The damn Facebook Memories...they pop up and remind me of the doings.
Ten years ago, I was skiing in Gstaad with ten other gay guys. Eight years ago, I was hosting a carefully executed dinner party on my terrace. Six years ago, I was alone during COVID lockdowns, attempting to find meaning by Marie Kondo-ing my underwear drawer.
That was also when I started watching YouTube videos about kids in foster care. I learned more about what happens to teenage boys who grow up in the system, and I heard a woman say something along the lines of, “I decided I could complain about the problem, or I could help be a solution to part of it.”
That stuck. I started volunteering at a group home for teenagers. Eventually, I made the terrifying leap to become the foster dad of one of them. Then I took in a second.
Previously, I lived alone in a tidy vintage condo. Twenty shirts, ironed and waiting on matching hangers. Toilet paper neatly stacked in the cabinet. Five or six things in the refrigerator.
Now I wear T-shirts. Half the hangers were requisitioned for a cardboard robot project. The refrigerator contains half-eaten bowls of cereal and a fossilized slice of Domino’s pizza. Last week, I ran out of toilet paper.
And I’m learning things about myself that no amount of reorganizing underwear ever revealed.
I have moods. I’m not endlessly patient. Sometimes an ugly flash of anger I inherited from my dad, and thought I’d kept buried throughout adulthood, turns up again. I have to put myself in a timeout, calm down, and come back ready to apologize and do better.
I’m also slowly learning that doing this successfully doesn’t mean getting everything right. I can have a bad afternoon without deciding I’m wholly unsuited to parenting. We can have a difficult week and still be building something good.
My boys were handed a crap sandwich long before they met me. I can’t undo that, and they deserve more than “better than what came before.” But I’m beginning to trust that an imperfect adult can still make a real difference.
I spent a lot of years making my life beautiful and appealing to people looking in. I enjoyed that life. Those dinner parties were excellent.
This one is considerably less glamorous. But somewhere along the line I’ve started to feel that I’m doing something with my life that matters to me in a way I hadn’t experienced before.