Jekyll and Hyde

My chest is constricted, my throat is closed, I am so past crying, it's a little alarming.

A. threw a rake at me today in anger and frustration. It hit me in the back. Left a cut. Blood on my shirt. It has been a while since he has thrown anything. I wish in these moments that I were a big, burly man. That I could grab him by the scruff of the neck and get in his face and scare the shit out of him.

I feel, instead, like a weak-willed woman, too frightened to stand up to her abuser.

But what do you do when this abuser is your child? Bigger than you, and not yet a man? When it is your heart, out of your body, staring at you, fuming? When you know that his bi-polar disorder and lack of treatment for the past 7 years is partly to blame? When the urge to hold him and get him through it is stronger than the urge to fight back, to call the police, to do the things you probably should?

I get stuck in the guilt trap. In the place where I beat myself up with the "shouldas." I should have insisted he stay on medication after the first diagnosis when he was 6. I should have handled these behaviors different from the very beginning. I should have...

But the fact is this: My boy is troubled. Troubling and in trouble. And some days I feel scared and hopeless. On these days, it's hard to remember the brilliant, quirky, eccentric, interesting individual he is. On these days, fear consumes me, and I see him in jail, or alone, or dead, or addicted to drugs and alcohol.

On these days, I feel completely alone. These things are impossible to explain. How does the afternoon start with A. asking to rake leaves for money, to throwing the rake at me, to threatening suicide, to sleep?

He will wake up emotionally hung-over, but pretty much done. And I am left with whiplash and desperate calls to counselors and doctors.

I am grateful that we hit the crisis we did a month ago so that we can finally get some help. But I am angry and frustrated that it took that. What if it's too late?

I guess, though, that it is like anything else. Left foot, right foot, repeat. Left foot, right foot, repeat.

audition

This is hard. Sitting, Waiting. Watching. Judging. There are so many kids in there for this art audition. Kids who probably spent months - years - took a class to put together their portfolio.

And A - two days.

And here's the thing: I don't know what's supposed to happen or what the "best" outcome would be or how he's going to feel or how he compares to other kids. Even if I did, none of it is anything that I can make happen, make not happen, change, rearrange.

I'm projecting, really. There are so few things anymore that I regret about my own past. But that I did not pursue my art haunts me. That I stepped off the stage because of fear (as much of success as of failure), addiction and laziness still turns me into an abysmal well of shame, self-pity, regret.

That's what's going on here. I want A to do what I didn't. I want him to want to. Without really allowing him to decide for himself what it is that HE wants to do.

I told him this morning as he labeled his portfolio that I was earnestly going to try to back off and let him grow. That I know that I need to get off his back. That I will probably make mistakes while trying to do that. "It's ok. Everyone makes mistakes, mom," says this kid who's huge behind-the-dirty-glasses eyes are level with mine. (When did he get so big?)

I have to remember that he's taken care of. That I have to stop trying to be mother/father/god to this boy. That I need to let go lest I suffocate him and hinder his growth. I kid myself when I think he 'can't handle' it. He has shown wisdom, creativity, depth, humor that surprises me. Usually when I get out of the way.

How many times must I go through this before I finally get it, I wonder? As many times as it takes, I guess. Pretty sure we'll survive, regardless.

I am proud of my boy. Incredibly proud.

This is not my audition. I'm going to let go of his process. I am. Really. Right now. Whew. Breathing. Ok. There. Released. For now. I'm sure I'll have to release it again. And again.

chapped lips, etc.

It's starting to feel like the only time I log in to write anything is when I'm in a really shitty mood. Or maybe that's when people finally leave me alone long enough to do anything.

I need to start carrying a small notebook in my pocket because there have been a few times in the past couple of days when I've said, "Note to self: remember this so you can write about it in your blog." Ha. Ha. HaHaHa. There are too many post-its in my head and invariably, if I don't write something down, another note to self gets plopped on top. I may find the buried reminders someday... but by then I can't remember why I was supposed to remember. Ah.

