The commentary is predictable, always lurking around the corner. At preschool pick-up or in the checkout line, I brace myself for the familiar remarks. There’s no return policy when it comes to children. They’re not pets, and adoption is a lifelong commitment. Did she really think it would be easy? How dare she? It’s awful, selfish.
What part of “forever” do these judgmental individuals fail to grasp? What part of “parent” is lost on them?
I understand too well. I know what it means to parent one child at the expense of another. I have faced the heart-wrenching decisions of prioritizing one child’s needs over another’s. How could I ever consider giving up?
Let me take you into my world, but keep in mind that I am still shaking as I write this, four long years later.
On that day, 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 experienced trauma and institutionalization, leaned against me to catch a glimpse of the story I was reading. His tentative touch, warm against my arm, made it hard to concentrate on the words. He had chosen to connect with me. The months of uncontrollable tantrums, fueled by grief and abandonment, seemed to fade away. I felt that maybe, just maybe, we could move forward together.
My one-year-old son, my healthy and untraumatized child, darted back and forth from the bookshelf, bringing me little treasures. He wanted to sit in my lap, but when I lifted him, he fussed and squirmed. I set him down, and he crawled away, crying. This cycle repeated several times until I worried he might be unwell. Yet, my bond with my oldest son, however fragile, endured. I read books with him as long as I could before shadows darkened the room.
As I started the evening routine, I sat on the floor to change the baby’s diaper. As I pulled off his pants, I noticed angry red welts scattered across his stomach. My heart raced. Was it an allergic reaction? Hives? They didn’t look raised or itchy, but they had a bruised appearance.
At that moment, I looked into my oldest son’s eyes and understood. I recognized that familiar, hard expression on his face—defiant, challenging. He seemed to ask, “What will you do now? Do you still want to be my mother?” The price of my fleeting peace was displayed in vivid red on my baby’s skin.
I realized that this was too high a cost. He needed to understand that he would be loved unconditionally, no matter what. But the anger I felt towards my five-year-old was overwhelming. I admit it. I was furious with a child.
I took his hand, and he resisted, kicking and screaming in panic. I understood his instincts; he sensed the danger, just as I did. I guided him gently but swiftly upstairs, putting him in his room and locking the door—not to keep him contained, but to protect both of us from the chaos.
I knew I couldn’t open that door and hurt him, even though I felt the urge to lash out. Instead, I stood there, my head against the door, overwhelmed. All my education, love, and preparation seemed irrelevant in that moment.
This is what it looks like at the bottom, where parents are often judged harshly. Imagine standing at the edge of a dark well, looking down at a parent curled up at the bottom. Would you throw them a rope, or would you choose to spit on them? Which option truly helps the child?
What helped my children was a family who wanted my oldest son. A family of experienced parents who had navigated the complexities of raising children with trauma. On the day my son became theirs, his new mother assured 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 lifeline; they built a staircase for our entire family, benefiting all of my children, especially my oldest son.
So, how can we offer support instead of judgment? We don’t have to be the entire rope; we just need to be a thread. It’s a painful truth that some children may be deeply affected by their early years to the point of becoming overwhelming challenges for their adoptive parents. Yet, each one of us can contribute to a collective effort for change and healing.
Next time you see a parent struggling with a “difficult child” at the park, take a moment to breathe. Instead of criticizing the “terrible parent doing nothing,” consider:
- Maybe this is the twentieth tantrum of the day.
- Perhaps she was up all night.
- The situation could be far more complex than you realize.
When you meet that mother’s eyes, offer her a smile. Because perhaps an hour earlier, she had to step away from her child’s room, and your smile could give her the strength to keep trying. Just like that, you become a thread in the rope, contributing to the support needed to help these children.
This article originally appeared on May 17, 2010.
For additional insights on parenting and home insemination, check out this excellent resource that can offer guidance. If you’re considering options for home insemination, this blog post is another great read. And for those looking for an authority on the topic, visit this link for more information on home insemination kits.
Summary:
Parenting can be an overwhelming journey, particularly when faced with challenges from traumatized children. Understanding and compassion can be more beneficial than judgment. Offering support, even in small ways, can help parents navigate their struggles. We all can play a part in creating a supportive environment for both parents and children.