Trayvon Martin is MY Son

I've had something on my mind BIG time in the last two weeks. But more on that later. However, in a similar vein is the Trayvon Martin shooting/murder story. I am overwhelmed by the feelings flooding me over the last days as more and more information comes to light. I look at my own brown-skinned son, who, himself turns 17 this Sunday, and I am sickened by the thought of him being shot down like a dog in the street as he walks through the streets of our mostly white neighborhoods. Here's my small contribution to the growing movement for justice.

Please use and/or share these Button Grabs (one above and one below) I've created which can be found on the left column of the blog:

Half-Baked

While driving to New Hampshire yesterday to visit my parents, I saw a man pulled off on the side of the road. He was staring down at his car engine, no tools or movement that I could see. He was using his hand to hold up the hood with his forehead leaning along the edge for additional support or maybe he was hoping physical contact with the car would help him divine information from it.

I know how he feels, except for me, I'm standing over the open skull of my 16 year old son, peering down at it, hoping the answer to fixing the problem will be obvious and fixable.

I don't know if you've looked at your car engine lately, but when I looked at mine, the only recognizable things were the radiator and windshield wiper fluid caps, and the oil and that's only because they had those cute little pictures on it. Without those, I could easily find myself pouring windshield wiper fluid into the radiator. I'm not even sure if the radiator has a specific fluid. I know it needs something and without it, there are problems, but I wouldn't bet on me knowing what that was without consulting my father or Google.

I had to consult the manual to open the hood for the picture!

I've had these conversation with my son recently that swing from highly enjoyable to down right frightening. He seems to be operating with a level of good information combining with the urban myth of the privileged suburban teenager. Case in point: If you are at a party where there is underage drinking, the police are not allowed/do not arrest kids under 15.

Really?

When I tried to tell him that in fact, the police arrest kids under 15 quite often, he didn't believe me. What about juvenile hall, I asked. Not for drinkers, he said, without wavering.

Really? Note to self: lock your son in the attic until at least 18.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: Motherhood is not for the faint of heart. I look back on the days when I was praying for just a moment to myself without him climbing all over me. Now I wish I shove him back in the womb so his teenage brain has a chance to finish baking without him having to suffer any consequences for just being a teenager. In the meantime, maybe he'll let me lean my forehead to his forehead and I can get a little insight to what's going on in there. On the other hand, maybe I don't really want to know!

Happy Mother's Day!

It's a Hard Dog's Life

1:17am:  Skreet, skreet, skreet, skreet, skreet.

2:25am:  Skreet, skreet, skreet, skreet, skreet.

3:38am:  Skreet, skreet, skreet, skreet, skreet.

I rub behind his ears until he falls back asleep.

5:05am. Hot pug breath envelopes my face, amplified by the cone that covers both our heads now. I rub again and nudge back down to the end of the bed.

Bleeeeep...bleeeeep...bleeeeeep...bleeeeep. The alarm is set to crescendo from faint to pleasantly audible. It's supposed to be less jarring.

It's not.

Making coffee:  Skreet, skreet, skreet, skreet, skreet.

Getting dressed for work: Skreet, skreet, skreet, skreet, skreet.

Curling my hair:  Skreet, skreet, skreet, skreet, skreet.

"Look Rocky," I say, "You've got to wear that thing for two weeks, so you'd better start making peace with it." He cocks his heads, looking at me like he knows I'm probably saying something amazingly interested, but he he no idea on God's green earth what it could possibly be. I'm used to this look. Everyone with balls in this house looks at me this same way when I talk these days.

I sigh:  Skreet, skreet, skreet, skreet, skreet.

Two weeks. Twenty-four hours in a day. One day down. Only 13 more to go.

Skreet, skreet, skreet, skreet, skreet.

Shit.

Day 35: First Day of New Hope Training

Today was the first day of a 4-day training I need to complete in order to become a volunteer for the New Hope, a domestic violence (DV) services agency. We went from 10-4 today and the most intense part of the session was watching a video of a real domestic violence situation. The victim's daughter, concerned that her mother would killed by her stepfather, recorded the incident in case she needed to provide evidence of the abuse. The batterer did, in fact, end of killing her mother and the family allows the video to be used for DV training purposes only. There was no video, just audio. My heart was pounding through the brief (about 15 minute) DVD and I broke out into a sweat. I have always reacted very strongly to DV situations in movies or television shows, so I was panicked that I wasn't going to be able to handle it. The trainers encouraged us to step out of the room if it was too much or it triggered something. I made it through, but it was incredibly difficult. One of the trainers shared this piece of advice with us when dealing with hearing victims' stories. I thought it was really powerful and a good word, not only for volunteering, but during this challenging time of parenting a teenage boy who doesn't want to hear to much from his dull-witted parents these days.

