Monthly Archives: January 2014

A Child’s Pain

18 Saturday Jan 2014

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My son is home with me.  My daughter is at her father’s.  It’s not supposed to be this way, but it is.

Everyone told me not to say anything negative about my children’s father because soon enough, they’d see who he was on their own.  I just didn’t think it would happen so soon. I also thought I’d be happy when they saw him for the narcissist he is. I was wrong. I had no idea how much it would hurt them, and me.

Rewind to the Christmas holiday. JJ and Lara were with their father for five days. On the third night they called me from his basement. My daughter was crying. She missed me. My son wanted to come home because he was lonely. The conversation with my son went like this:

JJ:        I want to come home mamma.

Me:       Why?

JJ:        I’m bored.

Me:       Where’s daddy?

JJ:        Upstairs watching TV.  He does that every night.

Me:       Why don’t you just go upstairs and tell him you want to spend time with him?

JJ:        He’s with Kathy [his wife].

Me:       Why don’t you go watch TV with both of them?

JJ:        They’ll tell me I can’t watch what they’re watching and send me to my room. He says he’s here for me and I want to believe him but I don’t feel like he is. He’s here for Kathy and his TV.  Mamma, he doesn’t even know that Lara is down here crying.

Me:       Bring him the phone I’ll talk to him.

JJ:        No. You’ve done that before and he changes for a little while then goes back to normal and ignores us. It hurts too much. I don’t want to get hurt again.

Me:       But JJ Christmas is in two days!  Didn’t you ask Santa for an Xbox?  You may get it there.

JJ:        And if I do he’ll be like, “Hey kid, nice to see you.  Now go play with your Xbox.”

Me:       JJ, you play your games here all the time. What’s the difference?

JJ:        You ask if I’ve had breakfast.

His insight stopped me in my tracks. But hearing my 11-year-old struggle to strategically protect himself from emotional pain brought tears to my eyes. He shouldn’t have to think like that at his age.

So yesterday when their dad came to my house to pick them up JJ said he was staying with me for the weekend. I knew he was trying to engage his dad to extract any amount of encouragement to go – but he didn’t get any.  As his father left with Lara, I sat next to JJ on the stairs and my heart broke as he asked, “Do you think he left yet?  Can you see if the car pulled away?” And finally, “I knew he wouldn’t come back for me. I have no father.”

JJ and I sat together on the stairs for a few minutes in silence as I searched for words to ease his soul.

“JJ, your father loves you very much. It’s just that different people have different capacities for love and the way they show that love. Sometimes people we love don’t show us love or love us back in the way we want to be loved. That doesn’t mean that they don’t love us – it just means they don’t know how.”

JJ’s head dropped on my shoulder as tears rolled down his face.

“You have a great capacity for love and that’s a beautiful thing,” I continued. “But that also means others will disappoint you when they don’t have that same capacity. So you need to know two things; #1, that doesn’t mean that they don’t love you – it’s just not the love you are capable of giving and want in return.  And #2, never, never stifle the amount of love you can give because someone can’t give it back because when you find someone who can love you back the way you love them, it will be a beautiful thing.”

JJ buried his head in my chest and we both sat there and cried.

(c) 2014 SeptemberMom.com

Dried Purple Roses

13 Monday Jan 2014

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The dried purple roses on her black bedroom dresser held all her secrets.  Privy to her most private moments, they’d seen and heard it all. The tears, the laughter, the angry words – the love.  

There was the scrolled wrought iron music stand trellised with ivy in the corner and the antique rocking chair that had cradled her many a night. But there was something powerful about the discolored lavender bouquet whose leaves tightly engulfed the heart of each flower.   

It was years before she’d seen the parallel.

“God damn it!  Why are you doing this?!” he hissed, pulling back from her embrace. His fury overriding the yearning his body had for release.    

“What are you talking about?” she responded, confused by his abrupt withdrawal.

“You were there.  I saw it on your face – I felt it in your body. You were there and you just…..disconnected.  Shit! You turned away from me and looked out the fucking window!”

Perched above her, his eyes bore through her. Instinctively she turned from him again.  “You make it sound as if I don’t love having you inside me,” she responded defensively.

