The White Rabbit put on his spectacles. “Where shall I begin, please your Majesty?” he asked. “Begin at the beginning,” the King said gravely, “and go on till you come to the end: then stop.”
—Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland
In the beginning, there was a woman, and there was a man.
***
Heav’n hath no rage like love to hatred turn’d, Nor Hell a fury, like a woman scorn’d.
—William Congreve (1670-1729)
He had never raised his voice to me—not until that day. Mark and I had been together for almost six years, and not once did he yell at me. Quite the contrary. He and I always talked very openly, and even when we were upset with each other, we would agree to discuss our situation after each of us had time to think about it.
The volume of his voice was but a mere notch from a shout as he said in an anxious, aggressive, and agitated tone, “I will talk to you tomorrow, Angela.” Then he hung up the phone. I had experienced my suspicions when I heard jazz music playing in the background. Jazz music. The man who normally listened to Marilyn Manson and Nine Inch Nails. I began laughing in disbelief and shock. Didn’t he know me? Didn’t he know that I wasn’t one to back down? I dialed the phone again. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. The answering machine wasn’t coming on; he had unplugged the phone. He was calling me out for a game of Bitch, and I was all too eager to play, but I never played without invitation.
***
A man is only as faithful as his opportunity.
—Chris Rock
Knock, knock, knock. “Who is it?” the voice on the other side of the closed door asked in a quiet but surprised tone. It was just about six in the morning, an unusual time for visitors.
“It’s me.”
“Who?” The voice was nervous, astonished.
“Angela.” The door opened to a crack, but I saw no one. I gently pushed the door open, walked in, arms extended as if I were dancing on a stage, my grin huge and deep, and in an excited voice reminiscent of an “I Love Lucy” episode, I announced, “Honey, I’m ho-o-ome.”
Mark stood with terror ruling his expressions. “Come in here.”
He led me through the small living room and through an even smaller and very awkward kitchen. He was staying with Jason, a co-worker he met while in the correctional officer academy. Not wanting to wake Jason at such an early hour, especially if he had been assigned to the night shift, I quietly followed Mark. I barely got through the doorway of the bedroom when I noticed the flawless organization and the dark, ornately carved wood furniture—furniture that I had never seen, and a sense of organization that was foreign to my husband. “You have someone here. You have someone here, don’t you?” Boom! Before he could answer, the front door slammed.
With his arms crossed, hands tucked tightly into the bends of his armpits, and eyes focused on the putrid, brown, variegated, shag carpet, he replied in a low and resigned voice, “Yes.”
A laugh that verged on sinister came from deep in my gut. I was simultaneously hurt, elated, and shocked.
“Let me see your hands.”
“Why?”
“Let me see your fucking hands.” Although I refused to yell or scream, my voice was very demanding.
He unfolded his arms so that his hands were perpendicular to his abdomen.
“Take that ring off.”
“I will.”
“No. You need to do it now. You have no right to wear it. You are no longer bonded to me. I refuse to be linked to you. From this moment on, I will never be anything more to you than a mother to your son. I am no longer your wife or your friend or your anything. I am your son’s mother. That’s all. I don’t care what we ever felt for each other, or what we ever went through. If we were to try to make things work, it wouldn’t. Every time you left the house, whether it was to go to the store or to go to work, and every time there was a wrong-number call, in the back of my head, I would wonder, ‘is he seeing someone?’ I refuse to live a life of doubt and suspicion, and I don’t deserve that kind of life either.
None of it matters any more. It was all a façade. Obviously, your heart was not with your family. It was with someone else. You were wearing your wedding ring, so she obviously knew you were married.
In 10 years when your son asks why his parents are no longer together, you can be the one to tell him. Because this was your choice. When your son learns how to ride a two-wheel bike, and it is one of his uncles or one of my friends who teaches him, know that it was your choice. When your son finds out the real reason why we aren’t together anymore, and he is angry with you, or hates you, know that this was your choice.
My mother said that if you had someone here with you, then she wanted her computer, microwave, and stereo back.”
