Today I proved I’m human. Flawed. Screwed up.
Exhausted. Weary. And in desperate need. It has been an
emotional roller coaster all day long.
For the past few days, one of my girls has been reliving
past memories. Asking
questions. Wondering whether she
was loved. Thinking about all the
what if’s.
Yesterday, she
cried. A lot. Today, she and I processed and she let
out some really hard things that have been locked inside for quite a while. She was able to speak and write words
that she has never let out before. As a bonus, she told me that she was really glad to be part
of our family and that we were great. And
I got to be there when it happened.
That is special and important.
But it is also hard and draining.
So, in a weird way that was both a high and a low.
One of my younger children, who is just beginning to
understand what it means to be adopted, is rebelling against the idea that I’m
in the role of mom to him. He has
called me Nanna since birth. I raised his mamma as a teenager and we didn’t
know then that she would not parent her children.
Anyway, we talk about her frequently, although he has
probably only seen her 20 times in his life. He is trying to discover whether
there is any power in shouting at me when he is being reprimanded, “I am not your son and you are not my
mother.”
I hear those kinds of words fairly routinely in my
house. Each adopted/foster child
goes through that stage at least once (ages 5-8) and sometimes twice (ages
12-15). I usually don’t take it
personally, but today was already a hard day. I ignored it and didn’t respond –
so as not to give it power -- but it hurt. Intellectually, I know that he is simply trying to divert
the conversation away from his trouble.
Thankfully, that strategy requires a certain level of intelligence, which
I value, but it still sucks. That was a low.
I threw my low back out a week ago and have been struggling
to bend over to pick up stuff and carry children. My 8-month-old is crawling,
standing and eating every single item he can find to put into his mouth. Keeping the floor clean is a full-time
job and I need more help than ever from my kids.
This morning, I was determined to get out of the house
without leaving a mess behind. After
a full day of teaching at our home school coop, I have to come home and start
dinner the second I walk in the door.
Walking into a mess knowing that I can’t put the baby down feels
overwhelming.
So I make what I think is a simple request to 4 children
ranging in age from 2 to 13. “Please use these laundry baskets and pick
up absolutely every single item that you can see and place them in the
basket. That includes toys,
clothes, trash, beads, food, paper, bottles, cups, shoes, diapers, headbands,
rubber bands, paper clips attached to paper airplanes, cat hair …
everything. If you can see it with
your eyes, I want it picked up.”
If the 2-year-old picked up one item and everyone else
picked up the rest, it would average about 10 items per child. That doesn’t
seem unreasonable to me.
Moms, you know the reactions.
Groans loud enough
for childbirth.
Refusals: “Noooo!”
Whines: “I picked
up stuff yesterday.” “I dooon’t waaaant tooo.”
Complaints: “My
leg hurts.” “I’m hungry.” “It is
too hard.”
Idiotic statements: “I
don’t see anything.” “We finished
already.” “I ammm working,” as the child sits in the middle of the floor
playing with the one piece of trash he has managed to locate.
Challenges: “You can’t make me do this.”
Tattling: “Mom, XX isn’t working.” “Nanna, YY just called me a name and
won’t help.” “Moooommmmm, she is
throwing stuff behind the couch instead of the bucket.”
Must I go on?
If you aren’t wanting to pull your hair out simply from reading this, then
you are deaf, or you can’t imagine what whines, screeches, groans, complaints,
challenges, tattles and idiotic statements actually sound like to a weary mom’s
ears.
I snapped. Like
the television show with the same title.
I needed to vent some of my built up impatience. My snapping usually
involves shouting as loud as I can, cursing, and if I’m truly desperate --throwing
some object as hard as I can to the floor. Today, it was one of the laundry baskets, which was still
empty after 10 minutes of prodding, directing, arguing and shouting.
Actually breaking it is a plus. But it didn’t break this time. Damn. Sometimes
it feels good to release my pent up energy by breaking a $3.00 laundry
basket. In the scheme of things,
it’s a worthless item that can be replaced. I’m passionate and Italian. Throwing a temper tantrum like my 2-year-old is a guilty
pleasure. Shouting and throwing
things were part of my life growing up and while it certainly made an
impression, I was never afraid that I would be hurt. So, on the high/low scale these were lows, but I must admit
that slamming the basket to the floor felt really good.
For those of you who were traumatized as a child (or an
adult) by a loud, legitimately crazy unsafe person, I’m sorry. I’m not actually
unsafe or crazy. I just feel that
way sometimes. For those of you
who are concerned about the psychological damage to my kids -- rest assured, my kids are NOT terrified
by my shenanigans. The little ones
hardly notice because they are too busy focusing on themselves, which is part
of my frustration to start with. The older ones finally take notice that
I have reached my limits and suddenly become sympathetic to my plight. If I reach the point where I cry – which is
extremely rare – they all become silent and suddenly helpful.
If I was a manipulator, I would simply cry. But I’m not. And I can’t cry on demand anyway.
Ironically, I feel like crying traumatizes my kids far more
than my shouting and cursing and slamming things. Perhaps because seeing me cry is associated with really bad
things – like the death of my daughter. Or perhaps it is so rare, that it
shocks them. I’m supermom to
them. Crying makes them realize
that I’m human and fragile and have limits. Crying means that I have really,
truly reached my limits and they become afraid that I won’t be able to continue
this pace taking care of all of them.
And based on my conversation with my adopted daughter today, that is
what scares them the most. The
thought of losing me.
