Navigating Loserville

“You want to talk about being a loser? You have two kids by a man that never loved you.”

These words, straight out of the mouth of my 18-year-old son have been reverberating in my head like a dull headache for the past three months.

This sentiment follows me to sleep at night and wakes me up at 3:00 a.m.

Try as I may by burying myself with 10-hour workdays, literally on the hour, the echo of these words starts off light at first, progressively reaching a crescendo of hurt where my only recourse is to get up from my seat and walk my office aimlessly until I can find a distraction that will quiet things in my head, albeit, momentarily.

In a broader sense, I go back through my 46 years walking this earth, and I recount every misstep and or bad decision I’ve made in adulthood.

You know what? I see it.

The conclusion hits as hard as a marble brick that lands square across my mouth: each bloody, loose tooth signifying where I could’ve done better both in parenting and in life.

Now, as I come to terms with losing a child and preparing for an upcoming court case, I’m trying to figure out how to navigate Loserville, because I simply can’t outrun the feelings of parental failure that’s cloaked around my shoulders like a ratty blanket.

I’ve failed, yet again.

The Good Son

He’s always been an amazing child. The good son. The quiet one of my two children, I tell anyone who would listen that he’s my autopilot baby boy.

Even the way I birthed him into the world was surrounded by peace.

That morning, his dad kissed me and said I love you before going to work.

An hour into reading my book, James Baldwin, I think, liquid gushes in between my thighs followed by a frightening thought:

“Oh shit. Did my water break?”

I drove myself to the hospital. It took forever to check me in as even the staff didn’t think this baby was coming yet; I was way too quiet and composed. Hours later, still reading and they made the call to give me meds speed things along and bring on contractions.

I can even vividly remember, how, in the thick of labor, my obstetrician would kind of doze off between contractions because The Good Son took his time making it into the world. Labor, by its very nature is chaotic. However, my good son found a way to reshape childbearing into a divine process steeped in serenity.

Raising him, I didn’t need to do much by way of parenting because all he does is keep his head down and do the right thing. Always maintained great grades. Never involved in foolishness. No bad-assed friends. I had it made as a single mom because he made things so easy.

Thinking back, I was foolish enough to believe that God had gifted me with well-behaved children, knowing that I would ultimately be a single mother.

When my mom and I used to get into arguments, she’d reign down curses from heaven asking God to send me a child who is as horrible to me as I were to her. With The Good Son, in my naivety, I thought I’d somehow escaped mom’s malediction.

I look at the painting of her that hangs in my living room, and, in my inflated arrogance, I say to it: “Manman, I won.” The ways I treated my mom, disappointed her and at times, said the most disrespectful things to her out of anger; my sins wouldn’t be revisited through my offspring.

Pretty sure, my mother, in heaven, put on that mischievous smirk of hers and thought:

“En byen, OK.” Loosely translated: “Alright girl. We’ll see.”

The fact is, there are a lot of good children out there. But in the end, they are still adolescents and in need of direction and boundaries. That was my fatal mistake. Believing that I didn’t need to establish boundaries because the good son had never given me a problem before.

Now, here I am. It’s 11:30 at night, full of tequila and I’m in a shoving match with my son. The failure to actively parent leads me right here, to this unfathomable place.

The Failure to Actively Parent

Clear as day, I can remember. I was watching TV in the family room and he asked to borrow the car rental for a lifesaving errand.

Failure to actively parent first error: Now, why in the hell am I allowing my 18-year-old to drive a car rental by himself, when only a couple of months before, he totaled the family vehicle?

Nevertheless, I allowed him to go. 

When he came back, there was an announcement – it’s official, he has a girlfriend. The errand was going to see and officially ask her out. Knowing what I know now, my excitement for him was short-sided and dangerous.

My mom’s voice is echoing in my head: “Sabine, girlfrwen? KI SA???”  

When I told my male friend, he himself a great dad who I often go to for parental advice, his excitement far from mirrored mine. In fact, he asked: “Why are you so happy? Girlfriends are a distraction.”

I didn’t understand where he was coming from because, I have the good soon.  Despite whom may come in and out of his life – he’s going to always do the right thing. 

This leads me to another instance of a failure to actively parent: “It doesn’t matter how well behaved a child is, they need boundaries.“

The fact is these teenagers, particularly the boys, believe that diving headfirst into wet cooch makes them an expert on life. 

It does not. Still, to my fault, being an active parent means that I should’ve seen the red flags and put the parameters in place to protect my son.  I failed to do so, and I live in a constant state of regret tinged sharply with anguish.