One thing I do remember, because it made me laugh. A was somewhat recovered from the flu, but still had runny nose and gunk and just leftover misery... and really horribly chapped lips. At one point, I turn around to look at him, and his mousy brown hair is covering his face, and he is sort of slouched and mad-looking and his lips are so chapped that they look like clown lips... and I swear to you, it was like looking at me at around age 10 or so. It was almost surreal. And for some reason, really - really - funny. Sucks to inherit the whole chapped lip thing.

The other thing I remember because it's another one of those moments where I'm reminded how little I really know. How far out of proportion I can blow things. And how terrified I am of things not working out, of people's feelings being hurt, of *gasp* someone not liking me!!! A had a rough morning on Saturday. Woke up late ("It's not my FAULT!!!"), showed up to his Band solo competition without his saxophone ("I didn't know!!!"), was told by his coach not to shoot during the basketball game ("He's STUPID!"), didn't move on to regionals with his Nat'l History Day Project ("They cheated")...

I should pause here to say that we were able to reframe all of this - yes, it's your responsibility to wake up on time - if you don't know, ASK - a coach's responsibility it to ask his team to play in a way that makes sense THAT game against THAT team, it's not personal - be proud that your project got to regionals! Make an even better one next year....

So, bad day (plus, his father is moving back to town and A wants to go live with him again). And for some reason, I pick this day to talk to him about school. He was thinking about auditioning for the Arts Magnet - for music. (Yes, the kid who can;t wake up and doesn't bring his instrument... oh, and never practices.)

We agree to go to dinner and talk about HS, because we're running out of time. We talk about the Arts Magnet, I point out that he's very, very good at sax, but that he needs to decide if he loves it enough to do what it takes. That it's not about being good, it's about wanting it. He decides probably not. I mention to him that the one thing he does ALL the time, that he loves doing is drawing. He say, "I'm not very good." I say, "well. what do you think school is for???" He thinks maybe he'll audition for Art.

We talk about the neighborhood school. Not the best in the world, but consistently in Newsweek's top 100. (or 1000). Has a great fine arts dept, athletic dept, AP classes, etc. In fact, I can't think why he wouldn't want to go... except that his father has made the school out to be festering evil... based on... I don't know.... voices in his head???

Then he says what I knew he would - he utters the name of a school and says, "You know, when my dad moves back, he can move into that neighborhood."

And I open my mouth and shut it. And open and shut it. He looks at me and says, "What? Just say it." I tell him I don't know how to say what I need to say without it sounding mean. "Just say it."

So I scramble for neutral words and find a way to talk about his father's inconsistency in terms of staying in one place for any length of time (I do NOT talk about his inconsistency in everything, though I am tempted). I say, I don't want him to go to a school based on his Dad's address anf then have to transfer out when something comes up. And A says, "Mom, that's not mean. That's the truth."

And there it is. He KNOWS the TRUTH!!! I get so wrapped up in saying it right, so wrapped up in not badmouthing his father, ruining his relationship with his dad... and in some ways, I've known he knows the truth, but that was one of those "you're off the hook" moments. And it was beautiful.

Next post, I'll try to remember to write about the dog R keeps promising he'll get for A. A now has his heart set on a Husky that his father has apparently promised. I think he knows the truth anout that one, too. But he wants it to work so bad - the whole normal dad-son-dog thing. And the truth hurts.

stir crazy

I don't know if I could ever be a stay-at-home mom... and I don't know what that says about me. It's possible, of course, that this "get me out of here" feeling has more to do with Alex being sick in bed and less to do with any kind of stay-at-home-mom type thing. Or maybe that he's 13 and way past the need for me to stay home (except when knocked out by fever).

I really don't know what to do with myself. If I were a stay-at-home mom, we'd go to the park or something, right? Or bake cookies? Or do crafts? Seeing that I want more kids, it worries me that I get so antsy about being cooped up in the house for ONE FREAKING DAY!

