Bubba's 18th Birthday

We do not want riches, but we want to raise our children right.

               ~Red Cloud

Bubba, my wild Indian child, became part of our family just after he turned 8 years old. I embraced that child with love, even before he stepped over the threshold to his new home. I became his mother in every sense of the word, whether or not he chose to address me in that way. Despite the fact he was only 8 and he hadn’t lived with her since he was 3, his neglectful birthmother had made an indelible mark on his wounded heart. I didn’t try to erase the connection, I only hoped to fill the gaping wounds with love and show him what true mothering was all about. I figured he’d come around, and eventually realize that I was his mom, and he’d finally bestow me the honor.

By the time Bubba was 11, we stood before an Oklahoma judge and sealed the adoption for both kids. The kind judge, who had been involved in Bubba and Ab’s case for years, stood for pictures with our "finalized" family, figuring on a success story. It was at that time our family counselor said, that Bubba needed to start calling me some term of endearment worthy of a mother. If it wasn’t Mom, then there were some alternatives other than "Lisa" that she suggested, or he could make up his own name for me.

It didn’t happen. At least not out loud, to me. There were times when I thought we were getting close. Mother’s Day cards made at school with cutout red hearts and loving sentiments. A wooden photo frame, stamped with the words MOM in various sizes, that contained a picture of him in his swimsuit, with his boogie board. "I’ll have to ask my Mom!" hollered breathlessly as he ran home to get permission to stay at a friend’s for dinner.

We spoiled him. Probably gave him way too much, in an effort to compensate him for what he lacked in earlier times. In return, we received his love, gratitude and appreciation. He made us laugh, hysterically. Bubba’s favorite comedian was Jim Carey and he could do some great imitations. And you should have seen him dance, exaggerating fancy moves with his round bottom sticking waaaayyy out! Handsome and charming wasn’t even close to describing that young man.  I encouraged him to be a model or an actor someday and "support us in our old age!"

Everyone loved Bubba’s personality. He never knew a stranger and could work his way right into a crowd without noticing or caring if he’d invaded someone’s personal space. He was comfortable talking with adults and children looked up to him, following him like he was the Pied Piper. He was loved beyond measure and yet disciplined, when necessary. We had such high hopes for him. College. Military. Law school……after all, I told him, he was always one to find the loopholes in anything we told him he couldn’t do. He kept us on our toes!

What ever he wanted to do in life, we knew he’d be a success. We thought he’d finally break the cycle of alcohol abuse and the bad choices made by his birth family with our love, encouragement and our never-ending faith in his abilities.

Instead, the dark days of adolescence and the ghosts of his past began taking root in his susceptible heart and we mistakenly believed his behavior to be normal teenage angst and rebellion. It got worse. There were lies and manipulation, theft, drugs and alcohol. Near death experiences. Then, thankfully, his genuine plea for help. Rehab and family counseling. A change in heart and my ol’ Bubba returning to me. Fear, great disappointment in himself and the fact that his Papa was dying, seemed to be a catalyst for a new way of living.

But only for a short time.

Another near death episode and it was decided that it was now time for a longer stint in rehab. We couldn’t lose him. We’d seen that change was possible and we knew that relapse was a possibility. He knew that was the next step. At 16 years old, he was on his way to long term drug rehabilitation.

Rather than returning to rehab, he ran. All the way to Oklahoma. Back to that troubled blood line and an unstructured, undisciplined life. Living with his drunken "Mom" and "his family" and making it clear that he’d just run away again if he was made to come back home.

Today he is 18 years old and my legal obligation is over. I have to say it’s a relief in a lot of ways. It’s been 14 months since he left and my grief at the loss isn’t as raw. It was like I had two deaths in the family during that time. I don’t worry about him like I used to and I don’t choke on my bitterness anymore.

I still have the greatest hope that Papa and I had enough positive influence on him that he’ll succeed in spite of it all. I know that I am his mother. I am the one who rocked him and sang to him every night when he first came to us. I am the one who read him stories, took him to the doctor, comforted him when he was sick and dried his tears when the big stray dogs scared him to death, by jumping on him. I am the one who attended his basketball games and wrestling matches, did teacher conferences, and elementary and junior high graduations. We are his "family" that celebrated milestones, holidays and birthdays, all lovingly documented in scrapbooks. This mom created "Gotcha Day"…. a day of kid selected fun to celebrate their adoption on the 7th day of August each year.

I am the mother that stayed at his hospital bedside for hours when he nearly died from drug or alcohol overdoses. I am the mom that loved him enough to send him to drug rehab.

I am also the Mom who loves him enough to let go and let him grow into the man I have always hoped he would. Here’s hoping he’ll someday understand what true mothering is all about.

                          Happy Birthday Bubba!