That being said, I didn’t not like his new girlfriend, I just thought it was a little weird how on her first time meeting me, she asked my son if I liked her.  I’m not sure how a 30-second introduction would give me enough to make that kind of heavy decision – but ok, I like her, I guess?

But as time went by.  It became clear: couldn’t stand her. Looking back, I should have stood by that and limited access by her into my home. Me not liking her is the very manifestation of the proverbial “red flag.”

From her emotionally draining my son under the guise of mental health to the way her parents allowed her to spend hours at my house; something wasn’t quite right about the girl.

I used to always grill my son: what are her goals? What is she planning? This is her senior year of high school, what’s next? I’d get a different answer every time: Hair dresser. Cook. Nurse. Interior Design.

OK. So apparently, there’s no clear direction on her end. Got it.

There even got to a point where she was so comfortable, she’d breeze right on into my home, go to my son’s room and shut the door without greeting me, the mom and the motherfuckin’ mortgage paying homeowner.

Failure to actively parent critical error: DO NOT let these kids hang out in a closed-door room! That’s literally a recipe ripe for disaster! I don’t know what I was thinking by allowing this. At 18, I could never. 

I remember when I used to visit my childhood best friend – we had one time to close my friend’s bedroom door before her mom went Haitian nuclear ballistic on us. And friends that’s another level of crazy that you simply won’t understand; that is, unless of course, you were raised with Haitian parents.

Yet, and however, I didn’t want to be the strict Haitian mom that I was raised with. My desire was to be that new aged, flower child kind of mom who removed restrictions and gave room for parental-child free form conversation.  What a joke.  

Actively parenting my son meant establishing rules:

• 10-hour visits from the girlfriend are not allowed.
• Being in my house 4 days out of a 7-day week is excessive.
• Upon entry, tell your girlfriend to greet your mom, aka the homeowner.
• No one goes into any room with the door locked.
• Your girlfriend isn’t allowed in my fridge, nor should she be in my kitchen cooking.
• I don’t care what kind of family issues she’s going through; under no circumstance can the heifer spend a night.

By the time the cops get here, and I’m being handcuffed, all those instances of how I’ve failed to actively parent come flooding back to me. The tears flowing down my cheeks overtake me and I drown in regret.

Too Little, Too Late

I didn’t understand the urgency until I was looking at the good son’s bank account.

An $80 dinner at Juicy Crab is a bit much seeing as though my son was making barely $200 a week at his part-time job. What’s particularly vexing is that, at one time a great saver, once she came into the picture, his checking account dwindles down to nothing.

This is when I finally started to get on him and tried to establish rules, but too little, too late.

When it comes to parenting, being proactive is key. Parameters should’ve been established since Day One. I didn’t do that, and this is a failure on my part.

So, after allowing him to come and go as he pleases, giving his girlfriend way too much access to him and my home, I find myself playing a reactive parenting role and it’s damn near impossible to fix bad parenting.

I tried to establish an eleven o’clock curfew and he laughed at it every time he came sauntering in past the time. I told him his company has to leave by a certain time, he follows her back home at close to midnight in defiance.

I was trying to repair a situation that was my doing, but little did I know, I’d already lost, and I did so the second I took a cruise control way of parenting a teenager.

Now, sitting on this cold bench, surrounded by the painted cinder block of a jail cell; I’m at least grateful for a large window that gives a view of the other side.

Watching the detectives, gold shields adorning belts, and as they’re bringing in other handcuffed unfortunates, I can spend the next 14 hours wondering: “Well, what did you do to get in here?”

Beans’ crime? Failure to provide adequate parental guidance and protection to a minor.

The Confrontation

It’s 11:25 at night and he still isn’t home.

By this point, I just started locking him out of the house once it got passed curfew.

I absolutely hated doing this, because that is totally something old school Haitian moms would do. A girlfriend of mine, fellow Haitian, even advised me against doing that, however, my hands were tied, he just wouldn’t listen.

On this particular night, he got clever and went through the side door on the deck. Seeing him walk in without a care in the world threw me into a fit of rage. First, an eleven o’clock curfew isn’t terribly strict. Secondly, and most importantly, I bust my ass to pay bills and mortgage. My son doesn’t even pay his own goddamn phone bill. How dare you walk in and out of my house like you run shit?

Walking over to him, I immediately began shouting for him to get out and shoved him.

He shoved me back. Hard.

This was the most painful part. In hindsight, like the police officer said, perhaps I shouldn’t have put my hands on him, as in the eyes of the law, that’s battery. But as a mother, my take is that, as much as my 18-year-old purports himself to be a real man, a real man doesn’t get physical with his mother.

In that moment, he was wrong. Deadass. He was late for curfew in defiance of me, again, he should’ve took that shove like a man and left my house until I cooled down.