Today, I cried.
The odd thing is that even snapping, I’m in complete
control. My moves are motivated by
incredible frustration, but calculated to release the most internal energy
while creating the most drama and attention I can get. In a house where there is drama about
serious things that involve life or death – my outbursts seems look stupid.
Please, don’t think I’m justifying my actions or
recommending that you try this. This
won’t make it into a parenting book. But, if an occasional temper tantrum helps you and allows you
to cope without hurting anyone, you know it.
I’m simply being honest. I know that other people out there have reacted in a
similarly ridiculous way at some point and may feel like a failure for doing
so. Sharing my faults does not
scare me. Maybe it should, but I don’t have time to worry about that.
For the record, there are also periods in my life when I simply
can’t pitch a fit because there is a child in our home that feels unsafe and
does not yet know or understand that rage does not always result in physical or
emotional harm. I make it a point to know my kids. I know their issues.
I would never knowingly allow myself this guilty pleasure when it would put a child at emotional risk.
So, after snapping, I put myself in timeout. I sit in my comfy chair and refuse to
listen to a single person, or feed them, or talk or do anything. I try to sink into my own little world to
calm down. I automatically login to my computer to read or write or stare. I never know. I just need an excuse to look at something.
And what is the first thing I see? An email from another friend suggesting that I would be a
good candidate to teach biblical parenting classes. Ironically, I’ve been
playing with the idea of becoming a professional parenting coach to bring in a
little income to help meet the costs of raising so many children. I’m already one of the people mom’s
tend to call when they need help or advice, or they simply need to affirm that
their mistakes don’t make them a bad parent. Anyway, I’m in the idea stage on that.
Reading this email at this precise moment is like a slap in
the face. “Oh sure. You would make an excellent teacher of all things
biblical right now. Sure. Like people need advice from a loser
like you.”
And isn’t that exactly how the Enemy wants me to feel? Like a failure. Like a person who has reached her
limits can’t be good enough to work for God.
I succumb to that feeling, but only for moments. Life continues and I must move out of
my misery. Ten minutes is about
all I get.
In spite of my threats not to do anything, we are now late for coop. I rush to make 4 PB&
J sandwiches and throw in some graham crackers and a special bag of chips.
But I have a plan. It’s devilish. It’s brainy. It’s fun. I
have no idea if it will make an impact on a 4 and 5-year-old, but my older
girls will surely understand.
The boys
start whining that they are hungry.
I tell them I will feed them with the same enthusiasm that they helped
me pick up everything.
Initially, the irony is lost on them. They say they are hungry. I say, “I don’t feel like feeding you right now.” My two older girls catch on immediately and the three of us start eating
in front of them.
More whines, “Nanna,
we are hungry. Can we have a
sandwich?”
I say calmly, “Nope. I
really don’t want to feed you.”
“Naaannnna! That’s not fair. We are hungry. Give us a sandwich,” they plead.
“My back hurts and I
can’t reach you all the way in the back seat,” I proclaim.
We stop at a traffic light. I get my 9-year-old to pass back
a tiny little bite of sandwich for each of them.
I casually say, “I’m
feeding you the same way you picked up for me. A little when I feel like it.”
The younger one throws the tiny bite down and shouts, “I want a BIG one.”
I start to speak and my 4-year-old interrupts me, “Naaana, I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to my TQ.” He knows
he’s lost the battle with me, so he turns to his big sister.
She looks at me for confirmation and then says, “Hey buddy, I’m on mom’s team here. I can’t help you.”
My 9-year-old retorts, “I’m
with mom too. And that wasn’t very
smart. That’s all you are going to get now.”
This continues for about 15 minutes. I use every excuse or complaint that
they gave me when I asked for their help, mimicking their tones. My 9 and 12-year-old girls are
entertained.
Finally, I ask, “How does it feel for me to make a bunch of
excuses and refuse to feed you?”
The 5-year-old begins to catch on to the symbolism. Meekly, he says, “I get it Nanna. I’m sorry for being mean to you. I should have helped.”
Honestly, I thought the irony would be lost on him. But he’s a smart kid. I give them each a
sandwich.
That was a high. And entertaining, in part, because my two
older girls were playing along with me.
Somehow, the car conversation turns to his earlier statement
that I’m not his mom. He begins to speak and starts to say, “My …m…,” but he stops himself to
question whether this will be hurtful to me.
Recognizing his thoughts, I intervene, “It’s okay to call her mom. She is your mom. She is my daughter.
I will never get upset because you call her mom.” Relieved, he
finishes his thought, trying to figure out if he went home with his mom or with
me from the hospital.
Actually, it was both.
He rode in my car and his mom and dad were in a separate car. The plan was for them to follow us to
our home and for us to take the traditional “coming home” pictures for his
scrapbook. But, when I turned
right out of the hospital, they turned left, and they never came. I still don’t know why.
Nonetheless, I have little credibility in the mom
conversation, so I ask his 9-year-old sister to give it a shot. She turns around in her seat and looks at
him, “A mom is the person who raises you
and takes care of you and disciplines you. A mom feeds you and pays for things. A mom is there for you. Our mom is the one that gave birth to
us. But Nanna is the one who does
everything a mom does. When I was
your age, I called her Nanna just like you. But I don’t call her Nanna anymore. I call her mom.”
That was a high moment. And it was only 11:40 a.m. Only 11 more hours until I can go
to sleep.
To Be Continued…
