The commentary is always the same, and I know it will find me. At preschool pick-up. In the checkout line. There’s no return policy on children; they aren’t pets. Adoption is forever. Did she really think it would be easy? How could she? It’s awful. It’s selfish.
What part of “forever” don’t these judgmental folks understand about adopting children and then giving up? What part of “parent” is unclear? No part. I understand all too well. I know what it means to navigate parenting one child while managing the trauma of another. I understand the heart-wrenching choices between the needs of my kids.
How could I possibly give up?
Let me try to paint a picture for you, but remember, I’m still shaking as I write this, four long years later.
The sunlight filtered through the windows, and for the first time in two months, I felt a fragile peace. My five-year-old son, who had been through so much, leaned against me to see the story I was reading. His tentative, warm touch made it hard to concentrate. He chose to reach out to me. Months of tantrums and rage seemed to dissolve, at least for that moment. I could do this. I could manage if we could have these moments. If I could see progress. If I could hope that he might one day love and trust me enough to breathe easy.
My one-year-old, my healthy child, toddled back and forth, bringing me books. He wanted to sit in my lap, but when I lifted him up, he fussed and cried, so I set him down. He leaned against my leg and then crawled away, crying. This happened several times, and I began to worry he might be unwell. But the fragile bond with my oldest son held strong, so while the baby found a quiet game on the other side of the room, I read and snuggled with him as long as I could.
As shadows fell, I kissed my son and prepared for the evening routine. I sat down to change the baby’s diaper, pulled off his pants, and noticed angry red welts on his stomach, one on his side, and another on his back. My heart raced. An allergic reaction? Hives? They weren’t raised or itchy; they looked bruised.
In that moment, I locked eyes with my oldest son, and I knew. The familiar, heartbreaking anger on his face asked, “What will you do now? Do you still want to be my mother?” This was the price for my peace, for my quiet afternoon. I could see my son’s rage manifesting on my baby’s skin.
The cost was too high for me. He needed to understand that love was unconditional, despite his trauma and anger. Yet, I shook with rage towards a five-year-old boy. There’s no other way to say it. I was furious with him.
I took his hand, but he fought back, screaming, biting, scratching. I couldn’t blame him—his instincts for survival were kicking in. I guided him up the stairs as gently as I could, protecting myself along the way, and I put him in his room, locking the door behind me.
It wasn’t to confine him but to protect him. I didn’t think I could open that door without hurting my child. I stood there, pounding my head against the door, feeling utterly helpless. All my education, all my love, all the therapy sessions, and support meant nothing. I was overwhelmed with anger, standing at the edge of losing control.
That’s the reality for parents who face judgment. Imagine standing at the top of a dark well, looking down at a parent curled up at the bottom. Would you throw her a rope or spit on her? Which action truly helps the child?
What helped my children was a family who wanted a child—a family with teenage kids who had experience parenting children with trauma. The day my oldest child became theirs, the mother said to me, “We can do this; it’s okay to let go,” and “We understand why you can’t.” They didn’t just toss me a rope; they built a staircase for my entire family, benefitting every one of my kids, especially my oldest.
What can we do to support others instead of judging? We don’t need to be the entire rope; we can just be a thread. It’s a harsh truth that some children can be so damaged early on that they become overwhelming for the parents who are trying their best to love them. However, each of us can be a thread in the rope for healing and change.
So next time you see a mom at the park with a child who’s “losing it,” take a deep breath and instead of criticizing her, consider:
- Maybe this is her twentieth tantrum today.
- Maybe she was up all night.
- Maybe the situation is far more complex than you realize.
Then, meet her gaze and offer a smile. You might just give her the strength she needs to keep going; just like that, you’re a thread in the rope. Together, we can make a difference for children everywhere.
This article was originally published on May 17, 2010.
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Summary:
This reflection explores the challenges of parenting, particularly when adopting children with trauma. It describes the emotional turmoil and struggles of a mother trying to balance the needs of her children while grappling with feelings of anger and helplessness. The piece highlights the importance of support and understanding from the community, encouraging readers to be compassionate rather than judgmental. Together, we can create a supportive environment that fosters healing and hope for families in need.