Please spare me the "how dare thou letteth your offspring cryeth" speeches. We've read the books, smeared essential oils all over him, blasted the humidifier, sang the lullabyes (poorly), changed his diet, bribed him, bribed the pediatrician, did the for-the-love-of-all-that-is-holy-just-go-to-sleep chant and interpretive dance both inside and outside of his bedroom, and rocked him for so many hours there are holes in the carpet.
Our bedroom has a pile of stuffed animals that he once loved. But in my lack-of-sleep stupor, I've convinced myself that he must be crying because he hates Mickey Mouse and Cookie Monster. So they've been banished. Yes, I said those words out loud to them. I almost expected them to talk back. I'm so tired.
In all fairness to them, he still cries. Maybe he's crying because he wants them back in his room. The world may never know.
All that's left to do now is pray and cuss. I typically rotate between the two, but there's no rhyme or reason to it. Sometimes I pray until I realize he's not going to calm down, and then I cuss. Sometimes when his cries wake me up with a jolt, I cuss first and then repent later.
But I've found myself sitting outside his bedroom door, listening. He sounds much less hostile when I listen to him in real life, as opposed to the pterodactyl-like screeching I hear through the baby monitor. He's only recently - like, in the last two months - started calling me "Mommy." Although it sounds more like "Mah-ee," it's music to my ears. My throat gets all lumpy when I hear him crying for Mah-ee because I've waited his whole life for him to verbally express that he needs - and wants - me. He has a speech delay and only says a dozen or so intelligible words. So, even though the only time he consistently calls for me is in the middle of the night when I'm desperate for sleep (and sanity), I listen.
Sometimes I just sit in the hallway and my stomach is all twisty and my eyes are burning with tears and I think, "I'm right here, buddy bear. Jesus, please help him know I am right here." But he needs to learn to calm himself down and sleep, so I usually stay outside the door. Sometimes my willpower runs out and his little cry for Mah-ee is more than I can handle. So I go in and pick him up, knowing full well that I've just set the "self-soothe" training back three weeks. Sometimes Mah-ee needs her own self-soothe treatment and that requires him in my arms.
It's been 2 1/2 years since I slept without anxiety. Beau works night shift, but when he IS home at night, he tries to stay up until 3-4am to help with little man. But as soon as he goes to bed, my stomach tenses up, waiting for Russell to scream. That's my cue to start googling, "do toddlers have night terrors?" and "does 'sleep regression in toddlers' really mean 'sleep regression forever'?"
He doesn't just cry at night. He really struggles during the day, too. We've talked to his pediatrician and his daycare director about his behavior. They say he needs speech and occupational therapy. So we called the State of IL to assess him. They came. They assessed. And they denied. Said he didn't qualify for services. At first I was thrilled - he must be on track! But then he fell even more behind. Back to square one.
The internal chaos took over. I was broken and feeling like nothing I could do was helping Russell. I started to doubt myself as a mom. One day on my way to pick Faith up from school, I was on the phone with my mom and I said, "What if she decides she likes it at his house better?" Faith goes to school in the town her dad lives in, and the older she gets, the more invested she is in her friends and activities there. I convinced myself she no longer needed me and that she was going to choose ... not me.
(Note: nobody was asking her to choose anyone. Nor will we! But I was spiraling, in crisis mode, trying to prepare myself for the worst. I doubt I am the only divorced parent who has been crippled by this fear occasionally.)
Ten minutes later I picked her up and she handed me this picture:
God was reminding me that He sees my tears and hears my cries. What pains me matters to Him. He nudged Faith that day, and my sweet girl heard Him. She might not know why she drew that picture that day, but she felt like she should.
Isn't it truly incredible that love and grace are not finite? She isn't going to run out of love for me or anyone in her family. She doesn't have to "choose" where to expend her quota of love - there's plenty to go around.
And the same is true for God.
I really needed to know that. When you feel like you're failing your kiddos, it hangs heavy. That picture she drew and His grace eased the burden I was carrying.
My life has pretty much always been an open book. In my most vulnerable, rock-bottom moments and experiences, I invited everyone in. My divorce, my shared custody pain, my remarriage insecurities - I laid them all out there. Friends and family who have never met Beau and Faith still feel like they know them because I wrote openly about our little family without holding back. But for some reason, over the last year, I had to close off that access to my heart. I've been exhausted and raw and, honestly, did not have the capacity to share myself with anyone but my family.
I stripped away the things I typically leaned on for support. Things "just to take the edge off": wine, TV families whose fake drama allowed me to not think about my own, social activities ... and vulnerable posts about my family and me. I gave myself a break - time to just FEEL things instead of finding things to distract me.
It's funny though - when you get rid of the "buffers" that take the edge off, you begin to feel all the edges! I leaned in, to the point where I almost fell over. The edges were rough. But He caught me. He held me. And, Beau ... my gosh, that guy is a rock. He faced his own gut-wrenching disappointment - possibly the biggest he has faced in the last decade - and he barely had time to process it because I was leaning on him so hard. I needed him, and he put me first. He and I are both still standing, and that's a true testament to him ... and to Christ in him.
It wasn't easy, but it's been healthy. I am putting the pieces back together with clarity. And complete certainty that the God who created the universe knows my name ... and He also knew I needed to hear my son say my name. He gave me that gift.
As I've tried to venture back out into the world of people who really do give a damn, a sweet friend reminded me that it's okay to not be okay sometimes. And I don't even have to justify why I feel "not okay." (Love you, McNelly.) This community of friends and family that God has given me to share life with - it's another gift I don't want to take for granted.So I'm opening up this part of my heart again. Awkwardly. Bumbling my way through it. I've forgotten how to tell my own story, honestly - in writing and in person. But I want to learn how again. Because, for me, there is healing in vulnerability.