My mother had taken the four-hour drive with me from Sacramento to Susanville. Mark had only been in Susanville but a few weeks working as a newly graduated correctional officer. When he had hung up on me during our phone conversation, I called my mother to ask if she would sit with my son Kane, but she said she was going to have my sister take him instead. She said, “What if you go up there and see what you don’t want to see.”
“I already know the truth. I’m only concerned as to whether or not I will get there in time to confirm it.”
“Well, I want to go with you. I don’t want you to go up there and get arrested.”
What my mother didn’t realize was that the old Angela had been put to rest when Kane was born. I wouldn’t give Mark the enjoyment of seeing me lose it. Nope. I would stay cool, calm, and collected.
Mark helped me carry my mother’s things to her van. As we loaded the last item, he walked toward the back of the vehicle, and turned to look at me with tears welling in his eyes. I looked at him, and I smiled, a smile of freedom. As I did so, I said, “Oh, don’t worry about me. I think, what’s her name? Oh, yeah. As Gloria Gaynor said, ‘I will survive.'” Then, I slapped my hands together, pointed at him as if I were casting the line to a fishing pole, and sang, “Anything you can do, I can do bet-ter!” I finished by pointing to myself. I climbed into the passenger seat of the van without looking back. Mom drove out of the gravel parking lot, leaving the dust from the dirt and rocks to finish my song and dance.
***
No man chooses evil because it is evil; he only mistakes it for happiness.
—Mary Wollenstonecraft Shelley
Her name was Traci.
***
Children might or might not be a blessing, but to create them and then fail them was surely damnation.
—Lois McMaster Bujold, “Barrayar,” 1991
“I don’t want to go live with someone else, Mama. I want to live with you.” The correctional officer academy was six weeks long, and when Mark graduated, he went directly to work at one of the prisons in Susanville, a four-hour drive from our home. In Kane’s four-year-old mind, work meant abandonment; his Daddy went to the academy and never returned.
“Baby, you aren’t going to live with anyone else. You will always live with me.” I spent the first five months of my pending divorce focusing on Kane. The news that Daddy would no longer be living with us traumatized Kane. I wanted to make sure he was emotionally stable before I went back into the work force. Even when I had worked in the past, I worked nights while Mark worked days. We worked in the same building, and I would pass Kane to Mark at the changing of the shift, as if we were football players, and Kane was our little ball. I knew I would have to prepare Kane for my return to work.
“But Mama, who will I live with when you are at work?” His little voice was trembling, and he was trying to be a big boy and not cry. My little trooper was trying to be strong, but I could see the wetness accumulating in his big hazel eyes, eyes that changed between green and blue, depending on what he wore. The color of his irises created great contrast against the red fear that occupied the space that was normally white.
“Honey, you are not going to live with anyone else. You will go to daycare, where there are other children whose parents are at work, then every day after I get off work, I will come get you, and you will come home with me. Every day.” At that moment, I was so angry with Mark for creating these feelings in my baby. Such an innocent child did not deserve to feel that way, and of course, it all fell on me to make Kane feel comforted. Ironically, there was a part of me that wasn’t surprised. I never desired to have children, perhaps as a defense mechanism, because for so long I didn’t think I could conceive. But there was always a piece of me, deep inside my heart, that knew Mark and I wouldn’t stay together forever, and I would end up raising our son by myself. No matter what, he gave me the most beautiful gift possible—this amazing child.
Kane crawled into my lap, and nervously played with my long hair, petting the long brown strands with one hand, and using his other hand to play with my hand. “Mama, you promise? You will pick me up everyday”? I won’t have to live with no one else?”
“No baby, you aren’t going to live with anyone else. I would be so sad if you didn’t live with me. I will never leave you, and I will always come for you.”
***
Level with your child by being honest. Nobody spots a phony quicker than a child.
—Mary MacCracken
“Sweetie, what’s bothering you?”
“Nothing.”