“You let me in but you won’t let go!” he demanded.  “Why can’t you just let go?” he said, rolling off her and tossing his legs over the side of the bed.  He sat there with his back to her.    

“Is that what this is about?!  You?  Are you feeling insecure?”

“No.  It’s about you. It’s about you keeping me at arms length,” he spit out grabbing his clothes off the floor.

He was right.  She knew it.  She’d had other lovers.  Yet the vulnerability she allowed herself with them – she would not allow herself with him.  

“Don’t go,” she said softly reaching for his arm.

His response was tinged with disgust. “Why not?”   

“Because I don’t want you to?” Gently she pulled him back to her body and they laid there in silence. 

Stammering, her words broke the stillness.  “I… I can’t….let go.”

“Bullshit.  We both know you have with other men.”

Cursing herself for being honest about her previous encounters she responded slowly, “But they weren’t you. They didn’t matter.”  

“Wait a minute,” he said shaking his head slowly in disbelief. “You’re saying that because you care about me – you’re keeping me at an emotional arms length physically?”  For a moment he paused, then threw his hands up in frustration. “Listen to this – its crazy making! You’d rather let a disposable lover please you – than someone you say you care for?” 

“I never said I wasn’t in need of intense therapy,” she responded, trying to lighten the moment. But his eyes, locked on hers, would allow no escape. “They can’t cut as deep. Or hurt as much. With you, I’ve more to lose.”

She felt his arm pull her close as his finger traced a tear down her cheek.  “Then with me you’ve more to gain,” he said softly lowering her beneath him. “Let me in.”

The dried purple roses on her black bedroom dresser held all her secrets.  They’d seen and heard it all.  And in many ways, they were just like her.   

They weren’t always lifeless….

A Letter Home From School

05 Sunday Jan 2014

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A letter from my daughter’s teacher came home from school Friday – with my son.  It’s never a good thing when a sibling is given a note to bring home.  Teachers know that the ‘rival’ sibling will always make sure Mom gets the letter – so the offending sibling gets what’s coming.  

Standing pensively by my side, Lara watched as I opened the envelope and read its contents.  Her eyes were fixed on my face – or maybe on the door behind me.  It seems that Lara forged my signature on a recent test.  At first she denied it – but then she admitted it to her teacher. 

Turning the page, I wondered how bad a failing grade was on the exam attached to the letter.  Lara was visibly upset with tears streaming down her face.     

“I’m sorry Mom, I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I didn’t want you to be upset.”

Her words shocked me.

“Upset?! You got an eighty-eight on the test,” I countered.  “Why would you think I’d be upset?  This is a great grade!” 

“You’re always telling us we can do better,” she answered, lowering her head. 

She was right.  I do tell her and her brother that they can do better.  That is, when they bring home 70’s.  And that is because I know they can do better.  Like any other mother, I want the best for them.  But I never intended to cause her such stress. I felt like a monster.  

I thought back to my childhood when I failed a spelling test in the third grade.  I was terrified of what my parents would do when my older sister brought them the test that afternoon.  I remember standing by my teacher’s desk during break.  In what I thought was a brilliant move, I grabbed a tissue off her desk and shuffled my test under her desk blotter.  No surprise, I got caught.  But the fear was paralyzing and now my daughter was experiencing that fear.     

Taking a moment to compose my thoughts I examined ‘my signature’ at the top of the page.   A part of me wanted to lock up my checkbook.  Her forgery was pretty darn good.    

Holding up the test I said, “Lara, I’m proud of this – well, not you forging my signature but your grade.  I’m proud of you and if this is your best – that’s okay with me.  Now you signing my name on the test is another issue.  But I’m glad you did it.”

Lara was confused, yet relieved, by my statement.

Chuckling I continued, “You realize you should have waited till you got a 30 or something before you tried something stupid like forging my name.  Now your teacher is going to be examining these signatures like a hawk.  You blew your shot.” 

I smiled, she smiled.  And I’m hoping we both learned valuable lessons.

I hope Lara will never again feel stressed or fearful over tests grades and that she will always try her best. And what I realize now is that I need to let Lara do her best – and accept what that ‘best’ is.