Back for Day 2 in the morning. My worldview has already changed and I'm anxious to learn more.

Day 29: Business Hoes and CEOs

Everybody in Wrentham is talking about the Business Hoes and CEOs party bust in Plainville this weekend. One the first things I get asked is: Was Connor there? followed by Why not? My answer to both: No, by the grace of God.  We talk about drugs and alcohol a lot. Usually, I try to maintain a neutral expression my face, but inside, I'm freaking out. But I know if I flinch, he'll clam up and never tell me anything again, so he talks and I stare ahead into space.

But this recent party has us all talking. And if I got that proverbial 3am phone call to come pick up my kid and the Wrentham police station, I'm not sure what would distress me more: the fact that she got arrested or that she was dressed like a ho.

That's what I've been wondering about. Of the kids arrested, were all the boys dressed as CEOs and all the girls dressed like a hoes. Or did just one girl show up to the party in a suit. In 2011, with Title IX and girl power galore, why are young women relegated to a business ho. If a boy went ho, what did that look like? And what does it say about the unspoken ideas of power and influence in the workplace or at home? Part of me understands it's just playacting. I'm not trying to make more out of it than it is. But I am concerned about the mixed signals of that particular "dress up" game being sorted out through the fog of drugs and alcohol. No one comes out looking good.

My son is a good kid. He's already demonstrated to me and his dad that he will make the difficult decision to walk away when situations turn dicey. I've been lucky in this regard. But I also know that he is at that tender age that he truly believes he knows more than I do. Foolish boy. So far, he hasn't had to learn too much the hard way, but he's pushing his luck. The problem is, I'm the only who knows that. So it's up to me to stand in the gap on his behalf and try to save him from himself. Sometimes I can pull it off and he doesn't even know it. Sometimes it's a knock down drag out. And sometimes, we both get lucky and he decides for himself to stay in, watch the Bruins, and play XBOX live. And that's truly a good night.

Day 27: What's with all the pictures?

Happy! Happy! Joy! Joy!

This Sunday, Connor started his first official job. He's a lacrosse referee for the local town lacrosse leagues. Naturally, I had to take a picture and as you can see by his face, he was thrilled. He couldn't help but notice and remark on my constant need to take my camera with me and then to actually use it. I've explained that I'm taking a photography course and I'm blogging for lent which he seemed to understand. What he couldn't figure out was: What does all that have to do with him? His smiling teenage face made me a little nostalgic for the earlier days, when he loved to get his picture snapped and we were pals.  Who am I kidding? He was always a child with opinions. Even as a baby, when people would peer into the carrier to coo at him, he'd close his eyes until they'd gotten out of his face. But I'm still a proud mama and can't wait to take him to open up his first checking account this Friday. Say Cheese!

Day 18: Full Stomach, Full Heart

I've just come in from Connor's birthday dinner, the final leg of his 16th Birthday celebration. The hour is late, my stomach is full, and my eyes are heavy so I'm going to keep this post brief.

It has become our family tradition to celebrate landmark events with a dinner at Ruth's Chris in Boston. I'm not sure who it started, but I'm glad we adopted it early. Connor didn't want a party (probably dodged a bullet there) and he didn't even want to have a small group of friends over. His only request was our traditional family dinner, which for us is Mom and Dad, Nonie and Poppie, and Uncle Andy, our longtime family friend. In the early years of our dinner, we'd have to start early and bring a small supply of things to keep Connor busy. We still meet early, because my parents have a long drive, but now we just enjoy each other. I watched the families with small children and look back in nostalgia, but I'm so glad to be where we are, even with its particular set of challenges.

Being a parent never gets easy, it just gets different. I imagine my own mother getting together with her friends saying I was fine in my twenties, but the thirties were a real bitch. Next stop, Registry of Motor Vehicles. Check, please.

Day 17: Happy 16th Anniversary to Me!

Today is the 16th anniversary of my motherhood. I'm not going to lie. Mothering him this year has been a challenge. I often liken it to those people who adopt exotic animals as pets.