“Honey, I can tell something is bothering you. You know you can talk to me. Is there something about me that is bothering you?”
“Nothing.”
I was not convinced. Kane had always been a hypersensitive child, and he was easily influenced by emotion. I wasn’t sure what was eating at him, but I knew that for some time, he had been acting differently, and I suspected that it had something to do with me.
“I can tell that something is really upsetting you, and I wish you would talk to me about it. If it is something with school, then maybe I can help you figure out a way to make it better. If it is something you just want to talk about, then I am here for you. If it something about me, then I would like to know, because if I am doing something that upsets you, I can’t talk with you about it, or work to correct it if you don’t let me know what’s going on.”
Kane sat for a long while, avoiding eye contact with me, staring at the wall, tears growing in his big aquamarine eyes. “Mom,” he said hesitantly, mustering the courage to go on, “it is something about you.”
“Okay. I am glad you are talking to me about it.”
“Oh, shoot! My Dad is going to kill me.” There was genuine panic in Kane’s eyes and voice. “My Dad made me promise not to tell you. Oh well. I already said it now. I hope my Dad doesn’t get mad at me. He’s going to kill me.”
“You know what, honey, I don’t think your Dad is going to kill you. He loves you. But I also don’t think it is fair for a grown up, and that includes me, Granny, Auntie, your Dad, or Uncle, to tell a kid something that upsets them, and then make them promise not to tell. Everyone needs someone to talk to about things that are upsetting. If you want to tell me, you can, or if you would rather talk to someone else about it, I can arrange that too, but I hate to see you have to carry around something that upsets you so much.”
“Okay, I will tell you, but pl-eeee-ase don’t tell my Dad I told you.”
“Honey, I won’t. I promise.”
“Remember last time when I was at my Dad’s house?” I remembered. It was in June, right after kindergarten ended, and now it was late November.
“Yes, I remember.”
“Well, I asked my Dad why you guys got divorced, and he said he didn’t want to talk about it. I kept asking him, and then he said ‘your mom thought I was cheating on her, but I wasn’t, so she filed for divorce, and I didn’t want her to. We would still be together as a family if your mom didn’t file for divorce. And when she divorced me, she threw away all my stuff.’ Then he said he didn’t want to talk about it again. Is that true, Mom? Did you really do that?”
“Son, it is true that I filed for divorce. As for the cheating thing, that doesn’t matter. What matters is that your father and I love you very much. You had nothing to do with why we divorced. I know you don’t understand it right now, but I was very unhappy while I was married to your Dad. Your Dad and I really tried. We went to counseling several times, but we were just so different. I tried to be a perfect mom and wife, and he tried to be a perfect Dad and husband, but for us to meet in the middle, we would have each had to sacrifice so much of who we were. As for your Dad’s stuff, the only things your Dad left here was some of his clothes. After almost two years, I called your Dad one last time and told him that if he didn’t come and get them, then I was going to give them to the homeless people. Your Dad never got them, so I gave them to Uncle Matt to give to a bunch of homeless men.”
“Wow! Mom, how happy were the homeless guys to get some nice clothes? I bet they were so happy.”
“Yes, I’m sure they were very happy. Son, I know you have a lot of questions about the divorce, and I want you to know that it is okay to have those questions, and any time you want to talk about the divorce, I will talk to you about it, okay?” I looked into his inquisitive eyes, and ran my fingers over his platinum blond, silky fine hair to reassure him.
“Okay, mom. I was thinking that. I mean you always talk to me about everything, and you never lie to me, so I was thinking, why would she lie now?”
***
You know that children are growing up when
they start asking questions
that have answers.
—John J. Plomp
“Hey, Mom, guess what.”
“What?”
“Timmy and Mattie were humping at CDI! Can you believe that?!!?” Kane’s eyes were filled with awe, and I could tell his sense of pride in sharing with me such juicy gossip. My initial response was to flip out. My head yelled, “What the Hell? What are they letting these kids do at CDI?” CDI was the daycare at Kane’s school. I loved the fact that he didn’t have to stand outside waiting for a ride, or wait to be transported to a different site. He simply walked from his classroom, past the front of the school office, and into the bungalow next to the kindergarten classroom. He had been following this routine for three years. As quickly as I had lost it mentally, I regained it, and I calmly asked him, “Son, do you know what humping is?”
