On Kids: #41209
Today as I was sitting typing at the computer I saw one of my club kids walk by and without hesitating, I knock on the window, grinning maniacally and wave repeatedly until he waves back. Because even though he is 10 and I am overwhelmingly uncool, I still think he is an awesome kid.
I didn't give it much thought - 300 kids walk by my window and wave at me every day. He comes back and puts his eyes up to the window so I mirror him and spell the word "Puzzle", in the grime until he can read it.
He comes in and we sit down together at the table, without any words, while he fishes the pieces out of the box. "Make me a bagel", he tells me, and I laugh at him telling him to make it himself. He knows I don't cook - unless snack magically appears on the table, we ain't eatin' either.
He starts telling me about his day as I pick out all the edge pieces and I snicker when he starts describing the Sousaphone. "Are you crazy?" he interrupts. "Uh hunh" I answer, flipping all the frog pieces his way.
I look at him and wonder why I'm not like this with my step kids. Relaxed. Normal.
When I pick them up from the airport we stand there like magnetic opposites. My parents hug them. My husband hugs them. I blanche until my dad coaxes me and then I look at the floor. They look away. If this moment were captured in time, it would be a wedgie.
I wonder if it can ever be another way, but then shake it off, remembering that I got drunk 2 summers ago and called one of them a dick. I apologized to him, but I don't think I was speaking untruthfully. I'm not so sure I think it was his fault, either. He's on the threshold of being a kid - when you don't know that life is difficult and tumultuous and that you can't walk around being an asshole to everyone if they don't let you eat pixy sticks for lunch and that you're going to be held accountable for your actions regardless of HOW fucked up your family is or isn't. Eventually, you have to be yourself.
I don't drink much anymore, but I don't think they'd ever live close enough to me to know that.
When they hurt my husband, there is no gauge on my anger. It is like the white hot sun. I think that someday they will love somebody as much as he loves them, and then they will understand.
Until then I just worry about them making it out of adolescence alive. Last time somebody asked me how old I felt, it was 16 - I year older than the oldest. I remember those days very clearly. The long hair, the music, the drugs, the camaraderie. The importance of those things and my involvement with them, which varied. At that age, my friends were my drugs.
I also remember that when I was a teenager, I thought my parents knew fuckall, and I worry about that, too.
But then I stumble across a Myspace message about them smoking pot together and think, "At least they're not screwing."...yet. Which is lax for a parent, but from 2000 miles away (and yes, dammit, I know it was my choice) that's about all I've got.
I also think that if they wanted to live with us that they could. But that's another issue. So we just float, on opposite sides of the ocean. Connected but not.
It's not very comfortable like this, but until we are actually person-to-person reach out and touch someone close, I just settle for afternoons of calculated communication with the kids I can talk to, touch, love.
It's about all I've got.
I didn't give it much thought - 300 kids walk by my window and wave at me every day. He comes back and puts his eyes up to the window so I mirror him and spell the word "Puzzle", in the grime until he can read it.
He comes in and we sit down together at the table, without any words, while he fishes the pieces out of the box. "Make me a bagel", he tells me, and I laugh at him telling him to make it himself. He knows I don't cook - unless snack magically appears on the table, we ain't eatin' either.
He starts telling me about his day as I pick out all the edge pieces and I snicker when he starts describing the Sousaphone. "Are you crazy?" he interrupts. "Uh hunh" I answer, flipping all the frog pieces his way.
I look at him and wonder why I'm not like this with my step kids. Relaxed. Normal.
When I pick them up from the airport we stand there like magnetic opposites. My parents hug them. My husband hugs them. I blanche until my dad coaxes me and then I look at the floor. They look away. If this moment were captured in time, it would be a wedgie.
I wonder if it can ever be another way, but then shake it off, remembering that I got drunk 2 summers ago and called one of them a dick. I apologized to him, but I don't think I was speaking untruthfully. I'm not so sure I think it was his fault, either. He's on the threshold of being a kid - when you don't know that life is difficult and tumultuous and that you can't walk around being an asshole to everyone if they don't let you eat pixy sticks for lunch and that you're going to be held accountable for your actions regardless of HOW fucked up your family is or isn't. Eventually, you have to be yourself.
I don't drink much anymore, but I don't think they'd ever live close enough to me to know that.
When they hurt my husband, there is no gauge on my anger. It is like the white hot sun. I think that someday they will love somebody as much as he loves them, and then they will understand.
Until then I just worry about them making it out of adolescence alive. Last time somebody asked me how old I felt, it was 16 - I year older than the oldest. I remember those days very clearly. The long hair, the music, the drugs, the camaraderie. The importance of those things and my involvement with them, which varied. At that age, my friends were my drugs.
I also remember that when I was a teenager, I thought my parents knew fuckall, and I worry about that, too.
But then I stumble across a Myspace message about them smoking pot together and think, "At least they're not screwing."...yet. Which is lax for a parent, but from 2000 miles away (and yes, dammit, I know it was my choice) that's about all I've got.
I also think that if they wanted to live with us that they could. But that's another issue. So we just float, on opposite sides of the ocean. Connected but not.
It's not very comfortable like this, but until we are actually person-to-person reach out and touch someone close, I just settle for afternoons of calculated communication with the kids I can talk to, touch, love.
It's about all I've got.
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on Wednesday, November 22, 2006 at 3:05 AM.
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