Originally Published: May 17, 2010
The comments never change, and I know they’ll find me—at preschool pick-up, in the checkout line. There’s no refund policy here. Children aren’t pets. Adoption is a lifelong commitment. Did she think it would be simple? How dare she? It’s awful. It’s selfish.
What part of “forever” don’t these misguided individuals who adopt children and later relinquish them understand? What part of “parent” is lost on them? They understand nothing. I understand all too well. I know what it’s like to parent one child at the expense of another. I know the anguish of choosing between the needs of my children.
How could I possibly give up?
Let me paint a picture for you, but please remember that I’m trembling as I write this, four long years later. The sun streamed through the windows, and for the first time in two months, I felt a delicate sense of peace. My five-year-old son, who had endured trauma and spent time in institutions, leaned against me to see the story I was reading. His tentative touch warmed my heart and made it hard to concentrate on the words. He had chosen to connect with me. The months of tantrums—screaming fits triggered by seemingly nothing, rages that disrupted our little ones—began to fade into the background. I could manage this. If we could share moments like these, if I could witness progress, if I could find a glimmer of hope that he might someday love and trust me enough for me to truly breathe again.
Meanwhile, my one-year-old son, my healthy, untraumatized child, wandered back and forth from the bookshelf, bringing me little treasures. He asked to sit in my lap, and I lifted him up, but he fussed and cried, so I set him down. He leaned against me from the floor, sobbing, and crawled away—maybe eight or ten times—until I questioned if he was unwell. Yet the fragile bond with my oldest boy held firm, and when the baby found a quiet game on the far side of the room, I read books and cuddled with him for as long as I could.
Shadows grew longer. I kissed my son and prepared for the evening routine. As I sat on the floor to change the baby’s diaper, I lifted his shirt and pulled down his pants. My heart dropped as I saw angry red welts scattered across his stomach—one on his side, one on his back. Panic gripped me. An allergic reaction? Hives? They weren’t raised or itchy, but in the center, they looked bruised.
In that moment, I realized. I looked up to meet my oldest son’s gaze, and I understood. The hard, defiant, heartbreakingly familiar expression on his face asked, “What will you do now? Do you still want to be my mother?” The price for my peace, my quiet, the desperate need for everything to work out for just one afternoon was clear. My older son’s rage was splashed in vivid red on my baby’s tender skin.
I recognized the cost, and it was too steep. I knew he needed to learn that he would be loved unconditionally. Trauma, anger, grief—some part of my brain whispered to me, reminding me to be his mother. I know. I know. I know. Yet I still shook with rage at a five-year-old boy. There’s no easy way to say it—I shook with rage at a five-year-old boy.
I took his hand, and he writhed, screamed, fought, bit, and scratched. I don’t blame him. It was pure survival instinct. He sensed the danger just as I did. I pulled him up the stairs as gently but swiftly as I could, protecting myself as best I could, and I placed him in his room, locking the door behind me.
It wasn’t to trap him; it was to contain his tantrum, which raged inside, overturning furniture and tearing apart bedding, accompanied by screams. I didn’t lock the door to keep him in. I turned the lock because I wasn’t sure I could open a door and hurt a child. And I didn’t. But I wanted to. I wanted to go in there and punish him until I couldn’t lift my arm anymore. I wanted to hold him down and inflict the pain he had caused my baby.
I stood on the other side of the door, my head resting against it, feeling utterly powerless. All my education, love, good intentions, reading, and preparation—none of it mattered at that moment. There was nothing and no one to help me, and I had never felt so angry, so on the brink of losing control, in my life.
That’s where we are, these parents the world often judges. Imagine standing at the top of a dark well, looking down at a mother huddled at the bottom with her head on her knees. Would you throw her a rope, or would you spit on her? Which action do you think would truly help the child?
Let me tell you what helped my children: a family that wanted a child, a family with only teenagers that had experience parenting children with trauma and reactive attachment disorder. A mother who, on the day my oldest child became hers, said not only, “We can do this; it’s okay to let go,” but also, “We understand why you can’t.”
They didn’t just throw me a rope; they built a staircase for my entire family, benefiting every one of my children, especially my oldest son.
So what can we do to help? How can we replace judgment with compassion? We don’t have to be the whole rope. All we need to be is a thread.
It’s a painful truth that some children can be so damaged in their early years that they become overwhelming and heartbreaking for the parents who have opened their hearts and homes. But each of us can be a thread in the rope of change and healing.
Next time you encounter a mother with a “horrible kid” who’s “losing it” at the playground, take a deep breath. Instead of criticizing the “terrible parent doing nothing while her child screams,” consider this:
- Maybe this is the twentieth tantrum she’s faced today.
- Maybe she was up all night.
- Maybe the situation is far more complicated than you realize.
Then, meet that mother’s eyes and smile at her. Because perhaps, just perhaps, an hour ago, she walked away from that child’s door, and maybe, just maybe, for the cost of a smile, you gave her the strength to try again. Just like that, you become a thread in the rope. Together, we’re helping children.
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Summary:
In this heartfelt reflection, Jamie Taylor shares the struggles and complexities of parenting, particularly when dealing with trauma and adoption. She illustrates the emotional turmoil of navigating the needs of multiple children while facing societal judgment. The importance of compassion and understanding among parents is emphasized, encouraging readers to offer support rather than criticism. By sharing her personal experiences, Taylor advocates for a community that acts as a thread in the rope of healing for both parents and children alike.
Keyphrase: Parenting and trauma
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