Bonnie Rait...A piece from September that suits a day of thanks well.

I've just completed a week of Hanni and Yusef living with me. It is completely and stupendously wonderful. It gives me wild waves of joy.

A friend told me that whether or not you adopt, give birth, etc., your child is born to you. It is so true.

These children were born to come into my life.

They laugh, laugh, laugh. It makes me crazy with joy to hear them laugh.

Even today, when they looked at the rice that I made and laughed at it, through my deeply hurt feelings at what I thought was a beautiful bowl of rice, I felt the beauty in their laughter. The laughter must be healing them. It is definitely healing me.

These boys are so different and so strange and both currently obsessed with Bonnie Rait's "Have a Heart". Yusef lies in his bed playing it on his phone, staring at the floor. I did that--in college, before he was born. And, now, I have an African and a Yemeni who are of no blood relation to me in love with Bonnie Rait with the same intensity I felt when I first heard her songs.

Their love for Bonnie Rait is the greatest metaphor for how wildly unimaginable--yet definitely familiar and of me--is this realized dream. I hear my stoic, slightly hostile African who only likes Eminem say, "Ms., can we hear that 'I can't make you love me' [song]" or to see my sweet, funny Yemeni in the aisles of Fairway barking out "Hey, Shut Up. Let's give them something to talk about. Something about a history" and I just shake my head...feeling like I'm dreaming something beautiful awake. (He left people in the aisles of Fairway singing Bonnie Rait in his wake)

Oprah says God dreams dreams that are bigger than ours. I'm amazed at how perfectly this has manifested for me. I can't even remember wanting every piece of what I have right now, but I know that I did. I dreamed of this mismatched brightly colored life, but in fragments that I certainly didn't hold onto or consciously piece together. This crazy family is beyond what I've ever wanted--and I'm completely in love with them.

It fills me with so much joy and momentum that I rushed home to cook dinner tonight. RUSHED HOME TO COOK DINNER. I haven't cooked dinner since 1935.

After dinner, when they were doing dishes, I blasted music in the kitchen while I pottered in the background. I was brought back to a memory of a session with a counselor I had when I was eight (who was one of the top ten most clueless people I've ever met). She suggested that my mom and I might solve our communication issues by listening to Creedence Clearwater Revival while doing chores together-it was what she did with her kids. I see, clearly, my eight year old self looking at her like she was crazy and wanting to yell, 'my mother is from ETHIOPIA. Her whole family DIED by the time she was 9. Unspeakable things happened to her and changed her by the time she was 14. My mother does not know who Creedence Clearwater Revival is and never will, but I'm happy that you and your children are like classic rock's the von Trap Family!! Asshole.'

28 years later, I'm in my kitchen in Brooklyn with my children from another planet and we are blasting Bonnie Rait while doing chores. See...? Dream scraps coalescing in a crazy quilt.

Baby, Baby

Part of being a soccer mom is driving teenagers to tournaments in other states. I tow the line. I drive the kids, roll down my windows when the after game fragrance is overpowering.

I generally get the African kids from the team in my car...and the occasional non-African thrown into the mix.  We listen to a lot of reggaeton, rap, hip hop. (The only objection I have is to Lil Wayne. I'm too old to understand the point to the lyrics that come through those teeth.) Even though we are listening to the kids' music on the car stereo, each kid has on their own headphones. One of the kids, who we'll refer to as Abou, keeps his headphones on and sings loud, badly and with pride, every time we drive. I admire him greatly.

Yusef ALWAYS sits in the front. It's his territory. He sends text messages, checks soccer scores, manages the music (even though he's listening to his own music with his headphones on), and occasionally gives me a grunt when I try to make conversation.

They're all extremely polite to me if I talk to them, but conversation with the mom is not really desirable. This can get a little lonely.

For this trip, I prepared for the boredom by downloading every exciting audio-book I could find on iTunes.  This concerned the kid I call my 'white son', we'll call him Michael. Michael was very worried about whether or not I felt I could listen to a book and drive at the same time.  As wild as Michael is reputed to be on his own time, what I see, is that he is constantly expressing concerns about safety.

On the way back from the soccer tournament, about an hour outside Manhattan, I started to get very, very sleepy.  We pulled over for two diet cokes and whatever the kids needed and slipped back on the highway.  Yusef kept plying me with diet coke, and we blasted Biggie ("Big Poppa", "Hypnotize") but I couldn't seem to battle the drowsiness.

I turned down the music and told the kids that I needed their help. That the diet coke wasn't cutting it. They needed to do something very entertaining. Abou needed to sing louder, Michael had to tell jokes, something.