“Well, Jimmy said it is when a girl likes a boy and she shakes her butt at him.” I suddenly found myself laughing—hard—as if I myself was a kid, and someone just said “fart” or “butt.”
“I guess that isn’t what humping is, huh Mom?”
“No, honey. That isn’t what humping is.”
Kane had a frustrated, yet amused look on his face. “Well what is it then?”
“Humping is a slang term for sexual intercourse.” Kane became increasingly perturbed looking. I could tell what he was thinking. He had always been an exceptionally bright and mature child for his age. For the two years prior, I detected that his curiosity about the mysterious word, sex, was growing. Fortunately, I had prepared for this moment in advance, by purchasing one of the age-appropriate books on reproduction— the kind with all the cartoon pictures. “Tell you what. I have a book that explains a lot about sex. If you think you are ready to read it, you can read it. If you would like us to read it together, we can read it together. If you don’t think you are ready yet, and you would like to wait, you can do that too. It is whatever you feel comfortable with.”
“Mom, I think I want to read it, but I want to read it alone.”
“Okay. I will get the book, and you can read it.” I went into the computer room and returned to the kitchen with the book. He sat at the kitchen table and read it from cover to cover, never taking his eyes off it, and only occasionally asking occasionally asking the meaning or pronunciation of certain words.
He finished his reading, and said, “That’s it? I don’t know what the big deal is.” I giggled, and told him, “We’ll see if you still feel the same way in about five or six years!” I then explained to Kane that although I let him know about the “big secret,” he couldn’t tell the children at school and daycare. It would be perfectly appropriate to direct questions to me, his uncles, aunts, or godparents, and even his father—when he saw him, but not other children. He, of course being eternally inquisitive, asked me “Why?” I pointed out to him that parents are funny about the issue of sex when it comes to their children, especially at the age of seven. “There are a lot of people walking around with misinformation.” “Yeah, like Jimmy. He told me the totally wrong thing about humping!”
“Exactly, and it is that very misinformation that leads to boys and girls who are only 14 or 15 being parents, and a multitude of other things. I would rather you have the right information, and feel comfortable talking about sex if you have questions. That way you will hopefully make not only informed decisions, but also wise decisions.”
***
You are young, my son, and, as the years go by, time will change and even reverse many of your present opinions. Refrain therefore awhile from setting yourself up as a judge of the highest matters.
—Plato (427 BC -347 BC), Dialogues, Theatetus
I always knew that Kane was angry with me for divorcing his father. I found the subject very difficult, because I wanted to tell him why his father and I didn’t work out, but at the same time there were things that either he didn’t need to know or wasn’t old enough to hear. There was really no way to explain my side of the story and prove my reasoning without telling him those things I knew would hurt him. The best I could do was to try to make him understand that although his father and I loved each other, we simply weren’t happy together. I explained that his father and I were so different that we couldn’t be ourselves. Despite all of this, I could tell that Kane was still very angry with me and held me responsible for the breakup of our family.
One weekend, I spoke with Mark, and he mentioned concerns about something that I personally found fairly trivial when the whole child is taken into consideration: Kane’s penmanship—especially in the third grade. Kane who was in the living room, could hear me talk to his father, and had a good idea of what we were discussing. When I got off the phone with Mark, I told Kane about his father’s concern. Kane quickly reminded me that I get on him about his scribble too. I explained to Kane that my concern isn’t that his handwriting is reflective of his academic performance or his intelligence, but rather that it shows a lack of concern on his part and more importantly he needs to be courteous his reader. I further pointed out that when work is illegible, it is more prone to being graded incorrectly. I told Kane that his Dad might talk to him about the penmanship, and he needed to listen and be respectful, but that was just another of the areas where his father and I were different. Kane was quick to respond dramatically, “Yeah, really different.”
