i started to write the day that zoe ate 3 earthworms. i was off on a run trying to regain my sanity, which had been lost earlier in the day while homeschooling her. she was 10 years old.
on the run i thought, 'it wasn't supposed to be like this.'
i wasn't supposed to be a homeschooling mom. i was a doctor. my life wasn't going as planned.
i had entered a world of sticky thoughts and meltdowns and medications and reactions to medications and medications to manage the reactions. there was music to stimulate the right brain and exercises to cross the midline and gluten-free diets and social groups. there was occupational therapy and physical therapy. there were appointments and waiting rooms and conversations in waiting rooms with other mothers whose lives weren't supposed to be like this either. and there was the waiting. waiting for the appointment to be over. waiting for things to get better. waiting for the other shoe to drop when things were better. waiting for it to become like it was supposed to be. and the waiting gave time for worrying. worrying about the meltdowns, when and where and if i could only figure out the why. worrying about transitions, about the day, the next day, the year, the rest of our lives. worrying that maybe it never would become like it was supposed to be. and wondering.
the day she ate the worms, i wondered what 16 would be like.
about a month ago she ate a marble while i was watching a tv show with my other kids. she is 16. have things changed? yes and no.
last week i took the kids to eat american fast food in uganda- which is a giant thrill and a huge treat. afterwards we went to the market for a few things. zoe lost it. i mean lost it. it was over a bunny plush toy cartoon character that she didn't have money to buy. it started with a sticky thought- she wanted the bunny, couldn't put it down, tried to convince me to buy the bunny, she couldn't take no for an answer. the next thing i know she is clinging to the rack of sunglasses by the check out line shouting that she won't leave with out the bunny. that she will sell the kindle that she is clutching with her other hand, to buy the bunny. she is shouting that she can't calm down, that she can't trust me, and she is refusing to budge.
when a three year old does this- you can pick them up. people understand. people smile with that "don't worry, we've been there" face on. when a 16 year old does this- you are stuck and people look at you like, "please do something because we don't know what to do".
6 years ago, i would have been horrified at the thought of dragging her out of a grocery store at age 16 over a bunny plush toy. but that wasn't the awful part.
the awful part was in the car on the way home as we listened to her heart pour out all the hurt and anger and fear and confusion and loneliness that she feels. all. the. time. to hear her tell us that her life is worthless, that her life is a puzzle and no one understands her, that she will never get better, that it will always be like this. that she feels like a grenade waiting to explode. it just broke me.
it wasn't supposed to be like this. but it is.
6 years ago, i would have been so terrified, so overwhelmed, that i would have let that brokenness be covered up with anger and shame. 6 years ago, i wouldn't have listened. i would have talked. talked over her, corrected her, told her that she will get better, that people do understand her, that there is hope, that it won't always be like this. i would have told her she has people who love her and she doesn't need to be afraid. i would have denied her feelings and told her the things that i needed her to believe so that i could be okay.
but this night, i listened. i just listened. i said 'i hear you' and 'that must feel awful' and 'that must be scary and hard' and 'i'm here for you'. when we got home. we sat together with mike in the living room and the kids recounted the drama. zoe slowly calmed down. i looked at her, crisscross applesauce, snapping her hands like she does when she's nervous, and i was overcome with love for her. and then i started to cry. and zoe started to cry and she sat on my lap and we wept.
it felt like we wept tears that had been denied time together. like we finally could be in a place of feeling it out loud- and see each other in the hurt messiness of it and know it's shared. we were letting it be known that this is what it is- laid bare. it is hard and lonely and sad and scary and overwhelming.
after a while we got up and got ready for bed. i read her mog the forgetful cat which always makes us laugh and tucked her in and prayed remembering lamentations, "because of the Lord's unfailing love, we are not consumed! His mercies are knew every morning."
sometimes God allows cartoon bunny plush toys to show you how far you've come, but that 'far' doesn't look like you thought it would. 'far', i would have thought, would be the absence of bunny plush toy meltdowns. but 'far' is bigger than that. 'far' is allowing for truth to be spoken and felt and shared. 'far' is letting it be painful because it is sometimes, and letting that be alright.