I got the teenage blank stare. Yusef pointedly pushed the diet coke closer to me and said nothing. I sighed, remembered that they were teenagers, and turned the music back up. In the rear view mirror, I saw them put their heads together, mutter and look at me. (I don't take the behind the back talking personally. It's 90% of what makes a teenager a teenager around their parents.)

A minute later I noticed a change in music. Something that sounded much more vanilla than what we usually listen to. Next, I noticed that not only was Abou singing loud, they were all singing. Even the kids in my third row of seats were singing--loud and with pointed smiles into my rear view mirror. (Except Yusef, he slipped on the 3-D glasses that Hanni insists on collecting so he can sell them in Yemen for $50 a pop, joke or not?)

Then...the chorus hit, and they really let it out..."Baby Baby Baby, Noooo, like Baby, Baby, Baby...Ohhhhh...like Baby Baby Baby".  Their usually tough and inscrutable faces covered with shining smiles like a teenage barbershop quintet.  My super cool teenagers were serenading me with Justin Bieber! This made me ridiculously happy and although I continued to practice extremely cautious driving, I laughed my patooty off at their cuteness.

The song ended and they kept their headphones off. Abou managed the playlist on the car stereo and started an in the seat, under the seat-belt, dance party, Yusef videotaped.  The dance party lasted into our first stop in the Bronx.

This soccer mom finished the drive wide awake, and filled with love.

Wow, and Really???

Yusef: Ms, I'm not going to hit my kids. I'm just going to punish them like you do with us.

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Me: What time did I say to cut Playstation off??
Hanni: Midnight
Me: Then why are you still up?
Hanni: I thought you meant 1 or 2.

I love them not, I love them a lot.

I swear as short as two hours ago I was praying for God to remind me I love my kids.

Every time Yusef yelled out, "I'm hungry" and I passed Hanni's unmade bed, I prayed.

Now, listening to one of them learn about Plato and the other the plight of Native Americans, I remember.

Hanni: Plato thought math is God??!!
Yusef: Native Americans were ROBBED.

I've never experienced love like this.

Lying, ouch.

I feel heartbreak when one of my kids lies to me. A more seasoned parent with teenage sons sent me an article in National Geographic about the teenage brain.  It supposedly discusses the process of risk taking and separation that is essential to a teenager's growth into adulthood. I, of course, haven't had time to read and benefit from this article, but if I did, maybe it would diffuse the sadness around the lying.

However, I think the truth in the heartbreak comes not from my reaction to their natural development, but must be derived from my own history with lying. They're kids, teenage boys, they're supposed to lie.  It shouldn't wound me so much when they do, right? I think everything else they do is funny, so why does the lying hit so hard?

I grew up in a household where I never knew what was going on, no one told the truth about anything: feelings, actions, or identity.  I had to try to figure things out on my own, which I didn't do very well as a kid. Therefore, instead of being able to make sense of my family, I usually ended up disappearing into my favorite magnolia tree with a book.

As an adult, when faced with people I love who are not telling me the truth, it makes me panic.  In my adult relationships, this panic plays out in the form of a heated argument, with me playing the part of angry prosecutor. This has resulted in some really wonderful long term relationships. Or, not. You choose.

Obviously, this kind of confrontation doesn't work with kids. They freeze when I'm emotional. I believe this might especially be true with sons. They need their moms to be okay...healthy, happy and smiling. I know I can't always be that, but I can try to keep my moods consistent enough that they feel safe.  (And if consistency doesn't happen, I try to compensate by telling them I love them A LOT.)

What should I do when they lie? I know for sure I can't bring my own history and dump it in the middle of their natural development process.

I guess I have to breathe, ask for help, call my friends, pray, and wait to talk to them until I can be mom-Cathy and not kid-Cathy. In other words, check myself before I wreck myself. I really wanted to say that, but what I mean to say is I need to check myself before I wreck my kids.

Here's the article from National Geographic, if you'd like, you can read it and tell me all about it.

http://ngm.nationalgeographic.com/2011/10/teenage-brains/dobbs-text

Funniness

We're watching the movie version of Speak, the book they read for English class. In the movie, the Dad says to his daughter when she walks up, "Hey Stranger".

Hanni: What kind of father calls his daughter a stranger? [Laughter]
Yusef: I know, right? 'Hi Hanni stranger'. [More derisive laughter]
Hanni: Crazy, that's so mean. Calling your daughter a stranger.