Our conversation then led to Kane telling me that he doesn’t feel like he can be himself around his father; he isn’t very comfortable with him. I explained to Kane that the tension in the marriage was due to the differences between us; not that either one of us was right or wrong, but that we were tremendously different. It seemed that Kane was beginning to understand—when he was able to relate it to how different he feels in the two households. I explained to Kane that while I was married I felt very ugly, unintelligent, and like a big loser, but I also assured him that every day, Mark told me how beautiful, intelligent, and wonderful I was, but I couldn’t believe it because I wasn’t happy with myself. I wasn’t happy because I wasn’t being myself. Kane found it hard to believe that there was a time when I felt so badly about myself, saying, “I never knew you felt like that, mom. I thought you always believed you were all that.” He smiled, giggled, and added, “Mom, I like you how you are now.”
I confirmed what he said with, “I really like how I am now too.”
During our entire conversation, I tried very hard to tell my side of the story—to explain how unhappy I was, but also to make Kane understand that I acknowledge his father’s good qualities and to let Kane know that Mark and I tried to make the marriage work.
As our conversation began to draw to a close, I told Kane, “Son, I know you are angry at me for divorcing your father. I understand that, and it is okay if you are angry with me. I know you wish our family was still together. I wanted to make the marriage work so our family could be together, but I really am much happier now and feel better about myself.”
“Mom, I’m not really that angry anymore.”
“Well, I want you to know that if you are, that’s okay and it won’t hurt my feelings. I would never be upset with you for being angry. You have the right to feel emotions.”
To that, Kane said very calmly and confidently, “Mom, I’m not really that angry anymore. There are no wrong answers in opinions; there are only wrong answers in facts.”
***
For a community to be whole and healthy, it must be based on people’s love and concern for each other.
—Anonymous
A friend of mine, who was also a mentor to me, once called Kane an “old soul.” She said, “Angela, That Boy (which was her nickname for him) is wiser and older than you are. He has been around a long time.”
I was beginning to believe her. Kane had the most bright, beautiful, aquamarine/hazel eyes, with lashes to make an ostrich envious, and yet behind those exquisite peepers, was wisdom, age, and maturity beyond his few years. He was only nine years old, but he became incredibly proficient in his ability to amaze and astonish me with his insights and compassion.
One day on our drive home, we were exiting the freeway, eastbound, and had to loop back across the overpass. Kane, the eternal watcher from the back seat, saw a transient coming out of the bushes.
“Mom. That makes me sad. I almost want to cry.”
“What, Honey? What makes you sad?”
“That homeless man. It makes me sad.”
“Yes, son. That is very sad.”
“I mean come on, Mom. Most people probably look at him and think he is only a dirty, stinky bum, but they don’t know. I mean what if he had a really good job, but he got fired? What if he had a really nice house, but a fire burned it down? What if his wife died, and he was so sad he started using drugs and now he is a drug addict, but he doesn’t want to be?”
“You are absolutely right, son. That is why we should never pass judgment upon other people. We never know what their life has been for them, or what obstacles are before them. That is a very mature and socially aware attitude you have. I am very proud of you that you are being compassionate and empathetic enough to see beyond the surface layers of people.”
“I mean, what else am I supposed to do? I don’t know why that guy is homeless, I just know it’s sad.”
***
Tolerance implies no lack of commitment to one’s own beliefs. Rather it condemns the oppression or persecution of others.
—John Fitzgerald Kennedy
I found myself excited one night when they were running a marathon of one of my favorite television shows. I sat, posted in my huge chair, immobilized by comfort when Kane came out of his room. His bottom dropped into his “spot” on the couch.
“Whatchawatchin’?”
“Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.”
