Maybe It’s Me

I stood there numb, confused and incredibly drained as I watched our white van pull out of our garage.

Ironically, as the wheels began spinning in the opposite direction of where I stood, guilt encompassed every inch of my soul. Overcome by emotions, emotions that have been spilling all over my family for the better part of three hours. While going through the motions, I longed for time to digest and understand what I’m feeling, yet when my husband asked me not to join them at the park that morning, my body tensed. I felt defensive- rejected, instantly wanting to give into the expectation that I should be able to keep it together during moments we all have together.

I spent the morning fighting tears, overwhelmed with frustration, and scared. I’ve been wiping away tears-not really knowing for sure what to do or where to go next. I am not even sure why I am upset, or really, I don’t want to admit that sometimes I wish it was easier. Sometimes I wish behavioral challenges didn’t exist. Or better yet, I really wish I knew how to manage behaviors that present themselves in ways I find challenging.

“Drive safe”, I yell. “Have fun.” The words rush out without thinking, without effort. Everyone I love the most is in that van. Yet, then why as they pull away, do I also feel a sense of relief?

Right now, as I began reflecting and writing, they were likely in the Scooter’s coffee lane. Each of our boys will select a smoothie flavor, and my husband will order a traditional black coffee. He’ll likely grab a few breakfast burritos, maybe a muffin for our daughter and youngest boy to share. Everyone will probably be done arguing by now, and together they’ll be off on their park adventure. The emotional morning will be put behind them, and they’ll instead replace the grind of getting out the door, and sibling quarrels with belly laughs and zombie tag. 

As we’ve maneuvered our way through COVID, I’ve had surges of panic. I worried- well, continue to worry, not just about getting sick, but about the expectation of staying home for fourteen days, should we need to quarantine. I worry about managing two elementary students during their temporary transition to online school alongside caring for two toddlers. I contemplate how to relieve energy during the upcoming bitter cold Nebraska months, especially with so much of the world being shut down. And, well- making the decision to not go places, in efforts to do our part to slow the spread. I think about how to provide each of our children with the love and support they need to also digest the emotions they are feeling. I debate on how to keep the peace within our house, while still holding technology expectations, creating learning opportunities, and managing social-emotional wellness. There seems to always be so much to think about, so many decisions to be made. 

Yet, as easy as it is to ‘whoa is me’, to discuss all of the ways this pandemic has upset our lives, I can’t help but reflect and state my truth. I could choose to cry COVID, but in reality, that’s only a blanket to cover what, at times, feels like so much uncertainty. 

I have no idea how to be the person, specifically the mom, that each of my children need me to be. 

I have no idea how to properly manage self-care. 

I have no idea how to keep my cool all of the time. 

I have no idea how to keep the fire lit in my marriage every single day.  

I have no idea how I will again feel professionally accomplished and be present, in the way I want to, for my family. 

I no longer have any idea what I want to professionally accomplish.

Why in the hell is there so much that I don’t know?

While managing, yet another sibling argument, specifically centered around our five year old’s behavior, I nearly snapped. I mean, maybe by some super-parent’s standards, I did snap. I didn’t yell, at least not to my full capacity, but I also wouldn’t have provided great evidence for a parenting manual, had my reaction been recorded. 

With the couch pillows still strung out, from our previous night’s living room slumber party, our one-year old, who often brings frustration from her continuous destruction of whatever our older boys are doing, began climbing on her five year old brother. As he often does, despite the year of therapy, endless behavioral charts, consistent praise, and restatement of expectations, pinched his sister. He pinched his sister so hard, that without thinking, without really anything but reaction, I jumped off of the couch, demanded for him to turn in his iPad, losing this privilege for the rest of the morning.

I knew the tantrum, the yelling, the power struggle, I knew- even without thinking, that it was coming. Taking away precious iPad time, at times, feels like the only leverage I have on our boys. I reacted, rather than reflected. Overwhelmed by the constant battles, I felt overwhelmed. Tears flowed, and with both gratitude, and the feeling of failure, my husband took over.

I comforted Aurora, our one-year old, intentionally giving attention to the child who was making positive behaviors, or at least not being physically aggressive. Even at that moment,I knew I didn’t handle the situation well. I also mentally knew that I clearly don’t know how to make these physical aggressions, almost entirely from our five year old stop. As the tears came rolling down my face, reality hit me, completely encompassing my entire body.

What do I say to Ace- how do I begin to do the things all of the books say I should do? Did I come down too hard? Why do I have no idea what to do- why don’t I yet know what actions would actually help, how to make the aggressive behavior stop. How do I make it so our youngest children are no longer afraid of our five year old? How do I make it so the world stops starring when he has an outburst in public?  How do I stop the endless feeling of playing whack-a-mole, day-after-day, as we try to manage and support his behaviors?

It his me again.

I have no idea how to help my son. 

I have no idea how to support him in a way where he has the capacity to make positive decisions, at least more positive ones than negative. The ones that show his sweet side, the ones that showcase his breath taking capability to tell stories. I have no idea how to show the world how amazing he is, because of reasons outside of what I can comprehend, he tends to react with aggression, rather than with his high-squeaked belly laugh. How do I make myself understand that maybe it is okay that other people don’t have the ability to see his beauty, because maybe they are too busy focusing on the part of him that makes him appear rough. How do I speak with my son about how other people may perceive him, the people that are supposed to protect him- yes, even teachers, family and friends that without taking the time to understand, will choose to stray away from the challenge, and opt to steer their child away from ours. How do I get it right every time, during every outburst, so that our son, without a doubt understands that we love him.