Hmmm. I'm overanalyzing perhaps.

I get sad sometimes that I didn't get to stay home with him when he was young. I did take him with me everywhere I went - I won't say that he was somehow deprived of my attention. But I do wish I'd had some more one-on-one time with him. Time when my attention wasn't divided by work, school, whatever play I happened to be doing at the time.

I hope that I can do that for the next one.

Ok. So today. While he is sick and asleep. And I need to stay here. Maybe I'll finally get those pictures in albums.

Maybe I'll bake some cookies.

Maybe I'll do my taxes.

Maybe I'll just figure out how to be still for a little bit.

running, etc.

It seems unreal to me that I'm coaching new runners when I just started running myself. It's just what I need, though, as it turns out. I have a stubborn as hell mental block that I can't seem to tear down that tells me I can only go so far before I need to walk. When you are leading a group of people and you've determined how far you're going and how fast, you have to do it. There is no quitting, there is no "sorry, I'm tired." Ego, in this case, is a very good thing. And it is inspiring and awesome to see some of the people who, despite what their minds and bodies are telling them, have the heart and willingness to show up and run at 7 in the morning. Because they want to lose weight or feel good or get healthy. Who knows. But it certainly makes me show up when I don't want to, knowing there are a group of runners counting on me to lead them.

****

A is officially home. I pulled up to the house after work yesterday to find his father's Suburban in my driveway and boxes being hauled into the house. And J looking a little aggravated. This has all happened so quickly. R will be in San Antonio for the foreseeable future, and am dancing with my inner demons who have always wanted him to leave, while feeling tremendous sadness for A who wants his dad more than ever right now.

He walked his dad out and came back inside doing everything he could to hold back tears. He hugged J, hugged me. Then asked if I would please play basketball with him... that he really needed to play basketball.

I must say that I get really, really, REALLY tired of basketball. But this is a kid who's coping skills used to include swinging a baseball at me, punching and kicking walls, swearing, screaming, running away. The fact that now under stress and sadness he wants to play basketball is a miracle and I would've played all night if he needed to.

What hit me last night was that, even though I am ecstatic to have him home, I had just found my groove with him NOT being here, and it will be a rough transition to having the house filled with his not always easy-going energy. Wouldn't trade it for the world. I am convinced he is where he needs to be. (Not that I REALLY know where he's supposed to be or what path he is supposed to be on... or that i get to dictate that in any way.)

I hope that he continues to talk. I hope I continue to listen. He has been so blessed with having both parents - despite our difference and despite what an absolute idiot R is - near by. This will be a completely different experience for both of us. I shudder to think that this is what I always wanted.

I hope to hell that R stays close - calls, finds ways to see him. An odd thing to say since I despise the man. Maybe this is what happens when you mature - when you really allow yourself to fall fully, deeply into the absolutely selfless role of motherhood. I hate R, but I love A even more. And I will do what ever is best for him.

hang ten, dude

I absolutely love this picture of me and A - except for the fact that it makes me think about how I'm not really living the life I think I wanna live.

I'm not talking about a ridiculous fantasy life, I ... well, maybe I am. I see pictures like these... outside (mountains or beach) and I look happy and relaxed and it makes me wonder why (WHY!!!) I live in a city like Dallas. People don't live here, they work here. And it's certainly not relaxed. Or bright. Or full of spunky, funky, laid-back energy (that is NOT a contradictory statement).

I want to be in California or Mexico or Belize. I want to walk around barefoot. I want to be outdoors. I want to walk/bike/run/ride the bus to the store, the beach, the mountains, the coffee shop.

I long for a kind of simplicity that in my younger days I found boring and catastrophic. I always fancied myself an artsy urbanite, a slick city-girl, a Manhattan hipster- but I find that I am happiest near bodies of water. I am happiest surrounded by trees.

