The Son With Two Moms

Hynes

Chapter 1: Reality

I was recently asked, What is the biggest obstacle you have ever had to overcome? I answered the question by stating that losing my mother was the most difficult thing I have ever had to endure. I love her, and losing her had always been my worst nightmare. She is the person who is most like me; it’s as if we were modeled after one another. I was very close to her and she was very close to me – she told me so in her days of living, and left her journal behind as a reminder. It was a journal she never mentioned keeping, and one that I didn’t stumble upon for over 13 years after this first paragraph was written. It reads:

I’m 33 years old. I have a good marriage, a beautiful 7 and a half year old son, a rewarding career and many friends; I’m financially comfortable but not wealthy. My needs aren’t extravagant. I’ve always enjoyed good health, even excellent health. I also have cancer.

The entry is dated May 7, 1997. A few days later, my mom asked me if I had ever heard of something called cancer. And from that point, I faced the toughest trial life has ever given me.

Chapter 2: Writing on the Wall

I found Mary’s journal while cleaning the living room during one of those hot, muggy August days. I rifled through mounds of musty envelopes containing bank statements, came across a Time magazine article detailing how the U.S. was going to respond to 9/11, and found a couple of old books detailing the race problem in America. It had been a long day of cleaning, and yet I was enjoying having something to do. I didn’t have a job, my college credit summer class had ended weeks ago, and it was two in the afternoon; much too early for my daily rendezvous with neighborhood friends. After watching several episodes of the show Supernatural, I decided that it was time to do some work. I had made cleaning the entire house by the end of the summer my goal and I intended to reach that goal.

The whole place had been a cluttered mess ever since Mary began her prolonged hospital stays. She was our rock when it came to housekeeping. She vacuumed, cooked, and scrubbed her way into our hearts. With her gone, Janet and I were left to fend for ourselves, which we did poorly. Our food dynamic in particular changed abruptly, and takeout took precedence over the homemade pasta and chicken pot pie that Mary had been so fond of making. In her absence, Janet and I became resourceful takeout carnivores. Rotisserie chicken was often our dinner of choice.

On a typical night we would eat in the den. Behind us sits a framed caricature of two women and a little boy at the beach.

Black wooden TV trays sit in front of us as our eyes stay glued to the tube. NBC is the channel and Law & Order is the show. Janet sets down a book on the now-empty TV tray. The book sits atop one of my old Sports Illustrated magazines, which covers an old Newsweek. Neither of us has enough energy to move. By the end of the month, the TV tray is stacked to capacity, and we have another TV tray simply for food.

In a few weeks, the chairs in the living room had books on them, the couch had books on it, the table where mama used to serve dinner had books on it, and Mary’s side of the bed was covered with books. For 10 years our house was clean and organized, now our home had become complete chaos. However, I am grateful for the chaos, which allowed me to find a lost treasure, a piece of writing that I was meant to find as a young adult rather than as a small child. That very first paragraph summed up how Mary was feeling at the time – a time when she did not feel comfortable expressing her true emotions to her young son.

I’m 33 years old. I have a good marriage, a beautiful 7 and a half year old son, a rewarding career and many friends; I’m financially comfortable but not wealthy. My needs aren’t extravagant. I’ve always enjoyed good health, even excellent health. I also have cancer."

The words still echo in my mind, bringing a chill over me as they did on that hot August day, so many seasons ago.

Chapter 3: The Family

If I am close to someone, I want them to know every aspect that has shaped me as a man, which is why I only tell a select group of people about myself. You are now one of those people. By telling my story I am giving you a part of myself.

Our family came to be on March 26, 1992, when a couple took me out of St. Ann’s, an orphanage in Washington, D.C. They had been together for several years and wanted to start a family. One was a lawyer who worked at a firm in Washington, D.C., and the other a data analyst for the Children’s Defense Fund, an organization devoted to protecting the rights of children. The two had been going out for a couple of years, and were deeply in love. They were not married yet, but had exchanged informal vows.

The adoption was my mother, Mary’s, idea; my other mother, Janet, was career driven and was unsure if bringing a child into the picture was the right move. However, Mary’s love proved convincing enough, and by the end of January, they had decided to raise a child together.

