its the small stuff about being a kid

So many of our kids missed out on typical “kid moments” when they were young.  They learn to be survivalists early and keep their walls up.

Which makes the moments when they show up as kids so powerful.  Here are a few of my recent favorites:

• Seeing 17-year-old George’s huge smile when he sees me come home from Costco with the juice boxes, immediately grab one of the tiny little boxes and drink it all within 2 minutes.
• “Will you make pancakes for breakfast tomorrow?”  Every kid deserves to have someone make them pancakes once in a while and to be comfortable enough at home to ask.
• George and Sierra coming in from a group activity and immediately interrupting my husband and I without even noticing and talking a mile a minute, both at the same time, telling different stories and showing off their trinkets.  (My husband and I must have looked a bit like we had ping-pong balls for heads trying to follow this conversation)

Huge smiles all around.

What does it mean to parent someone else’s child?

John got on the bus in front of me.  He put his bus ticket in the slot thing and then….

John looked at the bus driver, a nice middle-aged African-American man, and with an I’m too cool to care attitude made a sharp nod of his head upward and said “Sup, Bro.” After which he promptly flopped onto the empty bench of seats, sprawling himself out over at least 3 of those seats that must be vacated if seniors or people with disabilities board.

Now, by this point John had been in our home for about 2 1/2 weeks so I had grown familiar with his desperate attempts to come across as cool and tough enough for the teen-age boys in his program because he was constantly trying on different attitudes to figure out what was really cool.  This wasn’t it.  But it was familiar enough not to phase me.

For about 2 seconds.

I quickly heard.  “Oh NO.  Young man, you get back here.  You come apologize.  That is not OK.  Come here!”  This man was pissed.  And John was just sitting on that bench, stone still and eyes wide, looking at me.

Thoughts in my head:  “Oh shit.  What do I do?  What do I do?  What the fuck am I supposed to do now?!?  Am I going to get kicked off the bus?  I’ve never been kicked off of a bus.  What do I do?”

Out loud I say “John, come back here and apologize”  Seems to me, that if that’s what the driver wants, then that’s what I should do.

John shuffles the four feet over to me and eyes down to the floor barely manages to mumble a “sorry.”  To which the driver responds “You can not say that.”

John goes back and sits down.  The driver glares at me while I put in my ticket and go to sit next to John.  No one else on the bus is talking.

I honestly have no memory of the next few minutes but somehow either John or I managed to start a conversation.

John:  “I was just trying to say hello.”

Me:  “I know you were, but that’s not an appropriate way to say hello.”

John:  “I was just trying to be nice.”

Me:  “Well, that’s an ok way to say hello to your friend, but he’s a grown man and he deserves to be treated with more respect.  He’s not one of your friends.  If you want to be nice you could say ‘hello’ or ‘good afternoon’ or…”

John interrupts me  “I don’t say things like good afternoon.  It’s not me.”

Me:  “Well, then you could just smile.  A smile is always nice.”

We go back to sitting silently for another 3 minutes.

Me:  “Now, when we get off the bus I want you to apologize to the driver.”

John:  “Why?”

Me:  “Because it shows respect for who he is and the work he does.”

John: “What work?”

Thoughts in my head:  “Seriously kid!  Everyone can still hear you.”

Me:  “Well, He is driving all of these people to their destination so that we don’t have to drive.  Which is nice for us because driving is a lot of responsibility and this is much easier.  And he is responsible for keeping the bus on time, and making sure that while we ride we all stay safe and that he is paying attention to everything going on around us so that everyone else on the road is able to be safe too.  And I think getting home safely is pretty important, don’t you?”

John:  “I guess.”  he pauses,  “If I don’t, will there be consequences?”

Me:  “There are always consequences for being disrespectful in our house.”

Thoughts in my head:  “Please apologize.  please, please, please.  I don’t have any damn clue what a natural consequence for not apologizing to a bus driver is, but I know its important that you do this.  So just do it.  Please.”

I pull the yellow cord and the stop requested sign lights up.  John jumps up from his seat with the exuberance only a 12-year-old boy can display.  The bus slows down as we get close to our stop and John goes tripping over the yellow Do-not-stand-in-front-of-this-line line and crashes into the rail up against the windshield.

Thoughts in my head:  “Oh no.”

John:  “Thank you for getting us home.”

Me:  “Thank you.”

Driver:  “You have a good night now.”

I turn around to face him and smile as I walk away.  I am a good five feet from the bus by now.

Driver: “It starts at home!  It starts at home.  Have a good night!”

Me:  “It sure does.  You too.”  I wave.

We walk a bit.

Me:  “John, I’m proud of you for saying thank you.  That was a good choice.”

What does it take to love the kids?

It’s such a ridiculous question and yet this or the offshoot of this question – why do people think its hard to love the kids? is a real part of my life.

My primary emotion here is anger.  Every time I have to respond to a well-meaning statement “you are such a saint” I get angry.  It’s probably not fair of me.  What a nice thing to say; but how in the world am I supposed to respond to that?  In somehow acknowledging that it takes a lot of self-control at times to be a foster parent am I inadvertently sending the message that these kids are hard to love?

I have had to ask myself this question.  One of the first kids to come into our home had horribly sexually abused a young girl.  When I closed my eyes I was confronted with imaginations of the pain this girl suffered.  Of how this young girl’s life was likely forever altered.  Of the anger her parents must feel, at the anger I felt toward the violence and injustice of it.  And then I opened my eyes and saw a boy.  A boy with an earnest face who wanted nothing more than to go home.  A boy who spent hours planning a talent show for himself, my husband and I in our basement.  Imagine him at standing at a kitchen table which is covered in newspaper holding a balloon covered in paper-mache.  Eagerly directing me on where to apply glue so we could attach little bits of CDs to it to make the disco ball that would hang above us for the show.  A boy who really wanted snacks (cut up green peppers, ranch dressing, cheese and crackers, and popcorn) for dinner to make it extra special.  A boy who practiced singing along to Justin Bieber for hours so that he would be good when he performed for us.  A boy who dedicated his performance to his newborn baby sister.  A boy who told me “You did really good too” even though my magic tricks didn’t work at all.  So do I love the child and hate the crime?  Can I possibly be what this boy needs me to be?  Am I less of a person if it’s sometimes hard to separate the boy from what he did?  If we can’t find a way to somehow see him without just seeing his crime are we dooming him to a life of repeating and perpetuating more violence?

To the question “are the kids hard to love?”  I say:  Look into the eyes of your 2 month old baby, your child, your niece or your grandson.  Take in their smile and the way their arms wrap around you.  Watch them run or draw, laugh or sing.  Remember the moment you first felt a sense of knowing and wonder at who they are.  And then, imagine if they were to be touched by a tragedy.  The loss of a parent or abused at the hand of an adult they trusted.  Could you possibly love them less for this, or would your heart cry out and call you to love them more?  Our children are hurt; and they are profoundly easy to love.

The part that is hard is bearing witness to the pain they carry.  It’s sometimes heart-rending.  It is sometimes displayed in hugely annoying and aggravating behaviors.  It sometimes takes the form of lashing out or isolation.  It’s sometimes an overwhelming neediness.  But it is always pain pouring through.  Pure pain.  It is hard to watch a child you love carry a pain so deep.  It’s hard to know I can do nothing to take that pain away.

I send this message to anyone parenting a well cared for child.  Thank you for loving your kids.  For teaching them that they are whole and valuable people.  They are lucky to have you.  We need more people like you.  And please, give your kids an extra kiss tonight and be thankful they are safe.   Keep them that way as best you can.