“Why does it have to be called that? I mean that sounds like a pretty rude name.” I tried to explain to Kane that sometimes, otherwise derogatory terms are acceptable in certain situations. He didn’t seem impressed with my explanation, and continued with, “What’s it about?” I tried to explain the program to him, and how the regular cast of the show, who happen to all be gay men, do a complete makeover—home, grooming, and wardrobe—of a straight man. The hope of the “subject” is to surprise the woman in his life with a new look so that she would fall in love with him all over again. Kane looked less than enthusiastic when he asked, “Well why do they have to be gay guys? Why can’t they just be guys, or why can’t they just be people?”
Male friends of mine popped into my head—both gay and straight. The only response I was able to come up with was, “There are just some things that, frequently, gay guys understand that straight guys don’t. Just watch. You’ll see how much better the guy looks at the end.”
Kane sat quietly watching. As the program neared its end, and the newly remodeled straight man made his appearance, I asked Kane, “See, doesn’t he look better?”
“I don’t know about better, but he looks different.” That was my son, not easily impressed. He sat a few minutes more, and then said, “You know Mom, I don’t know what the big deal is about being gay. I mean, I would be friends with someone who was gay. I mean duh! Just because someone is gay doesn’t mean I have to be gay.” His annoyance at the prejudice of others was apparent in his voice.
I was impressed that my fourth-grade son had such insight. “You are right, son, and I am very proud of your maturity. I know that at your age, many of your peers are quick to call someone gay or a fag, and that they think it’s cool to make fun of people. You should be proud that you are wiser and more mature than that. It is that kind of compassion and empathy that makes you such a special person.”
Kane said ever so nonchalantly, a simple, “Thanks.” We continued to watch the marathon, and in the beginning of another episode, he said, “You know, Mom, I don’t know why, but for some reason I just don’t think it’s as gross for two girls to like each other as it is for two boys.”
***
Speaking of love, one problem that recurs more and more frequently these days, in books and plays and movies, is the inability of people to communicate with the people they love; husbands and wives who can’t communicate, children who can’t communicate with their parents, and so on. And the characters in these books and plays and so on (and in real life, I might add) spend hours bemoaning the fact that they can’t communicate. I feel that if a person can’t communicate, the very least he can do is to shut up.
—Tom Lehrer, That Was The Year that Was
Kane and I were sitting in our computer room at home, just “shooting the shit.” He began telling me about the latest news with the two girls he likes, or do they like him? Oh, wait. I think one liked him, and the other ignored him, when she wasn’t harassing him. No. He didn’t like Destiny anymore because she was a snob, and he still liked Alexa, but she liked Anthony, but she liked to scribble on Kane’s papers—just to be mean. I think that was the latest update I received.
I asked Kane, “Do you and your Dad talk about girls?”
“Nope. He hasn’t asked. I probably would if he asked me, but I’m not going to just tell him. I mean I love him, because he’s my Dad, but I would rather talk to you.”
“Why?”
“I dunno. I think part of it is because a lot of the time I try to listen to him, but mostly I just say things like, ‘Uh huh, Okay, and All right.’ Don’t tell my Dad that I’m not really listening, but I think he knows, because he sometimes says, ‘I feel like you aren’t even listening to me,’ and really I’m not, but I don’t want to tell him that.”
I laughed, which then made Kane laugh. “Oh, so that is what you do to me, huh? You little crumb snatcher!”
He laughed and gave me one of his goofy faces where his eyes become big and crossed, his mouth gaping and crooked, and his tongue dangles below his lips. “No, mom, really I don’t that much. I almost always listen to you. You are just easier to listen to.”
Our conversation bounced over numerous topics and landed and on the topic of communication. Kane told me that one of his friends got irritated because his mother is always prying about girls. I reminded Kane that I too talk to him about girls. Then he said, “Yeah, but mom, you aren’t all like creepy about it. I mean you just ask, and if I don’t want to talk about it, you let it go, so then because you aren’t acting all creepy, I always tell you.”
“Well, you know, when you’re a teenager, I am going to be all up in your business, but it isn’t because I am trying to be creepy, but because I love you, and I know people are going to try to influence you about drugs, alcohol, sex, and skipping school. I just hope that when the time comes, you will feel comfortable enough to talk to me about those things.”