Both Mary and Janet had had difficult and somewhat distant relationships with their own parents, but together they knew that they were strong enough to raise a child. They decided upon adoption, and took the necessary steps to ensure it would happen. They procured a lawyer to oversee the process, and went to work finding a suitable child. They would soon discover that a child would be assigned to them based on availability alone, and would have to take whomever was selected for them.

Several long weeks rolled by before they finally received the call they were waiting for. A child by the name of Tony Lee Jones was now available for adoption, and was only 2 ½years old. They were shown a picture of the little guy and decided to visit him.

A few days later, they were driving their small, red car up the road, ready for their adventure. They stepped out of the car slowly, walking up the brown steps, before gingerly pushing open an old wooden door. Upon entering, they were greeted by the sight of several dozen cribs adorned with the things babies and toddlers enjoy. There were Legos. There were cotton blankets with ducks on them and there were colorful rattles strewn all over the place, items which they took great care to avoid as they made their way to Tony’s crib.

Both prospective parents were anxious. After all, they had received only background information on the little fellow, and had no idea what type of situation they were walking into. For instance, they knew that he was just over 2 years old, had been living in St. Ann’s for 1 year, and that he was given up for adoption by a single mother named Colleen Jones who suffered from schizophrenia. They knew that he had a sister, Angela, who was 9 years older than him, and who lived with his step great aunt. They knew Angela was not interested in being adopted, but still wanted to see Tony whenever it was possible. However, they knew nothing of Tony’s medical history, who his father was, or what his favorite food happened to be (chicken nuggets).

However, the sullen, brown face staring at them from the small blue crib was an arresting one. His almond-shaped, brown eyes had a kind but piercing nature about them, and his puffy cheeks stood out as the grownups tried to bargain a grin out of him. The corners of his mouth never twitched into a smile, even with continued baby talk and cooing. Still, despite this minor setback, the couple decided to see him again.

Several days later, they took Tony to the playground to see how he interacted with them. It took a little time, but eventually he started warming up to each of them. He started to smile, even laughing at times. He never spoke, but the warmth they felt around him said volumes about their budding relationship.

Before long, they were taking him to other places: the zoo, the park where he could zip around on the swings, laughing wildly as Mary and Janet anxiously smiled. He went to the movies with them, his eyes transfixed on the man riding on a flying carpet. He came to the house and stayed the night with them, eating cupcakes and listening to Motown. Indeed, in a sense, this child was rented to the couple for 2 days on a short-term lease. They liked him so much, they decided to see him again a week or two later. By the third and fourth visits, they realized that they had to have him, and on March 26, 1992, Mary and Janet took him home to stay.

Chapter 4: Early Beginnings

I cannot recall the first few months living with my parents. However, Janet helped me fill in the pieces. For example, I was apparently horribly afraid of cats at the time. Whenever Amstel and Sixpack (Mary’s idea for names) walked up to me I ran away quickly, afraid of what those big claws would do to me. I had never seen a cat before, and after my first few encounters with one I never wanted to see one again. Somehow though, I managed to live—and what a great life it became.

I went to the playground, played with clay, and kicked the soccer ball around until it was too dark to see it. By the time Janet and Mary tucked me in to bed, my eyes were half closed, exhausted from the afternoon’s exploits. I woke up the next morning with the energy that only a 3 -year-old could possess, ready to take on the day. Janet and Mary would call me downstairs for breakfast, where an old plate topped with bacon and scrambled eggs awaited me. Janet stood by the counter, hunched over as she prepared my peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Mary reached above the refrigerator for her coffee, moving much slower than her years would suggest. Both women looked at me wearily, contemplating how they were going to make it through another day with such a rambunctious child.

Luckily for them, their services were often not needed. Several other kids my age roamed the neighborhood, and I chose to expend my energy with them, racing out of the door as Mary and Janet lingered behind.

There were a half-dozen boys my age in the neighborhood, but the children I saw most were Devin and Pat, whose small brick house was located at the top of the block. Pat was 6 months my senior, Devin 9 months my junior.

The two looked more like friends than brothers. Devin had freckles, Pat did not. Devin was skinny, Pat was not. Pat was really into technology, Devin was not. Pat was cerebral, short tempered, and passionate. Devin was laid back, even keeled, and unflappable. The love they had for each other, however, was mutual, and it was this that made them brothers.

