Rahul Walking

I wrote an published this piece several years ago, but its one of my favorites so I thought it bore repeating...

As I stepped out into the cold April night I was aware that my son was not wearing any shoes.  When he turned back and saw me following him, he took off running down the poorly lit street.  My heart had already been pounding, now it felt like there was enough electricity pumping through my veins to launch a rocket.  I don’t know how this is going to end, I kept thinking.  I had only moved into this neighborhood two months earlier and did not know all the shadows and driveways and if Rahul ran off the street I would never be able to find him.  I caught up to him quickly and he slumped his shoulders when he realized I was going to follow him wherever he went tonight.  Tears streamed down his cheeks, but he stared straight ahead, determined to out-walk me, if nothing else.  Neighbors passed by us, but didn’t notice that he had no shoes on, or that he was breaking down.  I whistled a tune so he would think I was calm and in control.  When we reached the first intersection he started to dart across the street, not understanding the traffic lights or the “don’t walk” signal.  I grabbed him and pointed to the oncoming traffic to show him that I didn’t want to stop him from walking, just from getting hit by a car.  He pulled out of my grip, enraged that I was trying to hold him back, and charged ahead as cars drove toward him.  I jumped between him and the cars and held my hands up to stop them as we crossed the street together.  I prayed that they would see me and stop.  I hadn’t stopped praying since his tantrum had begun.

Rahul had only just come home with me from India a week or so earlier.  He was angry and irritated and uncomfortable most of the time since we had met, and a few times he had erupted in such rage that he would try to run away from me.  He would start by putting his shoes on, the ones he had worn home from the orphanage, then he would carefully remove anything I had given him—a watch, a shirt—and try to leave my NYC apartment.  He was trying to run back to India.  Back to his house—his orphanage.  Away from me.  I stopped him the first few times.  A few days earlier he had gotten so angry at my stopping him from leaving that he lashed out at me to the point where I feared I couldn’t control him.  He was small for his age, but he was still a 7-year-old boy, and a strong one at that.  I have never claimed to be very strong myself, physically at least.  He spent several hours kicking, scratching, screaming and biting me, until finally he passed out on the floor in a heap.  I fell into a heap myself that day, in tears, scared by what I had taken on.  Unsure how to handle his emotion.  But after that incident I decided that the next time he tried to leave I wouldn’t stop him, I would just go with him.  I would be his shadow as he discovered that India is too far away to walk to.  So that night, when he started walking out the door, I stood aside and let him go.  As he struggled with the locks he got so angry that he threw his shoes across the floor.  I looked in his eyes and said, Wow, you are angry!  Then I unlocked the door and opened it.

Once we made it safely across the intersection I could see Rahul’s eyes scanning the edges of the street lighted area for somewhere to dash to.  We walked another two blocks, then turned north.  We were no longer walking on the sidewalk or the road, but balancing on a small curb.  I prayed that there was no broken glass to cut his feet.  And I prayed that this night would end well.  We walked a few more blocks and Rahul turned right, crossing an overpass over the Henry Hudson Parkway.  Where is he going? I thought. Then he made one more turn, down the entrance ramp.  My heart raced as I realized his plan was to walk onto the highway.  Did he think it led back to India?  My brain was spinning as I followed alongside him.  I knew if he made it to the bottom of the ramp I would have to physically restrain him and I wasn’t sure I could do it.  My God, what would that look like to people driving by?   Then, just as we reached the bottom, he stopped and turned around.   I took a deep breath.  Did this mean he was done?  As we reached the top of the ramp and turned back over the overpass, without looking at me, he whispered, “House.”  It was one of the few English words he knew and at that moment it was the most beautiful word I had ever heard.  I said, “OK.”  I could see that he didn’t know how to get home and his little body was shivering.  I said, “ Can I carry you?”  I wasn’t sure I could carry him very far, but I couldn’t let him walk anymore.  He stopped dead in his tracks and lifted up his arms.  I drew him up into my arms and tried to help him mold around my body.  Having not been held much in his life, he was awkward in this position, with his neck stiff and his limbs just hanging limp.  I placed my lips to his ear and said, “Rahul, I love you.  I am not going to hurt you.” It was the first time I had told him that I loved him, and until this moment, I wasn’t even sure that I did.

The rest of that night was happy and there have been so many happy times since then.  That night I began to trust my maternal instinct, which has guided me more surely than any advice or instruction.  That wasn’t the last time Rahul ran away from me and it certainly wasn’t the worst night we have shared since he has been home with me the past two and a half years.  But that night was the beginning of our very special relationship.

Rahul circa April 2008 in his favorite outfit!