So, when the night progressed, and the good son was on top of me and I’m clawing at his face, the egregious nature of my sad circumstances weighed down on my chest like an acute and fatal myocardial infarction: I didn’t raise a man. My ineffective parenting reared a monster. The consequences, far reaching.

The good son told me that if I hit him, he swears to God, he was going to hit me back.

Now, please allow me a moment to give the reader background.

Years ago, his dad and I were in one of many physical altercations. His father punched me, close fisted and the blow landed squarely on my left ear. The punch created a tear in my ear drum, and I lost hearing in that ear for two weeks while the tear repaired itself.

So, fifteen years later, when my son tells me that he’s going to hit me back, true to his own father, I knew he would. I didn’t dare lift my hand to strike him – my son, my cute little baby boy; he would’ve hurt me.

Obviously, there’s no way to adequately articulate my immense level of hurt, but I’ll make an attempt.

From childhood into adulthood, I’ve never experienced the protection of a man. I’ve always had to fend for myself; both physically and emotionally.

When I was around 8 or 9, my father gave social services the OK to take my sister, brother and I into the foster care system. The father of my children had no interest in marriage and told me as much. I’ve never been in a relationship that had any real value. Men never protected me; I was always a disposable convenience. My son joins that list of men, and the agony of this realization continues to haunt me.

I think about my cousins with teenage sons, boys, larger in stature than my own, who wouldn’t dare lift a finger to their moms. This is because of an underlying love that would make such an action unfathomable.

Me tussling with my son. Him mocking me and my age for not being able to physically overtake him is a reminder that, since losing my mother and grandmother, I ultimately walk this earth unloved and even now as I write this, the feeling of despair has me in a chokehold.

So, when we get to the portion of the night where the good son calls me a loser, says I’ve been a terrible mother and accuses me of being jealous of his relationship, I have no snappy comebacks, I don’t even have the words to match his level of cruelty, its’ just wide-eyed disbelief and pain left. I’m empty.

Bad Parenting Aftermath

By the time I get back home from lock up, my youngest son told me that his brother moved out to go live with his girlfriend and her parents. Yes, her parents moved him in without even a call to me, his mother.

But, if this brings my son peace and he’s in a good space in life, then I wish him nothing but the best.

However, as I’m approaching the first holiday season without both my boys in the house, I’d be lying if I said this doesn’t hurt. How does Christmas keep its magic without the energy of your kids?

I have to do my best to throw everything into my youngest and preoccupy myself with being a better mother to him, than I was to his brother.

One day at a time and hopefully, as with all loss, the pain will lessen as the days move on.

The Blissfully Single Lesson

Parenting is hard and being a single parent infinitely adds an additional layer of complexity and effort. As a single mother, I was supposed to wear both hats – mom and dad. Nurturer and disciplinarian. I failed to do so.

Furthermore, looking back at it, his dad and I never got married and I’ve always felt guilt at not being able to raise my children in a nuclear home. I didn’t have mom and dad in the house, and I only wish I could’ve given that to my children. One of the biggest lessons is that I’m now seeing the resentment and hatred my son had for me because of my failure to raise him with his father.

In hindsight, I took a laid-back approach to parenting as a product of guilt and the effects of this type of parenting is of detriment to both child and parent.

Hoping this article reaches the eyes of parents that really need it.

You know, the world of social media that we’re living in emphasizes falsehoods; smoke and mirrors, if you will. The reason why I don’t visit sites like Facebook as much anymore is because of the mass obsession with providing a false illusion of the perfect life. It’s life and by definition, a journey, and not an easy one at that.

Timelines are littered with husbands professing love of wife and family, when you know he’s cheating with anything with a hole and a pulse. What about that one friend that likes to incessantly post about the amazing boyfriend, while she struggles with domestic abuse behind the computer screen.

Now, am I saying that personal affairs should be fodder for public consumption?

Certainly not, but I honestly believe that even a little bit of transparency into the darker times, those days when you’re struggling, is more the unifier. Logging in and seeing that someone is dealing with a similar hardship is a more meaningful shared experience. You feel less alone during the not-so-great times and that feeling goes a lot further than seeing the umptieth photo of the “perfect” family on a vacation you yourself cannot afford.

Writing this, I’m stripping myself of all armor and hoping that my vulnerability as a mother connects with other parents navigating a period of darkness with their children as well. For the parents with perfect children – move the fuck on, this article isn’t for you.

Raising children is difficult and it doesn’t get any easier as they get older; the problems become more complex. This was such an eye-opening experience for me, and I’m living intentionally with purpose of being the parent my remaining child deserves.

Until next time friends, Blissfully Single and Yours.