The three of us became best friends, and trolled 16th Avenue without a care, playing street hockey, Wiffle Ball, basketball, and soccer whenever we had the opportunity. By the time dinner rolled around, we had worked up quite an appetite, and sat down to eat with vigor.

The location of our evening feast rotated between our two houses. Tuesday night I might have gone to Devin and Pat’s house for chicken and Thursday they might have come to my house for burgers. There was no set schedule, but it was understood that each household would cook for an additional hungry boy or two on any given night.

Both families welcomed each other with open arms, and our parents became friends as well, the 30-something Irish Catholic couple and the two lesbians separated by 20 years. Perhaps it was this that they joked about as their loud laughter echoed through the floor boards and into the den where Devin, Pat, and I sat.

However, they could have been as loud as a cannon before we realized noise of any kind was being made. We were occupied with our beloved Mortal Combat and NBA Jamz PlayStation games. Our world was one in which grownups were not allowed in on Friday nights without a pizza in hand, preferably from Tony’s Villa.

After we ate, we mindlessly returned our gaze to the TV screen without acknowledging our parents’ presence. We had a system in place in which whoever wasn’t playing took the time to eat their pizza while the other two played. In actuality, this was less of a system and more of what just happened every time we were given food in the middle of games. Once in a while we paused the game to turn to the Friday night lineup on ABC. I remember the shows included Boy Meets World and Family Matters, two of our favorites.

Shortly after the programs ended, I parted ways with Devin and Pat, only to return the next day to pick up where we left off.

***

Despite how close we were, Devin, Pat and I did not attend the same school. Pat went to a different kindergarten than Devin attended, and for grade school, Devin and Pat went to a different school than I did. Still, we always managed to make up for lost time when we were together. They made my transition into my new surroundings that much easier, and together we fostered each others’ interests in sports. All of us loved running, jumping, and kicking, and after a period, learned how to do all three at the same time.

Their father, Dennis, was a big part of our athletic development as well. I swear a quarter of the first 10 years of my life consisted of riding in Dennis’ white Toyota pickup truck on the way to the gym or field to play in some sporting event. In basketball he taught us how to shoot, and in soccer he coached our very first team with Mary, one of my two moms, who proved to be no slouch athletically.

Dennis had never played organized soccer a day in his life. However, that didn’t stop him from being the best soccer coach possible. He set up shop, kneeling on the sideline with a Dunkin Donuts coffee in hand. I honestly have no idea what drills we ran or how we were told to kick the ball. For all I know, all of Dennis’s remarks came down to kick and run. However, to a 5-year-old, these were vital pieces of information. All of us kicked and ran as hard as our little feet could tolerate.

For me, though, the experience out on the field amounted to more than just running and kicking. When I was out there, I became more assertive and confident. Soccer became the ultimate adrenaline rush, a place where the only thing that mattered was releasing fury. Most people equate releasing anger with hitting something, but for me it was more than that.

Being on the pitch allowed me to hone my anger, to will it into energy. That anger was due to how different I felt my life was. My family was not normal, which was fine. What was not fine was the chip on my shoulder I felt every day. I was angry I did not have a father. I was angry at being overlooked, at being put in an orphanage. That energy helped me beat a defender to the ball, shrug a would-be tackler off the ball, and bark orders to the midfielders not getting back on defense fast enough. That energy made me a leader, and that energy forced me to step out of my shell to the point where I forgot I’d had one. That energy turned me into a boy who could block everything out and focus on everything in between the two goal posts set before him. A well-timed tackle, a perfect shielding of the ball, a furious run around and through two defenders, made me feel like a warrior, and a warrior is always in control. However, this energy allowed me to do something else too—have fun. Making people miss, gliding up the sideline for a pass, putting the ball in the goal and seeing it go whoosh in that white net? Priceless.

Chapter 5: Soccer

Soccer. Futbol! Was and is my favorite sport to this very day. I am told that I was given a small size-one soccer ball at the age of three, and the rest is history.

