Updated: August 13, 2015
Originally Published: May 17, 2010
The remarks are always the same, and I know they will find me. At preschool drop-off, in the grocery store aisle. There is no refund policy. Children are not pets. Adoption is a lifelong commitment. Did she think it would be simple? How dare she? It’s appalling. It’s selfish.
What part of “forever” do these cruel individuals who adopt children and later relinquish them not grasp? What part of “parent” don’t they understand? None at all. I understand all too well. I understand the struggle of raising one child to the detriment of another. I understand the heart-wrenching choice between the needs of one child versus another.
How could I ever let go?
Let me illustrate. Keep in mind that I’m trembling as I recount this, four long years later. The sunlight streamed through the windows, and for the first time in two months, I experienced a fragile sense of tranquility. My five-year-old son, who had endured trauma and institutionalization, leaned against me to see the story I was reading. The warmth of his arm against mine made it hard to concentrate on the words. He had chosen to touch me. The months of tantrums and rage faded away, leaving me hopeful. I could manage this—if we could share these moments, if I could witness progress, perhaps one day he would love and trust me enough for me to breathe freely.
My one-year-old son, my healthy child, wandered back and forth from the bookshelf, bringing me offerings. He asked to sit in my lap, but when I lifted him up, he cried and squirmed until I set him down. He leaned against me from the floor and began to cry, crawling away. This happened multiple times, leading me to wonder if he was unwell. Yet, the fragile bond with my oldest remained intact, so when my baby found a quiet game in another part of the room, I read to my oldest son and cuddled him as long as I could.
As shadows fell, I kissed my son and began the evening routine. I sat on the floor to change the baby’s diaper when I noticed angry, red welts scattered across his stomach—one on his side, another on his back. My heart raced. Was it an allergic reaction? Hives? They weren’t raised or itchy, but they looked like bruises.
At that moment, I met my oldest son’s gaze and understood. The hard, familiar expression on his face—defiant, challenging—asked, “What now? Do you still want to be my mother?” The cost of my peace, my silence, my desperate need for everything to function smoothly for just one afternoon was now evident. I saw my oldest son’s rage reflected in vivid red on my baby’s stomach.
The price was too high for me. I knew he needed to learn that he would be loved unconditionally. Trauma, anger, and grief whispered to that small part of me that wanted to be his mother. I know. I know. I know. Despite this, I still shook with rage at my five-year-old.
There’s no easy way to express it: I was furious at a five-year-old boy. I took his hand, and he writhed, screamed, and fought, which I couldn’t blame him for. His instincts for survival were strong—he sensed the danger just as I did. Gently but swiftly, I led him upstairs, protecting myself as best as I could, and put him in his room, locking the door behind me.
The lock wasn’t meant to contain him. It was to ensure I couldn’t harm a child. And I didn’t. But the urge was there. I wanted to go in and spank him until my arm could lift no more. I wanted to hold him down and inflict pain, just as he had on my baby.
I pressed my head against the door, feeling overwhelmed. All my education, love, good intentions, and preparation—none of it mattered. At that moment, I was engulfed in an anger I had never experienced before.
That’s where we stand, these parents judged by the world. Imagine peering down a dark well at a parent sitting at the bottom with their head on their knees. Would you offer a rope or spit on her? Which option truly helps the child?
What helped my children was a family eager to adopt. A family with only teenagers who had previously parented children with trauma and reactive attachment disorder. On the day my oldest child joined their family, the mother not only reassured me that it was okay to let go but also expressed understanding for why I couldn’t.
Instead of throwing me a lifeline, they built a staircase for my entire family, benefiting each of my children, especially my oldest son.
What can we do to offer support instead of judgment? We don’t need to be the entire rope; we can simply be a thread. It’s a painful truth that some children can be so deeply wounded in their early years that they become overwhelming for parents who genuinely want to love them. However, we can all be a part of the solution.
Next time you see a mother struggling with a child who seems out of control, take a deep breath and refrain from criticizing her. Instead, consider:
- This may be her twentieth tantrum today;
- She might have been up all night;
- The situation could be far more complex than you imagine.
Then, make eye contact with that mother and offer her a smile. Because perhaps, just perhaps, an hour ago, she stepped away from her child’s door. With the cost of a smile, you could give her the strength to try once more. Just like that, you become a thread in the fabric of support. Together, we can make a difference for children.
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Summary:
Parenting can be a tumultuous journey, especially for those dealing with the challenges of adopting children with a history of trauma. This article illustrates the emotional struggles faced by parents and emphasizes the importance of understanding and support from the community. Rather than judging, we should aim to be threads of support in one another’s lives, fostering healing and hope for both parents and children.