My Valentine

It was eight years ago, on Valentine's Day, that we met our son in a "baby house" in Samara, Russia. I remember being overwhelmed with emotion while sitting in the "music room" with small laquer-painted chairs, piano, and toys held behind high, glass cases on the walls, waiting for them to bring our Kolya to us. When they brought him in, he was swaddled in a blanket, and they called his name, then put him in my arms, stiff as a board. And that was that. I have a photo of Matt and N looking into each others' eyes, face-to-face, for the first time. And that's how I became someone' s mother.

I remember so many things from the trip, but especially the afternoon we first had him completely to ourselves, staying in a fancy hotel in Moscow (the Savoy), and venturing out in the cold to a grocery store that sold wonderful chocolates and about fifty different kinds of yogurt and kefir, it seemed. It was magic, pure magic, euphoria. I remember it as one of the happiest moments of my life. I remember him lying on the bed in the hotel room, mimicking Matt putting on deodorant with a sly, silly, joyous little grin on his face. We couldn't have been happier with him. He was our golden boy.

I look at him these days and sometimes wonder, where did he go? What the hell happened? This morning, he refused to get on the bus and Matt ended up finally having to take off work to take him to school and meet with the teacher. Typically, he was excited the first hour or so, to be home from school, and with that focus, he offered to help me with chores. Of course, it didn't last long. The initial excitement of it all wore off rather quickly, and we were right back to the no! and shut up! I told him he needed to change his shirt before going to school because the one he was wearing had large, crusty food stains all over the front of it.

"No!" and not even in an angry way, just a dismissive, obnoxious, clueless way, stomping through the house, laughing too loud, talking too loud, talking too much, and all the rest. I admit it, I felt disgusted. It was normal, everyday behavior for him, but every once in a while, I just stop and look at him, and I can't even reply, because after all, what the hell can I say? We're screwed here, Son, and there's no future in this. I don't know what we're going to do with you. How much longer can I take this until I snap? Then I remember what I know for certain: If he could choose to be any other way, he would. Ten minutes later, he's asking if I love him and why he has to die today, and no, it doesn't make any kind of rational sense, but I know what he's saying to me: I hate it, Mom. Why am I this way? I don't like the things I do. I'm bad. And he says all these things explicitly pretty often. If I started crying over him now, I don't think I'd ever be able to stop.

Happy Valentine's Day, Son. I don't know where we're going, and I don't know whether we're going to be able to save you. I don't know where life is going to take you and how much more pain awaits us all. Happy Valentine's Day, anyway. I'll try to keep looking for that golden boy that's still there somewhere, deep down.