Mary and Janet had no prior knowledge of anything soccer related before I joined the family. Janet is a former resident of New York City and so she knew that Pelé came to play for the New York Cosmos in the 1970s; however, that was pretty much it when it came to her knowledge of the sport. For her part, Mary knew as much about soccer as Pelé’s dog. So clearly, they knew they were in over their heads in the soccer arena, but persisted anyway. Both took up dedicated posts devoted to making sure I was prepped and ready for my soccer-related adventures. Janet was responsible for getting all of my soccer gear. She helped me pick out shin guards and the like. Mary, on the other hand, was the one who directed my 4-year-old training sessions. We took turns kicking the ball back and forth to one another while she shouted words of encouragement. One portion of the front lawn always ended up a paler shade of green than the rest of the yard, a battle scar from our soccer exploits.

One of my first soccer teams was a club simply known as The Gold Team. Before our first game I reached into our big cardboard box and plucked a jersey emblazoned with a 4 on the back, a tradition for years to come.

Our team played in the Takoma Park Rec League, a team filled with kids from Takoma Park and the surrounding area. We played every Saturday morning, our fall seasons lasting until the first freeze in early December, and our spring seasons lasting until the first 90-degree days in June.

For the parents, soccer represented a time for rest and relaxation as they watched their children gallop around the pitch. However, now that I am older, I realize that Saturday mornings must have been a living hell for many of them. After a long week at work, I am certain the last thing they wished to be doing was to wake up early on a Saturday morning to attend their children’s soccer games. However, it was their duty, and so they went to battle every Saturday morning, asserting their will on an enemy infused with high sugar levels and creative coloring books.

In our household, Mary or Janet spent half the morning tracking down my soccer socks, finding my shin guards, and making a big breakfast so I would have the energy to run around for 40 minutes without collapsing. I was disorganized, so it was unlikely that I was ready to leave when my parents wanted to leave. I also had a youthful arrogance, and so it was unlikely that I cared how many minutes before game time I showed up, as long as I arrived.

For my moms, as well as all of the other parents in attendance, watching the actual game on Saturday must have been like sitting back and enjoying a great meal they spent hours preparing. The games must have felt like relaxed social gatherings. The backdrop of soccer matches were a chance to swap horror stories of raising children, share a few coffees, and enjoy each others’ company.

For the kids, every touch of the ball was supposed to be seen by the select parent in attendance and praised accordingly. I for one surely believed Janet and Mary were watching my every play, when in all likelihood they were tuning in and out whenever the moment called for it. Yea! Great play, honey!" They would enthusiastically say.

Still, it was always nice to have them there, and they each seemed to get a kick out of watching me play. It was fun, and all of my teammates were nice. I always looked forward to going out for pizza with them after our post-game oranges were served. Each Saturday was magnificent because, win or lose, we went.

Some may say that our parents set a bad precedent for competitiveness, for facing the reality of failure in life, by taking us out after a loss. To them I say, Lighten up. Losing a soccer game does not equate to being fired from a job or losing your home. I feel as though kids ought to be given a little more credit. I don’t think anyone on our team actually thought that having pizza meant we had won the game. I for one felt horrible every time we lost. You know what cheered me up though? Pizza. Slice upon slice of pizza, served hot out of the oven.

Chapter 6: Sunday Mornings

Every Sunday morning, I found myself reminiscing about Saturday’s game. Which play I made to deceive this player or that, which play I could have made better, which goal let in by our team might have been my fault in some way, and how I would remedy this in the next game, were all thoughts that ran through my mind.

However, I couldn’t fully concentrate. Someone’s voice kept interrupting my inward conversation. Before I knew it, I had lost focus altogether, and was forced to turn my gaze up to a pulpit, where our pastor was starting her sermon. She spoke of something Jesus said in a complicated diction I didn’t understand.

This is so boring, I thought. The 1889 mahogany wood bench was just as uncomfortable as it was last week, and the service was just as long. Actually, the service might have been a little longer than last week...

Either way, Sunday morning needed to be over. Now. The clock needed to hit 12:15, and we needed to stand up and go home. However, I would not tell anyone that I felt this way. No, I would sit here on this long wooden bench, pretend to listen intently, and sing every hymn asked of the congregation—and I would sing them well, too.

My heart, however, just wasn’t in it, a fact that I hid fairly well from Mary and Janet, who applauded my attentiveness and recounting of parts of the sermon as great strides forward