurt, our dental floss, our box of kleenex, and we were on our way.

It was a good evening, and the dark sky greeted us in the parking lot, a crescent moon peeking out from behind the clouds just as we arrived at the car.

And this, everyone, is my life: kid-oriented to a great extent, even now, ’tis true (and it is true to the point that I often feel as a friend reminded me of the words of the great Martin Mull: “Having a family is like having a bowling alley installed in your head”). I find myself speechless at times, not because I have nothing to say, but because I forgot it.

Or is it perhaps that I wish guiltily for spontaneity?… for freedom, for my former quick recall of books and the most recent movies, of music of many genres, many things I used to see live? Yes, sometimes I yearn for these things again… Ah, to read, without falling asleep! To respond wittily! quickly! Ah yes… it comes back to me in moments. But sometimes, I am happy enough to settle in with giggles and watch Legally Blonde just one more time, to consider that the path to world peace may well begin in solving the problem of teenage boredom in the basement….

dress code

Ken doll is in class. Hannah Montana Barbie is the teacher, and he has two classmates, also named Barbie. In a while, the classes will be integrated with Little Ponies from another district (no doubt accessible only by hot air balloon), but for now, it is just those three students and their teacher, and it is attendance time.

“Kenny?” Hannah Montana Barbie teacher calls out.

“Here,” says Ken, smoothing down the ruffle of the pink floral halter dress he is wearing to the first day of school.

“You are going to the nurse!” teacher says.

“Why?” Ken is confused.

“You are breaking the dress code!!”

“What, is my V-neck too low?”

My older daughter, a.k.a. voice of Ken, just started middle school. The dress code theme has not come up at home, perhaps because she has never tended to wear shorts that are too short or tops that are not enough top. But obviously something has changed here.

From my front porch, I watch people in their various modes of dress make their way down the street. The hospital employees wander in, in their nursing clothes, their administrative clothes, their social worker clothes, their doctor clothes. Nuns in white habits still come to the dentist next door. A woman pushes her shopping cart not on the sidewalk, but in the middle of the street, a conical straw hat on her head. Another woman is in a niqab, eyes only visible, but not screened. The high schooler in a short skirt comes by, and the boys–the look can only be described as “cool”… Neatly dressed kids at the bus stop–I speak French to their mother until another mom comes and the dialogue switches into Creole… understandable but not French, so I stop talking, except to answer about the time. Another man there brings his son down–he wants to speak English with me, with his son, but answers the phone in Portuguese. Our neighbors speak Spanish. It is not just dress; it is culture, the many nationalities that enrich our community.

So, dress code in middle school is all about not distracting other students, it seems.. Nothing too risqué; nothing that may incite violence.. It is all about respect. Right?

We are still naive.

I think of the Muslim woman in particular, think of the diversity of my community and the right we still have–for the most part–to express our differences through our clothing. In reality, I do not know that Ken would be banned from wearing Barbie’s clothing to school… and indeed, the problem may indeed come only if the get-up were too revealing. Barbie in full burqa? Well… we are not in France, and right now conforming to religious laws is not banned… Not yet.

But I wonder. I feel fortunate in my life, in my work, to see so many sides of this town. We may still allow differences in clothing, but perhaps it is because groups are still relatively invisible to one another. It seems a divided place so often, a place that changes so much from one end to the other that it is far too easy to ignore the Other…

An apartment on one side smells of mold, the basement rugs peeled up to reveal only glue, a line where the water rose time and time again…. A woman lives in that apartment. And then, a mansion of sorts on the other side, the Bentley in the garage, the immaculate and unused swimming pool… A woman lives here, too. The one is scarcely aware of the other, unless the one cleans the other’s house, unless the question of subsidized housing and human service nonprofits comes up again. Same town. These are economic differences–perhaps the cultural differences are more tolerable as long as everyone is quiet and asking for nothing. But even within enormous economic differences, I walk into homes that still seem so similar: family pictures on the walls, a meal cooking on the stove top, friendly greetings, sometimes misery, and so often so much love. We really are all fundamentally human, and nothing more. Nothing less.

It is a perfect day, really, recalcitrant summer children transitioning into the home routine, the non-fun (but evidently embarrassing) mom routine, the school routine, life. The bikes are out of the garage awaiting a clear day ride, and the girls have dragged their childhood toys to the backyard to replay scenes from school.

The doll dress code issue has been resolved, and Ken is now wearing a pair of green and purple striped pants. My younger daughter has made the ponies sing her own school’s “Work Together” song in a high-pitched nasally voice…

“We come together from far and wide/ Work together all side by side….” The cynicism comes through, and it is unfortunate. My girls have become reluctant in recent years to believe that anyone is willing really to work together, despite the energy devoted to making up songs about it. The ponies have arrived to the classroom now, it seems, and the Barbies have adapted well to the newcomers in their world. The sappy singing has stopped, and now everyone is helping to clean out two girls’ bedroom…

Are they working together? It seems they are, the floor emerging as clothes are tossed into a hamper, a bed made, things just a little nicer… And then, laughter. The girls are too old for Ponies, and laugh about that,

I allow the girls their cynicism, though perhaps I am wrong to do so. I allow it, because I feel so strongly myself: it is not the songs that matter, but the actions, everyday. What can I do to make things a little nicer for my neighbors? For my family? For my friends? How do we come together in ways that make us less afraid of one another, more human?

