Held in the hands of another

Today—of all days—she wouldn’t get up and go to school. There is nothing particularly special about today, except that my tank is empty, and my day is full. I have no space for her, and yet, here she is.

To say that I want to give up is an understatement of such grandiose proportions; it feels like a whisper into the wind. I don’t want to give up on everything. Just her. Just now.

As I grasp my warm cup of tea, I hear her laugh behind the closed door. I sigh. It is good to know she can still laugh, still be cared for, by someone who is not me. But even that moment of goodness is tainted with bitter sadness—why not me? With back-to-back-to-back indescribably tough days, I was at a loss. I didn’t know what to try next. She refused to talk to us, her parents—God-given—not hers by birth. The part that feels crazy is the situation: we have either asked her to do something benign, like clear the table, or she has witnessed an interaction between us and our other daughter. In the brief moment that it takes to switch from one slide to the next, she ricochets “madly off in [another] direction”.

Earlier today, I sat picking through my salmon salad, my body defeated by an exercise class and my emotions weighty after days of emotional battle—with her, and with my own gremlins. Anxiety coursed through my body with a current that made me quiver. With brain vessels clogged by confusion, and the skin of my living stretched so tight I felt paralyzed; I chose the unthinkable. I picked up my non-school-going defiant daughter, the one who had been calling me names for days, and took her with me to my massage. I needed her to be with me, so that she couldn’t refuse to come to the appointment we had at her school, with the principal and her teachers later in the day. I gave up my much needed and highly anticipated massage.

Maybe, I rationalized, she needed it more than me. Maybe, I needed to do this for her. Maybe…I was crazy.

I allowed, even encouraged, her to climb onto the massage table. The table that had been prepared for me. The one with the mock-sheep-skin heated mattress pad that was draped with supremely soft flannel sheets. The table with the form-fitting pillows that I could sink into as if I were embraced by a cloud. The table that perched at the hip of Linda—my caring and attentive massage therapist—a deep and wise friend, mentor and healer. I watched her undress, until she got down to her skivvies, and then she asked me to turn around, modest, as if we had become strangers overnight.

Now, I am cradled in the waiting room chair, like a mound of clay, eyes closed, listening to the calming chimes in the water bath, as they are pushed toward and away from each other rhythmically. I hear again, her laugh pulsing through the door, as she relaxes in the embrace of my Linda. She, who had yelled and screamed and pitched things through space and time at me, and my husband. We, who had adopted her, were left to answer to the sins of others. Sins we could only imagine or suppose as she had locked the events and circumstances of the past, in a trunk called “forgotten” or perhaps “forbidden”.

She suffers from past ghosts and traumas in indescribable ways. How could I ever make right what had been done wrong? How could I show up for her when she pushed and shoved me away, if not with arms and legs, then with words: “I hate you”—“Leave me alone!”—“You’re not my mother.” How could I pick myself up, after being knocked down? How could I stop the internal bleeding from so many emotional jabs? Where did her feelings end, and mine begin?

When she snaps back to that unseen place, I am surreptitiously cast as a villain. She rails and fights me as if her life depends upon it. At first, unaware that I had been recast from mother to villain, I watched, with horror as she transformed. Once started, I have no influence or ability to thwart an episode. I am unable to comfort, soothe or communicate with her at all. There, we circle each other, like two wrestlers on a mat; we warily dance, with muscles tense and sculpted in perfect symmetry. Her, with eyes glazed and shrouded in fear, in a state of fight or flight, and me—with fear and compassion and bewilderment—arms open, hoping to scoop her up and protect her.

The failure I feel is pervasive, the anguish pulling at my insides like cords tightly woven…and then sliced and frayed. At times, giving up seems like a good option. But, I will gain strength from author Krissi Dallas’ words, “There is no easy way out of our circumstances…Sometimes you stick it out even when you want to give up because you know that on the other side is either a better situation or a better you”.

So, as she relaxed enough to laugh on the massage table, I would not allow myself to think about the meeting that lay ahead, or her inability to handle her emotions. Or the basketball game that she would not be allowed to go and watch, or the fact that she would rail against me again when I said “No”, and try and jump out of the moving van. Right now, I would take this opportunity to rest my soul, knowing that she was being held in the hands of another.