What I Did For My Summer Vacation

Leading up to Rahul's adoption I prepared a lot.  I read books, I shopped for supplies, I found doctors, dentists, Hindi translation services, I even moved to a new neighborhood with a better school.  One thing that I was completely unprepared for, though, was summer.  Rahul came home with me in April 2008 and I immediately put him in school.  But it wasn't until there were only a few days left of school that I came up with any type of plan for what he was going to do during summer vacation while I was at work!  Not surprisingly, that summer was a bit of a mess.  And in fact, it took me a couple of years before I came up with the perfect combination of activities to fill his time without killing me financially and over-scheduling his vacation.  But, seriously, this summer (our fifth together) was by far the best!

Last winter Rahul began asking me if there were places where one could dig for gems, fossils, minerals, etc. so I turned to my good friend Google for some ideas.  The first thing I found was this amazing dinosaur dig in South Dakota that seemed perfect (http://www.paleoadventures.com) .  Then I realized that South Dakota was a great place to dig for other treasures like gold and gems, so I built a vacation around traveling there.  Then I learned that Rahul's best friend Justin, who moved to Japan last year, was coming to NYC to visit for several weeks over the summer.  So Justin's mom and I coordinated our schedules so that Justin arrived just as we were returning from our South Dakota trip.  We arranged for him to stay with us for a week and for the boys to travel together to my parents' house of Lake Ontario for a week.  My parents are retired and live in an amazing place and they are unbelievably generous, so each summer they watch Rahul for a few weeks at their place while I come back to NYC to work and catch up on a year's worth of missed sleep and social activity.  So when Justin returned to Japan, Rahul stayed at the lake and fished, swam, and had all kinds of adventures with his grandparents for a few weeks.  And our very last activity of the summer was to visit one of our favorite places on Labor Day weekend:  Libby's Beach (which is actually the Jersey Shore, but my bff Libby's family lives there...)!

Enjoy...

Mother's Day

I remember the first Mother's Day card I received.  I was in India adopting my son and my bff Libby was with me, and she had brought a card all the way there so she could give it to me on the day I met my son for the first time.  She wanted to be the first to wish me Happy Mother's Day!  I had been so completely focused on preparing everything in my life for Rahul and making sure I had everything he would need that I hadn't really thought about how my own role in life was changing.  I remember thinking, Oh yeah! I'm a mother now! 

As someone who came reluctantly into motherhood I had to wrestle with feelings of fear and distain toward joining "the mommy club".  I hadn't dreamed of becoming a mother my whole life--in fact, I hadn't dreamed of it all.  I remember once, on an ill-fated date, being asked how many children I wanted to have.  Zero, I said.  My date looked at me in absolute horror.  He literally stood up and paced and nearly left (good riddance) until another friend talked him down.  And you may be surprised, but I've received many similar reactions throughout my life when I have said I didn't think I wanted children.

It wasn't until about two years before Rahul came home with me that I began to have stirrings that I was supposed to be doing something more with my life.  A friend who had a similar lack of desire for children (and had been taken to a psychiatrist by her mother-in-law who thought she was a lesbian because she didn't want any children--seriously, has she MET any lesbians?) had experienced a life-changing yearning when she held her nephew in her arms for the first time and was now expecting a child with her husband (a second marriage--the first one dumped her because of the "no kids" thing).  She advised me to seriously reconsider my ideas about motherhood.  And I did.  I thought about it seriously for the first time, but could not wrap my mind around becoming a single mom.  Then a few months later I experienced a big heartbreak and in the pits of my despair I realized I was yearning for something more than what that relationship could have given me.  I was yearning to be meaningful to someone.  To create family.  To use the blessings my life was overflowing with to help someone else.  Adoption.  The idea gelled completely in my mind and I knew it was my life's purpose.  And a few weeks later I was filling out adoption papers!

So when I found myself facing my first Mother's Day I thought it might be fun!  A day to celebrate me!  Well, my first Mother's Day was so completely horrible that I literally wore sunglasses all day because I was crying and didn't want Rahul to see.  People called me all day long to wish me well, which should have been encouraging, except that Rahul was miserable and unstable and totally hated me.  Every time I got a new "Happy Mother's Day" phone message I wanted to throw the phone across the room.  It wasn't a day much different from any other in those first few months, except that I had people congratulating me all day.  And to me that created a chasm between myself and everyone else.  I was prepared for Rahul's difficult transition. It was incredibly hard, but I didn't have expectations that it would be easy.  I think it was hard for most of my friends and family to understand how painful and traumatic it was for Rahul.  Most people pictured a much happier situation than it was in reality.  But  I wasn't crying that day because Rahul was making me sad.  I was crying because I felt like no one understood what I needed that day.  Not well wishes and congratulations.  I needed a hug, comfort, a visit, support.  I realized that day that being a single mom to a child with special needs was incredibly lonely. 

