Mommies Are Not For Hurting

On Wednesday afternoon Paul tried to poke the black dog with a broom. He and Scout have never hit it off. Scout is old and crotchety and prefers to be left alone. Scout has never uttered a growl in his direction, but Paul senses her antipathy. (In contrast to Peyton, the spaniel, who is all "I love you! What's your name? Wanna play, wanna play, ooh, rub my head, look, a ball, wanna play?") Fortunately I was right there. (So much of parenting is being right there, isn't it? It's exhausting being right there when I want to be over there, in my chair, with my book. But as another parent recently said, "Hey. You made your bed." (And it'll be another ten to twelve years until I get to sleep sufficiently in it, apparently.))

So I stopped the attempted poke. "Not okay, buddy. That scares Scout. She's scared. It's not okay to scare animals or people," I said as I touched his shoulders, got down on his level. "We need to do something to help her feel better."

That's when he reared back and hit me.

About a million things happened in the split-second following the hitting of the mommy. Shock and anger and about two dozen scenarios of how I was going to teach him NEVER to do THAT again. But that's also when I saw his instinctive cringe. The cringe of a child expecting swift and merciless punishment. For the record, we have never hit Paul, never touched him in any way that was not loving, firm, safe. But in that moment he did not remember his last eleven months in our care. In that moment he was not using his higher-level thinking brain. He had flipped into survival mode, into the reptilian brain that has no reasoning, only instinct; that knows only flight, fight, freeze.

"Whoa, buddy," I said without really knowing what I was going to say or do because my own emotions were  still whirling. "Mommies are not for hurting. I can tell you're mad, but it's not okay to hurt. Mommies are not for hurting."

That's when his eyes met mine. That's when the tears welled up from the depths and broke into heart-wrenching grief. And I held his stiff, shuddering shoulders until he allowed me to hug him, hold him, cradle him through the wordless emotional pain. Oh, dear God, I thought. Mommies should never be for hurting.

We cried together. I don't know how long. Then he looked up at me. "Is there's tears on my face?" I nodded. White streaks crisscrossed his warm, dark complexion. "Can you's wipe 'em?" So I did the mom thing with my spit and my thumb until he was satisfied.

"Can I feed 'em Scout?" he asked. In all honesty, in the maelstrom I had forgotten the directive to do something to help Scout feel better. But he hadn't. He scooped dog food into her bowl. He didn't pet her - they may never reach that level of intimacy - but he did watch her to ensure she was enjoying her meal. Then he patted my leg while he looked around the kitchen. "Can I wipe 'em counters?"

"Um..." I had no idea why he was making this request. Until I realized. He was trying to help me. Because mommies are not for hurting.

It is the desire of every heart to be loved, to be cared for, to feel valued, to feel safe.

I share this story with trepidation and only after much prayer. I don't want to put anything out there that may be harmful to Paul now or in the future. Because he is not a mean-spirited or violent child, not by any means. But he is a seven-year-old boy who sometimes does immature seven-year-old things and who is sometimes scared. And scared children - children who are triggered into fight, flight, freeze - sometimes fight, flee or freeze.

Nor do I want this to sound like I have it all together parenting-wise. Because I don't. I'm a licensed counselor who immerses myself in parenting literature and I STILL don't know what to do half the time. Because honestly, had Sam at age seven hit me, I would have sent her to her no-toys, no-nothing room for the rest of the day, made her write an apology note, and then mandated extra chores for her to do in solitude until she was so consequenced that it cooled my righteous indignation. And that may have worked for her. But traditional parenting does not heal the emotional breaks in kids from hard places. Traditional parenting does not speak to kids who are stuck in the reptilian brain. A timeout, extra chores, silent treatment punishment for Paul may have warned him never to hit the mommy, at least not so overtly, but it would not have opened the floodgates of grief for healing. It would not have challenged his deep-rooted fears that life is scary, that he is on his own. It would not have added another layer of connection between us. It would not have shown him in the moment and experientially that mommies are not for hurting.

Read This, Instead

I don't have time to blog. It is softball season, people. And while my husband is not coaching this season, (Thank you, Jesus! Because this past summer, when he was assistant coach for the travel ball team and Paul was newly home, I well and truly lost my mind. And I haven't yet gotten it all back.) he is keeping the scorebook. And so is still otherwise occupied during every single softball game. Of which there are about a gazillion. Double headers (varsity and junior varsity) every night but Wednesday this week and a tournament in Bowling Green this weekend.

He is very serious about this scorebook keeping job, too. I love that he's conscientious, but really? Saturday night and Sunday he was immersed in the official high school softball rules book to determine how to score one of our daughter's at bat issues. (If you know - email me. So here's the situation: Runner on second. Sam hits a grounder to third. The third baseman should have thrown her out at first. (In which case Sam might have beat the throw. You never know, right?) But the third baseman instead steps on the third base bag, thinking there is a force at third. But there is NOT a force at third. So all the runners are safe. I'm calling it a hit because I like handing out hits. Trent is debating fielder's choice (except I'm arguing there was no choice - the only choice for the out was to throw to first then back to third to keep the runner from advancing) versus error on third baseman.)

So this is what is occupying our time. Watching softball and then debating everything that happened during those gazillion softball games. Oh, and also it's spring, so the weeds have taken this opportunity to grow prolifically. And I should really do something about that. And also we signed Paul up for baseball. Because the kid can HIT. Oh, wow, can he hit! But turns out there is a lot more to baseball than hitting. And he's not much interested in the other parts. And the coaches keep saying things like, "This isn't tee-ball anymore" and "Keep your head on it" and "Round the bag" and other things that make no sense.

Coach is talking. Paul hears, "Blah, blah, hit. Blah, blah, hit."

Also our one year anniversary of the day we met Paul is coming up. On May 7th we will have known each other for one year. We're talking about ways to commemorate this special day. (Not sure what to call it. I'm not fond of Gotcha Day. It's not really our Adoption Day. A friend uses Hello, Love Day, which I like, but it's hard to say.) Paul wants me to read his Life Story book to his class, which is a big deal. A very big deal. We have a lot to occupy our thoughts and our time.

Jen Hatmaker wrote a blog after her two had been home one year. It captures beautifully the phases of the first year home. So read this, instead...