“Mom, think about it. If you keep talking to me like you always have, then I am going to keep talking to you, right?”
***
Children begin by loving their parents; as they grow older they judge them; sometimes they forgive them.
—Oscar Wilde (1854 -1900), The Picture of Dorian Gray, 1891
I was driving Kane to school, after a long period of silence he said, “Mom, you know last night, I was at my Dad and Traci’s for what, four hours? And do you know they fought three times. Not kicking and hitting, but they were yelling and screaming. Gawd. She is so picky and lazy and miserable. I don’t know why Dad doesn’t just divorce her.”
I didn’t want to tell Kane that his father will never divorce Traci, not when they have five children together—stair steps, and Traci doesn’t work. Nope. Mark couldn’t afford even a can of sardines if he kicked her to the curb. Instead, I told Kane, “Honey, divorce isn’t that easy. There are always a lot of things to consider, and it is even harder when you have children. It was really hard for me to decide to divorce your Dad, because I knew you would be very sad.”
“Dad is miserable.”
“How do you know that? Did he tell you that, or are you just saying that because you don’t like Traci and the kids?” It was obvious how Kane felt about his step-mother and his brothers and sister. He once told a close friend of mine that he refused to call Traci his step-mom; he would only refer to her by her name, and he was quick to point out that his father’s children with Traci were not his brothers and sister; they were his half-brothers and half-sister.
“He’s miserable. Mom, I might be a kid, but I am not dumb.” I knew my child was anything but “dumb.” In fact, he was more in tune and aware than many adults. It would only be a matter of time before he figured out parts of life that I had never considered.
Just then, we pulled up to Kane’s school. I told him the regular, “I love you. Have a good day, study hard, and I will see you after work.”
“You too Mom.”
I watched my little man, so full of wisdom, as he walked away to talk to the others fifth graders as they waited for the school bell to ring.
***
There is no revenge so complete as forgiveness.
—Josh Billings, US Humorist (1818-1885)
So many times, friends and family members alike questioned my actions. They accused me of being too nice to Mark, of making excuses for him. They wanted me to take Mark to court and ruin him financially.
I never did. I could see no point in doing that. To me, Mark was like a dislocated bone. Initially, I knew I had to move away from him, but the pain of forcing that kind of detachment seemed to reinforce my need to stay. And yet, if my pain was ever going to subside, it would require me to take some sort of action on my own. So one day I grabbed my metaphorical belt strap, bit down hard, and straightened things out, the only way I knew possible. As a result, I became my own person. When I was married to Mark, I felt caged, trapped— suffocated. After we divorced, I felt free, no longer caged or trapped; I could breathe.
Ultimately, I discovered that life is about growth and lessons. I have watched my son grow into a young man who fills me with tremendous pride and awe. Kane’s once white-blond hair, has changed to a medium brown. It has thickened, just as his once gangly body has thickened. By the age of 10, he has grown to the size of a petite man. Adolescence is not far away, but he will remain, forever, my baby.
Even though I am his mother, this child has taught me more about life and about myself than any book ever could. He taught me is how to become a watcher, a viewer, someone who respects the power of living. Quietly observing. Silently realizing.
Maybe Kane is right about his father. I don’t know. I don’t care. I don’t wish misery upon him; in fact I wish him, his wife, and their little stair steps happiness. That should be enough. And what about Kane, you might ask? It is not my place to project my attitudes onto a boy who deserves so much better than what he has received. It is not my place to decide for him how he should feel toward a man who gave me the best gift any man has given to a woman. My son deserves to explore those feelings on his own—without my negative influence.
As a result, all I can do is watch—watch my son grow into a man. I can never pretend to know what he will become. I just have to keep him safe until he is ready to make that decision for himself. After all, life is not about beginning and endings. It’s about what you do in between. It’s about moments. For me, it’s about moments with Kane. I have my son—my little man—my baby—and little else matters.
Phoebe Lulu 