I know this. I've known it for a while. What is it that holds me back, I wonder? If I think hard enough, dig deep enough, I'm pretty sure I could find the answer.

I wish I had the courage to risk being truly happy.

on another note

Spent this entire weekend with A and it was just what this mom needed. I had been missing that boy to a degree that was starting to feel like longing, which borders on the needy side. Thirteen is still young, he is still a child, and he is my child and I have absolutely HATED not seeing much of him over the past couple of months.

This weekend, we played basketball, went to the mall, saw a movie, went running, watched football, had dinner... and it was pleasant. I know that more important than anything else is that I remember these moments everytime he declares, like only defiant teenagers can, how much he hates me. Remember these moments everytime there is something way more important/interesting/cool than me.

It is aweing that this boy, who's voice has deepened, who's features have become chiseled, who's shoulders are broadening, who's feet are humongous, will still hug his mother and tell her that he loves her.

I am so proud of my young man.

Chocolate Abuelita and Stale Churros (with a side of grief)

I read somewhere, or someone told me, that parents go through a grieving process when their kids grow up. Specifically the teen years. And I thought, nope. Not me. First of all, A and I are so close, that we'll just get closer - or at least, I thought, that his teenage years would not look like the stereotypical boys'. Plus, I will be too proud of his stepping out in the world to grieve. I am above all this pyscho-babble. Right?

Wrong.

It is unbearably painful to watch A grow. Not bad pain, necessarilly. Not always, anyway. Sometimes I am in honest-to-god fear that I will explode as I swell with pride at my fine young man. (Fine against all odds, really, given where this child comes from.) Joy can hurt. Pride and love and empathy can hurt. A sweet, lovely hurt, but a deep hurt, nonetheless.

I am proud that he doesn't need me like he used to. It's what I have always wanted for him. But it hurts. His growing independence has left a huge unfillable gap in my entire identity. I'm still figuring out who I am when I'm not actively being his mom.

Probably for the best then that he's gone to live with his father for a while. Time to cut the proverbial apron strings... Ug. Why? Why does one have to cut the strings???

I was looking forward tonight to having A home and making him some hot chocolate the way I used to make it for my sisters. And I found churros at the store and eventhough the last thing that child needs is sugar, I was looking forward to the treat.

"Uh... do I have to come?" Squeek - I can't talk or breathe... I feel like I haven't seen him in months. No, of course you don't have to come. (I will NOT be that mom.) "Ok. Thanks. Love you mom." And I'm so devastated I can't say I love you back. I send him a text message... "Hung up before I could say I love you back!"

My over-the-top reaction and the immediate I-need-to-fix-it text message are an in-your-face clue that there is entirely too much hinging on this relationship... and maybe, just maybe, it's time to start the letting go phase of this stupid grieving process.

I make hot chocolate anyway. And I bite into the churros... which turn out to be stale. And I cry.

Just as I start to fall further and further into my grief sprial, my phone beeps. Text message from A: "Love u."

Whiplash. Again.

No matter how many times I tell myself that I'm not going to fall for it, that I'm not going to engage, inevitably I do. I get my heart broken and my stomach punched and my throat constricted and my hopes let down. Way down.

This is time number who-knows-what that the father of my child says something is going to happen a certain way and then changes his mind at the last effing minute. The past several times have had to do with whether or not A is finally going to move back home. He is. He's not. He is. He's not.

There are many days when I hit complete okayness with him not being home. I don't WANT him here, I think. Finally, some time to myself, I think. It's so much more serene without that boy here, I think. But THEN - the idea that he might move home creeps in and I soften and I can't wait, and I fool myself into thinking that by not physically preparing for him to be home I am also not emotionally preparing for him to come home. But I'm wrong. I am always preparing to have him come home. It's where he belongs. (Even though I know that I don't get to decide that. That, in fact, mother does not always know best)

I miss him. He is an extension of my being and I want him home. I want him to want to be home.

And I abhor R for bing so flighty and self-centered and self-serving. And completely oblivious.