Day 293

Overall, my son seemed to be handling his grandfather’s death rather well. We had gotten through several holidays, and Dad’d death didn’t seem to blight them for him as they did for me and Mom. Then we rang in a new year, wished him a happy birthday, and the sorrow settled in. Without being able to have a party, we had wanted to do something special, but in the middle of a pandemic, with cases on the rise — everywhere — what could we do? Briefly, we thought about taking a road trip. But where would we stay? It was too cold to camp. Besides, everything would be closed. Staying home seemed our only option. 

As always, my son was exited on New Year’s Eve. When the ball drops in New York City, we shout “Happy Birthday” instead of “Happy New Year.” As a young child, he thought the ball dropped for him, and to this day, he will always say his birthday is his favorite holiday. Once we slid into 2021, none of us felt like going to bed. So we watched Death to 2020. It was funny, and the laughter kept the sadness at a distance. 

In the morning, however, Dad’s absence seemed heavier than ever. I kept waiting for him to arrive, to knock on our door, to announce his presence, and envelop my son in a hug. Of course, I knew it wouldn’t happen. But it was supposed to. That’s how things are supposed to go on my son’s birthday, and my son seemed to feel it as deeply as I did. He was mopey and sad, and after he opened his presents  he was on the verge of tears. He slumped down on the stairs and when I asked him what was wrong, he answered, “I miss Grandpa.”

It was Netflix that salvaged the day. They moved up the release date of Cobra Kai to January first, and my son announced that he wanted to spend his birthday watching the entire season. It was a poor replacement for Dad, but it distracted my son, enabling him to find some happiness in the day. It’s a show we all enjoy, and so we put on our Cobra Kai tee-shirts (gifts from St. Nick) and had fun watching people beat each other up. I’m not much of a TV person, but even I’m hooked on it. It was the Karate Kid that made me — and half the American kid population — want to learn martial arts oh so many years ago. My parents had said no, probably because it was expensive and they couldn’t afford it. But once I got to Korea, I found taekwondo instead. I probably wouldn’t be working so hard to earn my black belt now if it hadn’t been for the Karate Kid. Therefore, it seems appropriate that we became obsessed with Cobra Kai as my testing date draws near. I hated Jonny so much in the movie. What does it say about me now that he’s the character I like best, the one I relate to most?

This afternoon, we went shooting again. Instead of the archery range in Branchburg, we headed to the range in Easton, Pennsylvania. When we checked in, the man behind the counter pointed to my son and asked, “Is that your daughter?” My spouse and I said,”No, he’s our son. The long hair seems to confuse everyone.” He then asked us if he was our adopted son or if one of us was the biological mother. When we asked why it mattered, he explained that the rules were different for adopted and biological children. Biological parents don’t have to prove they are the parents, but adopted parents do. Initially, we just said I was his biological mother and went off to shoot, but as we were shooting, the anger started to build. In eleven years, no one ever asked us if our son was adopted or biological. How can such a question be legal? I always thought once a parent adopted a kid they were considered the “real parents,” end of question. This baffled me. If we were a traditional family with a mother and a father, would the question even have come up? Do they interrogate all parents? Or just queer parents? From now on, I will refuse to answer the question. I will say he’s my son. If they push for more information, I’ll call them on their discrimination policy. I guess we should have expected this. In entering a shooting range, we are entering Conservative Republican territory. Our morals differ greatly. Several cars in the parking lot had Trump 2020 bumper stickers. I suppose that should have told us everything we needed to know.

We close on our condo on February 1. The good new is, I’m finally getting out of this condo. My son will no longer have to attend Bedminster School. The disconcerting news is we have no idea where we will move. We have nothing lined up. We are too poor to buy a house and I will never ever live in another condo. As far as I’m concerned, living in a condo is the worst of owning and renting all rolled into one. There is not a single thing I liked about it. Our specifications for renting are very stringent. My spouse needs to be within a 30 minutes drive to Roxbury where she works. My son needs to live within a thirty minute drive to Branchburg which is where his taekwondo school is. Yes, there are taekwondo schools all over the state, but he wants to remain in an ATA school and there are none up near Roxbury. Besides, we like our instructor and rather not go elsewhere. We want a good school district — and poor areas are the ones with poorer schools. Which brings me to our biggest limitation of all — what we can afford. Teachers are paid terribly, and I lost my job thanks to Covid. Yes, this is supposed to be a temporary move, which means we should be a little more lax in our demands, but the last time I agreed to move somewhere temporarily I got stuck there for fourteen years. As a result, I can’t agree to something that’s simply tolerable because with my luck I’ll be stuck there until my son goes off to college.

As for my writing, my year started on a fantastic note. Global Poemic: Kindred Voices on the Era of COVID-19 published my prose poem “Fallen.” It — like everything else I’ve written lately — is about missing Dad.  You can read it here: https://globalpoemic.wordpress.com/2021/01/01/fallen/.