In the middle of dinner. A pew in the play land of the church that is the golden arches. The obligatory chicken nuggets with ranch, french fries, apple slices, and chocolate milk. A plaintiff plea from a Dad who's already had a bad day, "Honey, please just one more nugget and then you can go play."
The bombshell, deftly deployed.
"You're not my Dad. T says R is really my dad and you're just the foster father. I saw him. He has a mustache and a beard." Her tone is dismissive.
The effect is disastrous to the soul of the only real dad she's ever had. A little bit of him died that day; right there between the bright primary color tables, the video games and the jungle gym.
How do I know? How is it possible I can sympathize, empathize and relate to this scene? It's been me, my scene, a thousand times in as many possible variations the last 17 months of raising this child. The very first "YOU'RE NOT MY MOMMY!" complete with foot stomping, arms folded in complete isolation, and defiant stare, takes your breath away. It robs you of the ability for coherent thought for a moment. It kills quickly some portion of your soul that still believes in innocence and wonder. You can't ever get it back. It takes time, patience, love and alcohol - let's be serious here - raising someone else's screwed up child isn't for the faint of heart - to get to a place of understanding that a child in care can call you Mommy for weeks and then suddenly have a visit with their birth mother, come home scared, lonely, confused and upset and your parental stock plummets to zero with the snap of her little chubby fingers. I've been Not the Momma so many times, I'd like to think I've become immune to it's charms. Truth be told, I'm not. It hurts each and every time. But I love her and I can understand that she comes from a lifetime of manipulation, lies, secrets and chaos that I, as a child, was blessedly unfamiliar with. I'm the Mommy who creates responsible meals for her, finds age and size appropriate clothing for her, makes her do chores and help out around the house, comforts her hurts and allows her to cry on my shoulder when she needs to. I'm the one she turns to daily to have her shoes tied, to help her brush her teeth, to tell her secrets to. But life with me isn't Disneyland. I don't come home every night from work bearing candy, toys and presents. I just am consistently there, in the background, making sure her little life goes forth successfully and hopefully uneventfully.
I hope one day that her first Momma will come to her senses and voluntarily sign her rights away so that we may adopt her and become her forever Mom and Dad. Do I think there is a realistic chance that will happen? Not it hell froze over tomorrow and satan began handing out margaritas. I have a modicum of faith in the system and hope that time will finally be on our side and the powers that be will see the best interests of this child. I have to have that faith, or I couldn't get through this and still remain sane. Truly.
But for the Dad, things are different. There's never been another dad in the picture. The shock, grief and rage he feels doesn't allow him to see beyond the words and into the scared little soul of a girl who never knew she had a "real" father, who is wildly confused, sad, upset, mad, running a gamut of emotions she hasn't words for at such a tender age.
He is stuck in utter devastation for the moment. I get that. And it's my job as his wife and mother of his children to help him understand that our daughter isn't intentionally trying to stab him in the heart. She's trying to make sense of a situation for which there is no logic and very little reason and unfortunately she isn't mature enough to choose her words carefully nor has she learned that words do indeed have the power to wound.
No comments:
Post a Comment