Subsequent Mother's Days have gotten increasingly better.  Rahul is happier each year and he has expressed so much gratitude and love to me on Mother's Day and every day that I don't feel like there is anything I need from a special holiday.  And being a mother is my favorite thing in the world.  It is the most amazing experience and I've never regretted it once.  But I still feel a familiar tug each year on my heart at the beginning of May.  A reminder of the chasm that I still feel exists between myself and so many others.  Do people really see me?  Do they understand how treacherous my motherhood journey has been?   Do they realize how different my life is from theirs?  My side of that chasm is much more crowded now--with people who have held my arms up and remembered me and taken care of me.  Friends who have loved me and listened to me and supported me.  Friends who have had similarly crazy journeys through motherhood.  Family who have laid down their lives so Rahul and I could make it through the past four years.  It takes a village to raise a child.  And it takes a village to keep mom standing.

Women Who Throw Phones

I'm starting a club.  It's kind of like the First Wives Club.  But its called Women Who Throw Phones and you can only join if you have done at least 5 of the following:

1. Thrown your cell phone across the room, picked it up and thrown it again
2. Spoken to your children in an "exorcist voice" and later felt ashamed
3. Cried so hard you've thrown up
4. Experienced an actual hallucination from lack of sleep
5. Missed your child so much when they are with a caregiver you spent all your "me time" crying
6. Walked the dog, taken the children to school, done all the household chores and worked a full day--all with a fever of 102 or higher
7. Caught your child's vomit in your hands while driving 
8. Wanted to scratch out the eyes of any number of women who post this on Facebook: "Hubby is taking me for a much needed getaway this weekend. Beach and spa, here we come!!!!!!!"
9. Been at a loss for words when a friend says, "I don't know know how you do it!  My husband went away for the weekend and I had to do everything myself!"
10. Have built shelves, haggled with a mechanic, taught your son how to pee in the toilet, and received Father's Day cards.

One time I went to a parenting class at my church.  And as I sat there hearing advice that did not apply at all to single parent families or children with special needs I began to realize that I didn't belong there.  I needed to be able to talk with people who had problems bigger than Little Johnny Is Not Obeying His Parents or How To Carve Out More Time To Have Family Dinners Together.  The subject of children's anger came up and as people shared anxiously about the (relatively mild) scenarios they were dealing with I thought, "My God. I don't think you would last one day with my child."

One day my best friend Libby and I were at the beach with Rahul.  We had just come through a particularly bad patch, and I spent the day telling her all the latest.  It was pretty "life or death" and she is one of the few people on the planet who knows some of the most excruciating details.  As we left the beach we passed a family bargaining with their toddler to let go of their beach towel because she was dragging it on the ground.  Something like, "Betty, if you let go of Mommy's towel you can hold the sand pail!  Come on Betty, let go!  Betty, do you want an ice cream?  I'll buy you one if you stop dragging the towel!"  Libby and I rolled our eyes at each other I said, "I look at families like that and wonder how long they would last with my child."  She laughed and created a quick shorthand I have used many times since:

"LESS THAN"

"TWO"

Less than two minutes.  That's how long they would last.


I am in Maine right now with one of my best friends and we are totally serious about starting our club.  She is a widow with 3 young children and helped me create the above list from her own experiences.  Her children are extraordinary--one is in the gifted and talented program, one has special needs and the third is an Indigo Child.  She lost her own father when she was a young girl and is now helping her children navigate the same situation.  She is the most amazing mother.  Another friend who I asked to join our club is a divorced mother of three young children who recently had to sit at a court hearing and hear a judge tell her the upside of her new 50/50 custody agreement (which my friend had spent years fighting to prevent) is that "Mom will finally get some 'me time'!"  She is working 3 jobs and has to regularly hand her children over to a man who I wouldn't let in the same state as my child. 

We need each other.  Every once in a while we need to be able to talk about our lives, say "You know what I mean?" and hear someone say, "Yes.  Actually, I do."

You know what I mean?

Remembering Mr. Doyle

I moved to Riverdale (Bronx) about a month before I adopted Rahul.  I had worked here and knew the neighborhood, but the month prior to Rahul's arrival was chaotic to say the least, so I had no time to meet my neighbors or make friends. 

When I went to India to get Rahul, my best friend Libby and my Dad came with me.  It was an incredible trip and when it came time to move Rahul out of his orphanage and get him set to travel, he was incredible distraught.  Several thousand blog posts couldn't accurately describe his anguish and my terror.  I was beyond grateful that my Dad and Libby were there to help me.  It was at the very least, a three person job to soothe Rahul and get him on the plane in a happy state of mind. 