so instead of fighting that it wasn't supposed to be like this, 6 years later, i can see how i am becoming who i am supposed to be, in this which is my life.
on the run i thought, 'it wasn't supposed to be like this.'
i wasn't supposed to be a homeschooling mom. i was a doctor. my life wasn't going as planned.
i had entered a world of sticky thoughts and meltdowns and medications and reactions to medications and medications to manage the reactions. there was music to stimulate the right brain and exercises to cross the midline and gluten-free diets and social groups. there was occupational therapy and physical therapy. there were appointments and waiting rooms and conversations in waiting rooms with other mothers whose lives weren't supposed to be like this either. and there was the waiting. waiting for the appointment to be over. waiting for things to get better. waiting for the other shoe to drop when things were better. waiting for it to become like it was supposed to be. and the waiting gave time for worrying. worrying about the meltdowns, when and where and if i could only figure out the why. worrying about transitions, about the day, the next day, the year, the rest of our lives. worrying that maybe it never would become like it was supposed to be. and wondering.
the day she ate the worms, i wondered what 16 would be like.
about a month ago she ate a marble while i was watching a tv show with my other kids. she is 16. have things changed? yes and no.
last week i took the kids to eat american fast food in uganda- which is a giant thrill and a huge treat. afterwards we went to the market for a few things. zoe lost it. i mean lost it. it was over a bunny plush toy cartoon character that she didn't have money to buy. it started with a sticky thought- she wanted the bunny, couldn't put it down, tried to convince me to buy the bunny, she couldn't take no for an answer. the next thing i know she is clinging to the rack of sunglasses by the check out line shouting that she won't leave with out the bunny. that she will sell the kindle that she is clutching with her other hand, to buy the bunny. she is shouting that she can't calm down, that she can't trust me, and she is refusing to budge.
when a three year old does this- you can pick them up. people understand. people smile with that "don't worry, we've been there" face on. when a 16 year old does this- you are stuck and people look at you like, "please do something because we don't know what to do".
6 years ago, i would have been horrified at the thought of dragging her out of a grocery store at age 16 over a bunny plush toy. but that wasn't the awful part.
the awful part was in the car on the way home as we listened to her heart pour out all the hurt and anger and fear and confusion and loneliness that she feels. all. the. time. to hear her tell us that her life is worthless, that her life is a puzzle and no one understands her, that she will never get better, that it will always be like this. that she feels like a grenade waiting to explode. it just broke me.
it wasn't supposed to be like this. but it is.
6 years ago, i would have been so terrified, so overwhelmed, that i would have let that brokenness be covered up with anger and shame. 6 years ago, i wouldn't have listened. i would have talked. talked over her, corrected her, told her that she will get better, that people do understand her, that there is hope, that it won't always be like this. i would have told her she has people who love her and she doesn't need to be afraid. i would have denied her feelings and told her the things that i needed her to believe so that i could be okay.
but this night, i listened. i just listened. i said 'i hear you' and 'that must feel awful' and 'that must be scary and hard' and 'i'm here for you'. when we got home. we sat together with mike in the living room and the kids recounted the drama. zoe slowly calmed down. i looked at her, crisscross applesauce, snapping her hands like she does when she's nervous, and i was overcome with love for her. and then i started to cry. and zoe started to cry and she sat on my lap and we wept.
it felt like we wept tears that had been denied time together. like we finally could be in a place of feeling it out loud- and see each other in the hurt messiness of it and know it's shared. we were letting it be known that this is what it is- laid bare. it is hard and lonely and sad and scary and overwhelming.
after a while we got up and got ready for bed. i read her mog the forgetful cat which always makes us laugh and tucked her in and prayed remembering lamentations, "because of the Lord's unfailing love, we are not consumed! His mercies are knew every morning."
sometimes God allows cartoon bunny plush toys to show you how far you've come, but that 'far' doesn't look like you thought it would. 'far', i would have thought, would be the absence of bunny plush toy meltdowns. but 'far' is bigger than that. 'far' is allowing for truth to be spoken and felt and shared. 'far' is letting it be painful because it is sometimes, and letting that be alright.
so instead of fighting that it wasn't supposed to be like this, 6 years later, i can see how i am becoming who i am supposed to be, in this which is my life.
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