Thoughts for a Sunday… for the year as it begins.

community 10

Tonight was the final band concert for the elementary schools in our district. Ever.

I like to think about things to build community, but tonight I am thinking of the things that have gone into destroying it.

I mentioned the elementary band program earlier this year here. Since we moved downtown, and a couple of years before, we crowded the Town Hall in December for the annual tree lighting. For all the parents who try to avoid downtown Framingham, yet another reason for coming down here will be gone–and it was a joyous one, at that. The band, the crowds, the cookies and the Santa… gone. Gone is the concert at the Natick Collection. Gone is the Jordan Furniture concert, too.

I mention the three community concerts and not those in the school because they are the displays of the community that completely disappears when it eliminates the people who love it the most. Pretty sad.

My daughter hung around Jordan’s tonight. She wants to make sure we buy the paper tomorrow for the story–maybe someone will save it, she says.

Budget cuts are always hard, they say. They are. But to remove the best things in life — whether it be that occasional coffee with friends that we really cannot afford or an elementary band program — is something we do not easily bring back. To find the dedication in another director beyond that of a man who has been going for thirty years–impossible, I dare say.

We celebrated what is right now tonight. A few people noticed how special it is. Is that enough to make it stay? We can only hope.

If not, it makes me rethink community–this community.

community 7

I think of a protest of sorts. This is a good community-building activity, perhaps. It may also destroy a community, but then.. well, some communities were just made to be blown apart.

I think this despite my inclination to seek the good in the world. Sometimes injustices must be exposed for things truly to be right. So I rant at times. I rave. I wave my hands around and speak about the whys, the wherefores. (That really is the same thing, isn’t it?)

So, a new era is upon us soon. I seek what is right, and will fight for it. It really is the only way. Will you join me? Will you be a part of this community?

adventure 20

The way I have structured these days is to think a little in the morning about what might make for an adventure later on. Sometimes I have little time for this sort of thinking, so I prod at the idea once in a while during the day… “Are we having fun yet?” And yes, usually somewhere in there I am having fun, but not always the sort that is more than a little amusing to me at the moment. Drinking coffee, unless in Paris or, say, Dakar, is not an adventure. Or maybe it is.

But today, I planned it out. On the way home from delivering my younger son back to his dad, we ended up on the banks of the Charles River near the Publick Theater. Now, I have never actually stopped there–no time, no time. But there is always time. So we stopped. And it was quite nice, wandering there next to the water, talking to the woman who had her cat in a specially designed kitty stroller. Yes, she took her kitty out for a walk! And there was the man taking pictures of his son on the same falling-down willow trees where mine were playing. It was an adventure, and a nice one.

And then, there is my discussion with a friend about my future, what I plan to say tomorrow. But that is tomorrow’s adventure. I can save it.

I repeated my early-morning bike ride. I saw my son with autism–and it was hard. I have cuts all over my arms from the frustrations he faces when he is uncomfortable… and cannot explain why with such limited language. I talked on the phone to a friend who has been a little out of touch, but not forgotten by any means. I talked to my mom… but that is no adventure at all: I talk to her everyday.

In all of this, I find myself changing. So when I received a note from a fellow on a dating site and realized that he was looking for someone who does not seem to be me, I wrote a note to him, answered his niceness.

Then I spilled my guts. I never do this, and even told him that I never do it, and did not particularly feel that it was the best way to start a conversation with someone who might potentially want to ask me on a date. I told him all about my last relationship, the crazy one. And then sort of cringed. Why?

Why indeed? I must say. Why would I ever settle for anything that makes me less than happy? So many things did bring me joy in the relationship–at the very least, the idea of having someone to talk to. An adult. A friend. And more, a friend who liked me so much, who engaged me, who accepted me. This is not something I take lightly. And there are a good number of reasons for that. A few examples…

A few weeks ago, I was invited on a picnic with a new friend who wanted to speak French. I wanted to speak French. I like new friends. So we talked about the picnic, set roughly for a certain day of the week. The day of the week fell on a day when I learned at the last minute–the night before at 8pm–that my older son’s school had decided at the last moment to have a meeting. Given the crisis that caused the meeting to happen, I said yes, yes. Of course I would be there! I canceled the picnic. The new friend told me I was rude, too busy, and made a comment about single moms. Never another word.