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At one of our family meetings---which usually revolve around schedule conversations, because, they have daily itineraries that would rival the Obama kids, and I respond as any event planner would: with planning--I explain that I will not see them after school and won't be home until they go to bed because I have a work fundraiser to go to.

I explain that I expect them both to come home after school and start their homework, I review food options, transportation to practice, etc.

Hanni pouts and says they'll miss me. He looks down and starts drawing on his notebook.

Yusef says: I'm coming home after school, packing all my stuff. Then, I'm going to practice. After practice, I'm not coming home.

Me: Why, where are you going?

Yusef: I'm moving to Manhattan. And I'm dropping out of school.

Me: You found a better family?

Yusef: Yes, I'm gone after tonight. That's it. I'm moving out.

My kids are soooo funny...

"Cathy, I'm going to be honest with you. I'd rather you pick up your shoe and hit me in the face then talk to me about something I've done wrong".-Hanni
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"Ms, when I'm quiet you ask me what's wrong. When I talk you tell me to shut up! Gawd!!!" -Yusef
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I'm explaining to them that I like to try and resolve any conflict before bedtime because a part of me is terrified that they won't come home after school the next day if they're still upset.

Hanni looks at me with big eyes and says he'll always come home.

Yusef, "Ms, if we ever go to bed and I'm still mad, I'm disappearing. You'll never see me again".
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Yusef and Hanni are in the backseat talking wistfully about the height of the players on an all-white U-15 team they played.  The kids were very tall.

Yusef: White people grow very big.
Hanni: Yeah, right, and TALL.
Yusef: I know.

[Thoughtful pause]

Yusef: It's because their family cooks cheese burgers.
Hanni: And they eat Subway!! I don't like Subway.
Yusef: They don't sleep either. They like to play video games and watch TV all night.
Hanni: But white people get sooo big.  Cheeseburgers.

Second Momship

My kids have real moms.  Beautiful ones who gave birth to them, and dreamed of better lives for their sons.

I can't write about how it feels to be this kind of mother. I'm the second mom. I don't know the breathtaking love of holding the child you created. There are days I want to kiss their mothers and squeeze them tight for creating these boys, tell them it is an honor to come into the lives of these miracles they brought forth.

My babies came to me as teenagers.  Moody, squinty-eyed, selectively deaf, naturally dishonest, mentally challenged, adults in training.  They're so funny.

They're also very observant. From the corners of their eyes, they watch and comment on EVERYTHING I'm doing.  Their observations are given to me verbally, non-verbally, and, in their finest form: imitation. (I don't know where they learned this expression of road rage: "ASSHOLE, WHAT are you doing?!".)

This puts a lot of pressure on me to be a consistently healthy and stable presence. "Ommm, essence of Mary Poppins, enter me." She doesn't, often.

I mostly have colossal parenting fails, a la Shirley McClaine in "Terms of Endearment" or "Postcards from the Edge". PMS for single mothers should have its own Surgeon General Warning. These parenting failures have become the driving force for me to work harder on my mental and physical health than I ever have in my therapy ridden life. I consider this a good thing.

Sometimes I'm Super Mom. Like when I marched past a doubting son with a hammer and screwdriver and fixed the shower. "Just leave it, what can YOU do," turned into, "YOU fixed it?!!". (I didn't express my triumph with a quiet smile. I raised my hands over my head and yelled "SUPER MOM!!!")

I know I'm providing a healthy enough environment for them to blossom in a lot of areas. They wake up and go to bed laughing. They are growing and look very healthy physically. Their manners have improved dramatically. We're almost at the point where everyone isn't Chinese.  They talk to me, ask me for help, sometimes when it really matters. Their English is better; sadly to the point that they're comfortable arguing with me in a very intelligent and convincing manner.  Their grades are improving and they are absolute soccer stars.

They work hard to honor their mothers in all the glorious things they do. The mistakes, I'll keep under the umbrella of second mother. I'm happy to take one for the team. Because the benefit of being allowed to love and be loved by these extraordinary children has expanded my heart to the point where I have enough love for the world.

I don't sit with the other parents at the kids' soccer games.  I like to bring a book and feel the sun on my New Yorker's body. The time is a luxury in this single parent's life. Sitting, alone, in the sun.

I also don't sit with the other parents because during half time, or after the games, my kids come to me.  None of the other kids go to their parents.  But my kids find me, they come to where I am and sit close, sometimes with their shoulders touching mine. Mostly, they say nothing, they don't even look at me. I hold my breath, soaking in the honor of their presence.  The moment breaks when they lope off towards whatever has caught their eye.  I breathe again. Open my book, or turn my face to the sun.