Rahul loved my Dad right off the bat.  He felt comfortable with him and trusted him, so I asked my Dad to stick around my place for a few extra days after the rest of the family (visiting to welcome Rahul) left.  When he finally packed up his bags to go, I snuck him out the door with vague directions to the train station (my mom had taken the car).  We didn't want Rahul to notice he had left --which, of course, was a terrible idea.  I distracted Rahul and my Dad went out the door to fend for himself.  He asked the first person he saw how to get to the train station (I think I had given him the number for a taxi service--what a terrible daughter I am!!!!).  Thankfully, the first person he saw was someone who was to become one of the most cherished neighbors I have ever had.  He introduced himself as Mr. Doyle and that is who he has always been to me, despite his many attempts to get me to call him Dennis.  When my Dad asked him for directions, Mr. Doyle offered to drive him to the train. Now, in other cities, this may be a typical act of neighborly assistance, but in New York City--in the BRONX--not so much.  My Dad was certainly blown away by this act of kindness, and he got a chance to tell me all about it a half hour later when I called him crying because Rahul was freaking out at his absence.  I made my poor Dad get in a taxi and come all the way back to my place for a few more days.  Those were some rough days. Thanks Buzz:)

Mr. Doyle quickly became a trusted friend and neighbor to me.  I have always described him as a displaced beach bum, although he never lived on the beach.  He wore shorts until the weather dipped below zero, was incredibly laid back and always seemed like he might be just a little bit drunk.  He was one of those people who miraculously appeared to me whenever I was in need.  When I was shoveling the snow off my car, he was there to lend me a hand.  When I was late to pick up Rahul from school he happened to be driving by me and drove me to PS 24 in half the time it would have taken me to walk.  He had jumper cables at the ready when my car's battery petered out, and in fact, several days after charging up my Jeep, he knocked on my door to tell me he had just bought me a new battery and put it in my car for me!!  When a tire was low, he'd knock on my door.  When my radiator fluid was running low, he would appear, then disappear to "borrow" someone's bottle of radiator fluid from our garage, then reappear and replenish my supply.

I am not an easy person to take care of.  I have been on my own since I was 17 and am incredibly independent.  Mr. Doyle knew this about me and I always felt he respected me for it, but at the same time, he was always looking out for me.  He was often at the door of the building to open it when I had my arms full.  I remember taking my dog out for a walk one day when Rahul was particularly struggling, running into Mr. Doyle and just crying and telling him my woes.  Once, I came home to find that my lock had broken and needed to be replaced. I called a locksmith and settled in the lobby to wait for him.  Lo and behold Mr. Doyle walked in the door and waited with me for the hour or so it took for the locksmith to come.  On Christmas there would always be an S&S Cheesecake hanging on my door with a card signed "Mr. Doyle". 

I loved talking with Mr. Doyle--I called him the Mayor of Riverdale.  He knew everybody's story.  Riverdale had seemed like a bland place until Mr. Doyle started telling me stories about some of the people here.  I could name anyone in the neighborhood and he could tell me something about them.  He was good-natured--all stories were told with a wink and a smile.  His way of letting anything roll off his back helped me to let go of some frustrations I had with people. 

And for all his knowledge of other people, he was a very private person.  I never exactly knew what he did for a living, although I asked him outright several times.  I invited him to every gathering I ever had at my house and he never came.  I knew that he loved going to the races.  He loved riding his bike all over creation.  Nothing could make me happier than when he would quote Bible verses to me verbatum.  He would pop them out at the least likely times, and despite the fact that he meant them in jest, they were actually very meaningful to me.

The last time I spent time with Mr. Doyle was when I was in my mad race to get to Disney this past August (see blog post on the subject).  I went to him when I needed a ride to the dog kennel to drop Baby off.  I knocked on his door, asked him for help, and his reply was, "What time do you you need me?"  Of course he was there for me, and drove us through the Hurricane Irene flooding to get Baby to the kennel.  I told him about my crazy plight over the weekend and he just laughed and quoted some Bible verse and sent me on my way.

Unbeknownst to me, a few days later he was diagnosed with an illness that took his life on December 16th.  Our whole building reeled at the news.  What he was to me, he also was to everyone else.  He was a neighbor who didn't just live in proximity to you--he also became a part of your life.  He will always be a huge part of my story.  A reminder that good, loving people still do exist.  That everyone has a story.  That its better to let trouble roll off your back.  That there are needs all around, every day, and by meeting them, you can change someone's life.