This post is also available at my new website Trauma Mama Drama. If you enjoy reading my blog, remember to update your feeds, emails and bookmarks with the new link, because eventually I will only post updates on the new site's blog.
There are days I don't even want to come out of my room, because I know that when I do, everything will go to hell. Quickly.
And not because I'm a horrible, mean Mommy who will drive the children to act out with my mean ways.
No. But some days, Middle and Little will be having a great day, and my mere presence will derail them into RAD Land.
Like three days ago. Little and Husband were having a great morning. I woke up around 8 a.m. and came out of the room. Little immediately started bouncing around, wiggling, yelling... And then he did a flip off the couch, knocking over the project I'd been working on (and failed to clean up before I went to bed the night before... So, really, I have only myself to blame!).
Or when we went to the park with his therapy program. We were having a great time together, then suddenly his face turned dark and he was glaring at me, and running away from me, and demanding that I stop following him. He remained hateful and/or aloof toward me for the rest of the day. All because I wanted to play tag with him.
Or when Husband leaves to go to the store, leaving me alone with the kids for a mere fifteen minutes. Almost every time he leaves the house, Middle and Little start freaking out and by the time Husband returns everyone (including me and Oldest) is screaming and yelling and crying. He once came home to find me barricaded in a room with Oldest while Middle and Little were pounding on the door yelling at us, threatening us, and also asking us to let them in because they loved us. THAT was a fun day...
So why does this happen? I think Middle gave me a very good clue as to why this happens shortly after I first met her. She hadn't been with us for a month yet when she dropped this bomb on me:
"Moms are mean," she said, looking me right in the eye, totally serious. I asked her if she thought I was mean. "No."
"Well," I said, "I'm a mom, and I'm not mean. So not all moms are mean."
"My mom is mean."
"Well... Sometimes everyone can be mean, huh? I have my moments where I get grumpy, too. But that doesn't make me a mean person."
"Yeah. But my mom is mean."
And what was I supposed to say to that? This four-year-old girl knew a lot more about her mom than I did, and what I did know of her fell right in line with Middle's thinking. She'd screamed and cursed at Middle and Little repeatedly. Told them Santa didn't come in 2012 because they were "bad" (they were three and four!). Physically assaulted their father in front of them with a machete and a 4-way tire iron. Humiliated them in public. Fought with other boyfriends in front of the kids. Denied them food for being "bad." Told them they were "bad" over and over and over again, when they were just being kids. Made them clean their own vomit. Made them change their own diapers when they "fuckin' reeked." Made them lie to CPS workers. Encouraged them to fight with each other and didn't come to help Little if, say, Middle kicked him in the head.
I wanted to agree with Middle. "Yes! Your mom is SO MEAN!" I wanted to shout. "She did mean things to you and she shouldn't have done those things!"
Instead, I said, "Well... Yes. But not all moms are mean, and even moms who are mean aren't mean all the time." And I changed the subject.
The courts mandate that we encourage positive feelings about the birth parent and that we don't say anything negative about the kids' biological mother. And some days, that's close to impossible to do.
Now that we've had custody of them long enough, Husband and I have made the decision to be honest with the kids (no sugar-coating) without judging. Example:
"Why can't I go see my mom on Spring Break?"
"Well... Remember the judge? The lady who gave you the bear the day you came to live with us?"
"Yes."
"She said your mom needs to take some classes before you can go see her again."
"Oh." Pause. "She said we would come for Spring Break."
"I know. I think she really wants you guys to come for Spring Break, but unfortunately, you can't until she takes the classes."
"Why hasn't she taken the classes?"
"I don't know. But you are more than welcome to ask her when you talk to her next time on the phone."
A better example... This one has to do with the day the kids' biological mother came and removed the kids from my care before we had a legal custody agreement:
"Why you and my mom were yelling at each other in the parking lot?"
"I was worried because she surprised me by coming here and taking you out of my car. It scared me. It wasn't a good surprise." This is code for: Because she was kidnapping you!!!
"You didn't want her to take me?"
"No." Code for: Of course not! She'd already hurt you beyond anything Husband or I expected and I didn't want her to hurt you again!"
"Why?"
"Because I was worried you would get hurt. Or that I'd never see you again." Code for: Because she does crazy things and I had no idea what would happen to you!
"Oh." Pause. "You didn't think my mom would take care of me?"
"No." Pause. "Not in the right way, anyway. I knew she'd do the best she could, but I didn't want anything to happen to you." Code for: I knew she wouldn't. I knew she couldn't. Because when she had the chance, she didn't and she wouldn't.
"Oh."
I have to undo the programming that biological mother instilled in them when they were babies. I have to UNDO the basic building blocks they erected in their head when they were building their reality and their definition of "mother." Husband can help me do this, but really, the only way to shift their paradigm is to prove to them that their belief that "moms are mean" is wrong. And really, only I can do that. And the only way to do it is to try my very best to keep my cool at all times, even when they are pouring lava into a cup and forcing me to drink it.
It's a horrible, hateful job. But someone's gotta' do it. And that someone is me, and will continue to be me. I only hope I can fulfill my role as mother well enough that when someone asks them to define mothers their first answer is "love." Not "mean."
Wish me luck.
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