No SAD in SoCal

Remember “Alexander, whose not (Do you hear me? I mean it!) going”? In that children’s book (by Judith Viorst) Alexander’s family is moving a thousand miles away, and there is no way that Alexander is going to leave, so he refuses to pack. That is how I felt all day long. It is my last day  in sunny Southern California. We spent the morning walking on the beach, with the sun warming our backs, and the soothing pulse of the surf pushing us on. I am not leaving. We spent the afternoon having a picnic on the beach at La Jolla Cove, along with dozens of seals and flocks of majestic yet cumbersome-looking California Brown Pelicans. There is no snow here. I am not leaving. It is warm (although the locals are wearing ski jackets and beanie’s). I have no responsibilities here. I am not leaving. I have time, for a few days on this trip, to be…a wife.

I am away from my kids, but that is not the whole story behind my yearly trips.

It is difficult for me to leave my kids. The volume of their need for me—as a stable base for their emotional expression—is so high that when I am not with them, I worry for them. Of course (you might say), it is good for them. And you would be right. But more importantly, it is good for me. My mothering roles and responsibilities are emotional and intense. I am highly sought out and in demand whenever my children are home. This is both a blessing and a burden.

Therefore, the break is rejuvenating for me, but draining for my kids. Life has a little less predictability when I am away. Surprisingly, not everyone knows the way that Mom does it! When I am away, my tank fills a little each day, and within days it is full, and I am able to gloriously march to a beat all my own. As soon as I tune into this rhythmic and peaceful melody, I am also aware of the chorus cutting in (every day) when I pause.

I miss you Mom.

When are you coming home?

Soon.

Seven more sleeps.

Four more sleeps.

Though my family does not usually accompany me on this annual trip they are never far away. I talk to and see each of them daily on FaceTime. With Faven, I deal with moods and emotions and her general dislike of school. I help Laurèn out with school projects and the occasional overwhelm that creeps under her skin. Facetime with Yohannes is a whole different experience. He makes me laugh, and laugh, and laugh (and then cry). As you know, on Facetime, both Yohannes and I can see him—so he tends to try different things, until something ends up being funny. It is kind of like making shadow puppets with your hands, you have to keep on experimenting. One day he turned his head sideways, and in true Pac-Man-style he went across the screen and “gobbled” up all of the lights. Another time, he put the camera right up to his nostril--and then stuck his finger in! And the grossest one: he created balls of spit at the edges of his lips, and then came close to the camera so that I could study it, like it was under a microscope. Yum. When Ward was still home, watching him on Facetime, he said (somewhat exasperated), “Yohannes, why don’t you just talk to your mom?” He confidently answered, “Because Mom likes this!”

So I am not really alone. Besides that, I have these gremlin voices that seem to follow me wherever I go. I am often halted by these disagreeable gremlins, who say things like: How could you leave them, and What is wrong with you anyway?

What is wrong with me? Being affected by seasonal affective disorder makes it more difficult in the winter for me to parent. I simply manage better when I take this seasonal break. The dark season wears me down. And all of those people who love me, are dragged down with me. I don’t like that. I am, in all seasons, the emotional barometer of my family; there is no way around it. I need to take care of that barometer.

Yes, there is much that I can—and do—do for myself during this season of darkness, but nothing charges my battery and fills my veins with happy-go-lucky, like day after day of blessed sunshine.

I am not leaving.

But please send the kids.

Ready, Set, Go

I could hear them breathing as they rolled to a stop behind me. I glanced over my shoulder. We were lined up at the red light, 1-2-3-4. My husband up front on his dark red Classic Comfort Cruiser, me bumping up to his rear tire, on my bright orange City Commuter, and them—one, two—bona fide racers. They were sporting aerodynamically designed helmets, bright cycling apparel and ergonomic clip in shoes. On their faces - pure determination. They weren’t out sightseeing.

I faced the light and smirked to myself. We got this, I mused. My husband didn’t even know they were there, so when the light turned green, he smoothly glided away, without a backward glance. I fell in behind him. About twenty seconds into this leg of our ride, I wondered how far back our competitors were. I glanced over my left shoulder, and they were right there—drafting me! The nerve. A moment later, as we entered the bike lane on the side of the highway, they geared up, and passed us both within three pedal strokes. They flew by us as if…well…as if we didn’t have throttles. How could they? They disappeared down the highway faster than invisible ink. I was dumfounded. But, it wasn’t really a fair competition because they had big, undulating muscles, while we had big, battery-laden bikes.

I stared after them in complete and utter awe. The equipment, could only take you so far!