Another example: I spoke at a forum on children’s mental health support. It was a big deal, with state bigwigs and reporters. One of the reporters quoted me in the local paper, and before I knew it, my daughter’s best friend was no longer available–ever!–to come over to our house. In fact, she never came over again. A swift comment from the mother about the newspaper, about her beliefs around children with “issues”, explained the rejection.. but it was not less painful.

A friend asked me on Friday about how well I get along with the moms of my younger daughter’s friends. Well enough, it is true. But it is always a little hard. I live on the wrong side of town. I work in social services in a town that is a little tired of being the town known for social services. I am divorced in a town that seems curiously devoid of single moms. And then.. there is the issue about the boys. Yes, the boys. It is hard. The girls’ friends still come over, I still talk to parents, volunteer at the school… and still.. It sometimes seems that the only people who truly understand are those who have lived it.

So I cling to that. I cling to the connections I have made with those who know firsthand what life is like in this zone. I love dearly, and I know that no relationship of any sort will really work unless someone has extraordinary patience and some experience in this sort of thing. Some life experience. I seek a partner who has lived through failures great and small, who is still smiling at the end of the day, who can love me, and be the stand-up guy who does not walk away–run away more likely–who needs that sort of understanding from me.

I get it. There are a lot of things, I realize, that I do not have to live with. But disappointment, failures, obstructions and grief I get. Small miracles I get, too–and joy! Getting up and going anyway, I get that. Wishing, working for better things: I get that, too. Believing in goodness, I understand. Believing in general is something I do not take lightly.. I love.

And I do love.

Fellows on dating sites still write to me. Over years, I have met nice friends there, and I have met loves, so I remain. But I do not want to tell new friends what it is really like. I do not want to say that my son just spray painted the basement wall. I do not want to show them where my other son scratched my arms. I do not want to tell them that my last boyfriend was committed to a psychiatric hospital for a short time. I do not want to tell them that I go to work to meet with people who are living loving lives in the basements of crappy buildings that should be condemned. I do not want to tell them that I see rock bottom on a fairly regularly basis, and that all the passion and patience and understanding that is in me is there because I know the other side.

I do not want to tell them this, and still.. I did. He said he thought I could not be committed to a serious relationship with him. He was certainly right–indeed, I did tell him that I did not want that, anyway. But friendship? Well, no. He did not seem to think I was right for that, either. Certainly right.. but not for the reasons he thought. Healing? I suppose I have healed as much as I ought to. But so much is so unsure so much of the time. And then, there is the other thing. I love, yes I do.

I want this life, this full life, this hazy and unsure life… and really, I already have it.

hope

In my moment of need, I found help. I am so thankful for that, for friends, for love.

But in the midst of it, I became distraught, scattered, hopeless. And my son knew it. He knew as he looked at me that I had lost hope, and I do believe it terrified him.

It terrified me. I was imagining a future that began with arrest, not finishing school, drinking, drugs, homelessness, disease, disability.

Stop.

A wise friend came to me and said: paint a different picture, one of focus and drive, of anger diverted into usefulness, of aggression channeled into energy.

Not such bad thoughts. Not bad to think that out of rage, goodness could surface. But then again, why not?

Thank you, friend, for reminding me. Thank you for giving me hope.

need

I find it much easier to run to help a friend than it is to ask for help.

It is to admit weakness, I think, vulnerability, need. And in my mind, it is so hard to need. Being strong feels like such an admirable quality, one that draws others near in joy, in times we want to cherish. Being vulnerable requires us to trust. And what may be more difficult, it requires us to hope.

There is a solitary quality to difficult times. Sometimes, others face their own fears when they encounter a friend who is no longer as they remember him.. Would I change so much? He suffers. My friend suffers, and it hurts me to see him suffer. And then, attending to someone else’s needs can seem like another burden. We fear being that burden ourselves. We fear wanting too much. Worse, we fear needing too much.

We fear being perceived as alone, weak, tired. I do. I want so much to call on those I love, and yet I fear that they will perceive me as a person changed. And in so many ways, these tests do change us. We struggle; we suffer. And in the end perhaps we end up stronger. Asking for help in these times can seem to be admitting defeat. But in fact, we may well be admitting our own strength.

I need. I ask for help now.

three little words

“I am happy.”

The last time my twelve-year-old son made a sentence was nearly five years ago, on my fortieth birthday. On that day, he said, “Happy Birthday.” It was a happy birthday, of course. What better present? A miracle. A temporary miracle, but not less special. Words uttered so rarely… words, feelings. I witness this, and it makes me shiver, then makes me cry.

I went to work today, still in awe of the moment my son had shared with me, went to see women who are growing old, holding onto their own miracle of life, and knowing it.

“Ah, when you go out to dinner, or have something nice in your life, it means more to you!” one speculated. I never let people so close to me, not at work, but sometimes it is impossible for them not to see. Yes, the sky is bright, the rain is beautiful, the world is warm and wonderful. And my son said he was happy. He said so.

I am happy, too.