A part of him is so complex that even as his mother, even as a teacher of students labeled as high-risk,  as a woman who holds a professional degree in educational leadership, as a mother that loves her children so deeply that she left her career to support her family, doesn’t know how to make it better- to make his life better. A part of him is so complex, that even with the deep love of a mother, I do not have all of the answers or ways to ease my child’s pain. I do not have the answers to make raising him easier, or to make living in his skin more bearable. 

Even with all of the qualifications that say I should know what to do during melt down, tantrums and physical outbursts, I, at times, have no idea how to support him. It often feels impossible to keep the necessary stamina to keep my cool time after time, day after day. Not in the way that makes him constantly feel loved, wanted and safe. Not in a way that I am confident that as he walks through his days, he knows I have his back. Not in a way, that when he makes passing comments exclaiming that no one loves him, that I have the words and hugs to heal his misunderstanding.

You see, the reason I worry about our son having friends, or being accepted by other adults, is because I hear, see and analyze the way other well-meaning adults talk about kids like my son. The way they discuss, over lunch, so casually about the kid that screams too much, has a difficult time sitting still, the kid who just won’t listen to the teacher long enough that allows the entire class to earn that extra star. The way they worry about that kid taking too much time away from their kid. I see the way they have nothing but negative words to describe that kid. That kid, who just like them is well-intended, yet far less capable of giving the grace they so rightly deserve.

I worry because last year, while I was still teaching, I sat with fellow teachers, teachers that I witnessed be stewards for children. Teachers that worked, with great effort to provide their students with an education, far beyond the curriculum the district measured. Yet, the same teachers, in efforts of venting, in getting some sort of self-care or validation, would joke- poke fun, or even talk in a way that if they were speaking about my son, I would be upset. Statements that even after declaring my inability to listen to their hurtful assessments and jokes, continued week after week. 

And while I wish I would have had this realization far before learning from experience, my perspective, now sitting on the other side of the table, now being the parent of that kid, changed the way I view everything. The way I speak with colleagues, other parents, caretakers, my other children, my own family- everyone. It has all changed. 

While most of me holds frustration with these parents and teachers, I also understand them. 

Because while I am the mother of that kid, I am also the mother of the kid who struggled with reading and needs extra support from the teacher. I am also the teacher, who after having a child with difficult behaviors in her classroom, understands the emotional and mental toll of the constant curriculum rearranging, and management of private corrections and public praise. I am also the mother of the kid who is heartbroken because once again they don’t get to go somewhere, or show up on time because of actions that they did not do.

I see both sides. I am constantly living on both sides. 

On the surface, I am doing all of the right things, or at least all of the things we can think of. I’m constantly reading about ways to become a better mother. We read about mental illnesses, a diagnosis that our son is apparently too young to receive, yet old enough to feel the effects. We ordered mineral sampling in efforts to understand nutritional deficiencies. We constantly reevaluate the way we speak and react to our children, the food we provide and the values we want to instill. We sought out ,and take our son to behavioral therapy. We have high standards, understanding that the bar we set is the bar that they’ll reach. We work to spend dedicated time with each child, we have hard conversations and ensure daily chores and independent reading. On the surface, we are doing so much. 

In doing so much, it often feels like we are doing nothing at all. 

At least not enough. 

If we were doing enough, wouldn’t I know how to keep my cool, redirect and properly be the supportive-loving mother all four of our children need? Wouldn’t there be less screaming, less moments of helplessness and endless tears, and instead be filled with more joy? Wouldn’t there be some way to explain to parents, parents on both sides, the anguish of loving that child, or even further, being that kid. 

Over and over, I wonder how to show up for my family. How to show up enough to make a difference- to raise humans, rather than just children. How to spend enough time, read enough books, make difficult decisions, teach enough lessons- how to do all the things. Yet, even after rough moments, intense guilt and the harsh reality of likely never having the capacity to get it all right. I will always continue to stretch myself to learn more, grow into the mother my children need. I will forever evaluate my actions, and hope that the million little things I do each day are what my children remember, are the values and characteristics that define the people they are, and continue to grow to be. 

I hope that, while without knowing what my next goal is, or what I am really accomplishing each day, that I recognize that maybe my purpose, maybe my what starts depicting my why.

Maybe it’s me.

Maybe it’s me that needs to continue the fight, both within myself and out in the world. Maybe it’s me who needs to continue to advocate, educate and demonstrate the way we treat all people. Maybe it’s me that can make a difference, change an action, simply by just continuing to show up. Maybe it’s me that can be vulnerable and open, even when difficult or in fear of persecution. Maybe it is me that, even flawed, can be, or actually is exactly what all of our children need.  Maybe it’s me that needs to hold your hand, not only when your child is victorious, but also when you are confronted by a challenge presented by that child. 

Maybe, just maybe, if I listen to my heart, without deadlines, without judgements, I’ll figure out how to support every person who drove away from me this morning. Maybe, I’ll continue my work to be the voice who advocates to support the person who stayed behind. The person who had the courage to share their feelings, to recognize that my transparency, may be someone else’s transformation, perhaps even my own.