It starts out great. Frankie the Bear is like one of the family, baby bears being so cute and cuddly at all. He's never shown any sign of aggression and they've even used him some commercials over the years. Then. One day. Frankie turns. He grabs "Mom" by the arm and starts tossing her around like the proverbial rag doll. The family is stunned. The neighbors are interviewed. Specialists are consulted. Frankie gets drugs and counseling.  Everyone ends up on Good Morning America. Why, Frankie, why? I mean, we all knew you'd grow into a full grown bear, but all were hoping that if they did everything possible to stunt is bear instincts' growth, this kind of tragedy could be avoided.  And I would sit in front of the televsion with my coffee sneering with disgust. What kind of fools adopt a bear and expect it not to turn into a bear? Answer: the same people who have babies and expect them not to turn into teenagers. Lesson: Judge not, lest ye be judged oh foolish mother.

When Connor was a baby, I always ran the vacuum or put on the television while he was napping. I was taught early to teach him to sleep through the noise. These days, I find myself sitting in silence so as not to wake the beast. I let him sleep late, knowing that I'm going to pay for it later that day, but I just need a few more minutes of peace and quiet, just like when he was three.

All things considered, my son is a good kid. I've never been a "my kid would never" mom. And with all these kids are up against, I'm in the "there before the grace of God" camp. I've been thinking a lot about the night I met Connor. I've hung onto to the most random memories:

• We were watching the Bruins when my water broke. 
• I wore the caramel colored leather jacket I bought in college at a London flea market
• I kept telling the nurses I was going to be a "good patient" and "get myself together"
• I remember hearing my grandmother saying: "I can do all things in Christ who strengthens me." 
• I brought Richard Stolzmann (my favorite clarinet player) Dreams cd to play during the birth
• The nurse commented how pretty my pedicure looked
• I thought my mother would hold Connor first, but my father practically knocked her over to get to him first

But the best thing I take from that day is him. He started out a little chicken baby and now he's already taller than me. Happy Birthday, kid! I couldn't have asked for a better person to share my anniversary.

Day 6: Open Letter to My Family

To the person who left the empty peanut butter granola bar box in the pantry, thank you. Also, I truly appreciate the tablespoon of Cocoa Krispies you left for me. They really hit the spot and satisfied my late evening chocolate craving. While I have your attention, I want to acknowledge the many times one square of toilet paper is left on the roll. I know that you could just go ahead and use it, but the fact that you think enough to leave some for the next person touches that special part of me that I can't express here. The gratitude I feel, sharing the fridge with a person who leaves behind a shot glass worth of orange juice, is, on some days, so overwhelming that I'm left at a loss for words.

And just a reminder that the grocery store is, in fact, a public institution. I know that you've seen me, on the rare occasions you darken the store's doorstep, use a card at the checkout. It's used for discounts, not for proof of membership. Anyone can go into and shop there when food or other items run out.

So again, my deepest thanks for all the thoughtfulness through the years. My heart is full that you can keep these blessings for yourselves. I don't think I can't take much more.

Love,

Mom

Day 4: Young Americans

I had to drive my son and his friend into Boston to UMass for a high school basketball tournament. If you ask him, he'd probably say I hate to drive him. That's because I'm constantly telling him that despite what he may think:

• I am NOT a taxi service,
• I don't spend my day sitting by the phone, waiting to get the ultra-important call letting me know my driving assignment,
• It is not my goal in life to chauffer him around like I'm the driver of a rock band tour bus...I actually have other things to do, and
• It may be a valuable exercise for him to start learning what a gallon a gas costs (for real, not in Grand Theft Auto world)

And even though we go through this dance just about everyday, the truth of the matter is, I LOVE TO DRIVE HIM AROUND. My son will be 16 this month and he's already told us that once he gets his license he will be "a ghost". (We haven't had the heart to tell him that unlike his colleagues on MTV, he will not be headed to the Land Rover dealership to pick out his new car on his way to his Super Sweet 16 party. Isn't life hard enough for him already?) The car is last place we spend any quality time together anymore. Sure, I have to keep telling him to take out his earbuds, but at least we still talk.

