Raising J.

072908 I can’t think of one good reason to start blogging about raising my son, J. I could just as easily keep notes and questions and stories of his growing up and challenges and issues that influence my parenting choices, all could be put in a journal, or a file on my computer. Of course any sharing and dialogue from others would not be possible if I don’t blog it, but I’ve been keeping another blog for over a year, with the link in my email signature, and frankly the only comments I’ve gotten are from pro-death-penalty police officers angry when I post Mumia Abu-Jamal’s commentaries. Nobody reads my stuff, so why bother?

Except that my questions deserve answers, even if I don’t get them. Asking is still the right thing to do.

And because I’m not the first divorced mother of a child with some unclear special needs, having a hard time working enough to support us while being active in her son’s therapies, afterschool care, and “extras” (LOL!) like playground time.

And certainly I’m not the first woman who brings a child into the world believing strongly that humans are 99% a product of their environment – and then smacked soundly in the face with the hollow echos of voices saying no one knows why some children have this and that area of weakness. Despite my feeling like I put in 10 times the effort and forethought in raising J. than most parents I see during my day.

And this isn’t the first night this week – and it’s only Tuesday! – that I’ve fallen asleep in the computer chair during a moment when I sat back to wonder where this is going, and find myself thinking about winged monkeys and green fields and unfriendly playground kids and an ice-cream float.

Where’s Nici? “TAKE off your blindfolds and OPEN your eyes!!” Thanks, Sis. Tell me to press SAVE, and head to bed. Tell me that I’m no good to J. if chronically under-rested. Tell me to take better care of myself and to stop thinking the future of the world depends on my finding out how exactly to free my son from these percentile numbers and sad vignettes shared by teachers and testers.

Tell me that it’s honorable that I’ve sworn on blood oath to parent drastically different, for the better, than I was parented. If I WAS actually parented. Maybe calling what my first 18 years were like “parented” is a mistake. It was more like I arrived – they usually fed me (someday I’ll write about that part) – punishments were dispensed when rules were broken (although I never seemed to realize I was breaking any rules, and most of my classmates who considered me a Goody-Two-Shoes / Teacher’s Pet would concur) – and somehow I made it out. How can I call that way of tolerating an unplanned child, and punishing her for the depressions and rages of the parents, “Parenting”?

And yet, just knowing that I have already broken a chain of generations of abuse and depression and addictions in my family isn’t enough. It was what I prayed was possible – to parent unlike anything I’d ever seen before. But now it isn’t enough for me. Selfish Mama Mars – on top of that, she now also wants a healthy, intelligent, well-adjusted, successful son. One who beats the odds on the dice rolled by Black male youth. I want sooooo much. But if it is so selfish, and elusive, then why do so many mothers get these things? Often without trying a tenth as hard as I am? There’s that selfishness again – compare and contrast, then want the top 5th percentile. Damn math-head…