“I’ve got a grandchild that age,” the lady behind the counter smiles at us and nods. “It’s normal”.
No! No it’s not! I think as I gather my youngster and groceries and leave the store.
Is your grandchild motivated by fear? Fear that with all the rows and rows of edibles in this Candyland of food that she won’t get one single bite? Fear that it will all be denied her? That she must have it all, eat it all, consume it all, right now in this very moment, or it might be taken from her – forever?
No.
No, it’s not the same.
At the park, he flips from the monkey bars to the slide. Spiraling downward he hits the bottom and takes off running, this energetic child of mine. He’s going so fast, tearing across the mulch.
I watch him like a hawk, concern mounting.
He doesn’t stop as he nears the grass and panic arises in me. If I don’t head him off, he won’t stop – at all.
I holler for him to come back but he doesn’t hear me. I tear off after him, nearly tackling him and firmly place my hands on his shoulders pulling him into a hug. He struggles at first but then calms. Let’s me wrap him in the deep pressure embrace.
I feel his energy turning muscles into cords, trying to get out. I whisper in his ear and we jog back together, but his eyes. Oh, his eyes dart here, there, behind us. He’s looking, constantly looking for the way out.
We reach the mulch and I slump, out of breath, onto a bench.
Another mom is there. She’s seen the whole thing.
“Just let him run off his energy,” she says. “I’ve got one just like that. He’ll be fine.”
I smile at her. Too weary to educate – to censor the words running through my head. Too focused on my son and his next possible attempt.
Fine?! I think.
Fine that his limbic system takes over and he can’t stop? Fine that, while he needs this physical outlet, he can’t control it? Fine that running has been his default, his safety, instead of a caring adult? Fine that the streets and the “away” are more comfortable- safer- than the “here” and the “me” his caregiver? No. It’s not fine.
Its gymnastics. She’s good at this. Believe me, you should see her at the park. But she stands in the door, unmoving. We’ve done this little routine for months now. She doesn’t want to go to class. I coax her in. She finally joins her teammates who are already warming up. Furtive glances come my way every 5 seconds.
Yes, I’m still here, I nod.
She goes through routine. This part is easy. The warm up is always the same.
Next come the skills, learning something new, adding to what she’s already accomplished.
And she freezes. Won’t take another step. Won’t try. Won’t. Just won’t. She looks at me, “come save me!” say her eyes.
I can’t. You need to try. Move forward, take the next step. If I take you home I haven’t saved you, I’ve lost you. Lost the real you who can rise to meet challenges, who can overcome.
The tears come. She’s crying now. Much too old for this public display. I join her on the mat and pull her to the side. I comfort her there out in the open while all the parents watch. Her teacher understands. Her teacher lets me do it and moves on to the next student.
“I know it’s hard. I know you’re scared, but I also know you can do it! You can do hard things! Remember last week? Remember what you did then? Come on, I’ll stand right here. You try it.”
It takes much longer than it should, but eventually she tries, and fails. I try too, right there in front of everyone and I fail too.
“See! I’m learning too! Here, I’ll try again. You try it again with me.”
Eventually she gets it and I rejoin the moms…the normal moms who don’t go to gymnastics with their children.
Inevitably, one is new. She hasn’t seen me do this week after week.
“How old is she? Give her time. She’ll grow out of it. I remember when…”
Again, I listen, but none of it applies to my foster daughter.
Grow out of it? I wish, but no. She’s grown into it. Grown up learning that people, and this world, bring pain, abuse. Grown up leaning that failure must be avoided at all cost if you want to avoid the beatings, if you want to eat that day. No. She won’t just “grow out of it.” If I let her, she would isolate herself from the world, never attempt anything, never grow mentally, developmentally, never grow at all.
No. It’s not just a stage.
To the mamas out there who’s friends try to encourage you by saying, “That’s okay. It’s normal,” know that you’re not alone.
I understand.
It’s not normal.
It’s not a stage.
You’re not crazy and you’re not the only one.
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