The reactions I encounter are always predictable. They appear at preschool pick-up or while waiting in the checkout line. There is no way to return a child. Children are not pets. Adoption is a lifelong commitment. Did she really think it would be simple? How could she? It’s appalling. It’s selfish.
What part of “forever” do these people who adopt and then relinquish not comprehend? What part of “parent” is unclear to them?
I understand all too well. I grapple with the challenge of parenting one child at the expense of another. I know what it means to balance the needs of one child against those of another. How could I possibly give up?
Let me illustrate this for you. Just keep in mind that even now, four years later, I write with trembling hands.
The sunlight streamed through the windows, and for the first time in two months, I felt a fragile sense of peace. My five-year-old son, who had endured trauma and years in an institution, leaned against me as I read a story. His tentative but warm touch against my arm made it hard to concentrate on the words. He was choosing to connect with me. Months of tantrums and outbursts seemed to fade into the background, allowing me to believe that perhaps I could manage this if these moments continued. If I could witness progress, if I could find hope that one day he might love and trust me enough for me to breathe easily.
My one-year-old son, healthy and untroubled, scurried back and forth from the bookshelf, bringing me little treasures. He wanted to sit on my lap, but when I lifted him up, he fussed and I set him down. He leaned against me from the floor and began to cry, crawling away repeatedly. It happened maybe eight or ten times, leaving me to wonder if he was unwell. But the fragile bond with my oldest son remained intact, so when my baby found a quiet game on the opposite side of the room, I cuddled and read to him as long as possible.
As shadows lengthened, I kissed my son and rose to begin the evening routine. Sitting on the floor to change the baby’s diaper, I noticed angry red welts across his stomach, a few scattered on his side and back. My heart raced. Was it an allergic reaction? Hives? They weren’t raised or itchy, but they appeared bruised.
In that moment, I looked into my oldest son’s eyes and understood. His familiar, hardened expression screamed defiance, challenging me: What will you do now? Do you still want to be my mother? The cost of my fleeting peace weighed heavily upon me, revealing the price I had to pay for my moments of calm. I saw his rage reflected in the vivid red marks on my baby’s skin.
I realized that the price was too steep. I knew he needed to learn that he would be loved unconditionally. Trauma, anger, grief—my mind whispered to the small part of me that remembered my role as his mother. I know, I know, I know. Yet, I still shook with anger directed at a five-year-old boy.
I took his hand, but he writhed, screamed, fought, bit, and scratched. I didn’t blame him; he was acting on pure survival instincts. He sensed the threat just as I did. I gently but swiftly led him up the stairs, protecting myself as best I could, and placed him in his room, locking the door behind me.
It wasn’t to confine him. It wasn’t to contain his tantrum, which raged on, flipping furniture and tearing through bedding. I secured the door because I feared I wouldn’t be able to resist the urge to hurt a child.
I didn’t want to harm him, but I felt that impulse. I wanted to go inside and discipline him until my arm ached. I wanted to restrain him and inflict pain as he had done to my baby.
Standing against the door, I felt overwhelmed. All my knowledge, love, good intentions, and preparation—none of it mattered. In that moment, I have never felt so furious, so close to losing control.
This is the reality for parents who face judgment from the outside world. Imagine looking down into a dark well, seeing a parent sitting at the bottom, head bent in despair. Would you throw them a lifeline or spit on them? Which action would genuinely aid the child?
I can tell you what has helped my children: a family that wanted a child. A family of teenagers who had previously parented children with trauma and reactive attachment disorder. On the day my eldest became theirs, the mother assured me, “We can do this; it’s okay to let go,” while also acknowledging, “We understand why you can’t.”
They didn’t just throw me a rope; they built a staircase for my entire family, benefiting each and every one of my children, especially my oldest son.
What can we do to help? How can we replace judgment with compassion? We don’t have to provide the entire lifeline; we can simply be a thread.
It’s a painful truth that a child can be so deeply affected in their early years that they become incredibly challenging for the parents who have chosen to love them. However, each of us can contribute to the tapestry of support and healing.
So, the next time you see a mother struggling with a child having a meltdown at the playground, take a deep breath and instead of criticizing the “terrible parent doing nothing,” consider:
- Maybe this is the twentieth tantrum of the day.
- Maybe she was up all night.
- Perhaps the situation is far more complex than you realize.
Then meet her gaze and offer a smile. Because perhaps just an hour prior, she left her child’s room, feeling defeated. For the cost of a smile, you may empower her to try again. Just like that, you become a strand in the rope of support. Together, we can help children thrive.
This article was originally published on May 17, 2010.
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Summary
Parenting, especially in the context of adoption, can be an incredibly challenging journey, marked by moments of despair and hope. It’s vital for society to extend compassion rather than judgment towards struggling parents. Even small gestures of understanding can significantly impact a parent’s ability to cope. Each of us can play a role in creating a supportive environment for families navigating these difficult waters.
Keyphrase: parenting support
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