He let me control the radio tonight (a small miracle unto itself). When I listen to music, I find myself rotating between: 93.7 Mike FM, it's like my ipod on shuffle; 106.7 Lite FM, it's like the dentist's office, and 92.9 FM- alternative rock; On Sirius I jump between the 90s Channel, the 80s Channel, Classic Rock, Singer/Songwriter, and Classic R&B. If I feel like singing, it's straight to the Broadway Channel and finger crossed, it's Do, Re, Mi from The Sound of Music. I kept the rotation small and safe, lest I loose my dial privileges and I'm forced to hear what so and so is going to do to and with what's her name and how long it will last, etc. etc.

David Bowie's "Young Americans" came on. I lingered for a moment, then hit the dial to move on. "Turn back to Bowie," my son said. "What do you know about Bowie?" I ask, more than a little surprised. "This is a great song," he says with that ever present I-know-a-lot-more-than-you-think-I-know tone. "Well, I know that, but what do you know about it?" "They use it on NHL Hockey...you know, XBOX." "I know XBOX." We stop talking and he turns up the volume. And for those 3 minutes and 15 seconds, he becomes a little older to me, and I'm praying I'm just a little hipper to him, and we drive into the city together.

The Most Important Job in the World? You can take this job and SHOVE IT!

That's it. I quit. I hate being a mom today. This job sucks and sucks hard. I don't want to do the right thing. I don't want to do the hard thing. I want to fix it for him. I want to rush in and make it all better. I don't want to mean what I say. I want to take it back and bail him out of the jam he's put himself in.

I hate being Mom. I want to be the other kid's mom who's always more fun and interesting than I am. The other kid's mom gets the benefit of my kid's polite manners and his consideration. All the stuff I taught him when he insisted it wasn't necessary. The other kid's mom gets told the latest gossip. The other kid's mom is shown compassion when her kid tells her to shut it and go back into the house. How could friend treat his mom like that, my son asks in utter shock and disbelief, she's SOOOOOOO nice. I hate the other kids' mom.

I want to fast forward to the phone call I will get 20 years from now. The one where he apologizes for being selfish, rotten, and ungrateful. The one where he tells me he now understands the sacrifices made on his behalf. The one where he recalls (in detail) the times I made the hard choices and held my ground, and that he has a deep appreciation for how excruciatingly difficult that must have been for me. He knows because he's an adult, now, and not 15. He's learned some things the really hard way and he can see his own child heading down that same road and there's not a damn thing he can do about it. And that sucks and sucks hard.

But I'm not there yet and neither is he. I'm here, at my kitchen table, with my head pounding and sulking teenager sending death threats to me through the floor. But it will be a cold day in hell before I let that wish come true for him. And miss the phone call I've got come to me? Oh, hell no.

Take Care of My Son for Me

I was talking to a client the other evening. She's just returned from a trip. The last thing she said to her boy before leaving was: "Take care of my son for me." These words have been ringing in my ears for the last several days.

Take care of my son. Powerful words indeed. My own son is 14 and has just started his freshman year in high school. Eighth grade was a nightmare. For him and for me. The boy I'd been raising for the last 12 years vanished overnight and left me with someone I hardly knew and certainly had no idea how to parent. We made it through,but I worry about the scars that may remain. I worry that my "you can do betters" and "you are better than this", sent a message that I didn't love him unless he became someone other than who he was in those moments. The constant reminder from his teachers that he "wasn't living up to his potential" didn't help either. In the end, I took a strategy of leaving in completely alone, lest I damage our relationship beyond repair.

I'll admit that at times, the motto that would best sum up my parenting style at it's lowest and most frustrated moments is: "After all I've done for you..." After all, this has been a very effective strategy. The fear and guilt that I might somehow disappoint my own parents kept me from keeping my toe from crossing the line on more than one occasion.

My therapist has been encouraging me to do things differently. Take the end of his eighth grade year as an example. Rather than asking every night if his homework is done, I just stopped asking and subbed in conversations about the latest school gossip, or XBOX talk. I had accepted the reality of the consequences of this strategy. For example, he may have to do summer school, teachers may think I'm an uninvolved parent, etc. But I'd decided that our relationship was the priority, so the consequences seemed worth the reward.

I ask my son to do things. I ask myself to do things for my son. I do a lot for my son. I do too much for my son. I've confused doing for loving. I'm constantly doing things because that's what good mothers do. Good mothers do. But by not doing everything for him, I can teach him how to take care of my son for me when I'm not there to do it for him. I do things because I want him to know that I love him. However, I do love him...fiercely, unconditionally, ruthlessly. So I will mother so that he be able to care for himself in that same fierce, unconditional, ruthless spirit.

And that will be a child to reckoned with.