You might call it the “D” word—divorce. Many children are blessed to be overwhelmingly loved by two caring adults who are able to cohesively co-parent. Then there are some children, like my own, who are not only left in turmoil but are also left with an absentee parent.

The father of my first two children could be summed up as a slow-motion train wreck. There is too much to go into great detail about, but his biggest flaw is choosing to be the equivalent of a distant cousin as opposed to a father: going weeks and even months without contact, missing birthday phone calls and falling about two years behind on child support payments.

Seeing the heartache on my children’s faces prompted me to become the Queen Mother of Overcompensation. I now had to step into their father’s shoes. I had to make up for all that he was screwing up.

At first, it was harmless: trying to make sure I fulfilled every wish on the birthday and Christmas list. I mean, how couldn’t I? How could I make his lack of financial or emotional help be the fault of a child?

Next came the emotional compensation, choosing to ignore problematic behaviors simply because of the pain the kids were feeling due to the loss of a family unit. I can remember the day my then-third grader leveled a classroom following an angry encounter with his teacher. I remember being terribly embarrassed and expressing that to every faculty member in view, but moments later, taking him for ice cream to talk it out.

I was afraid of being the “bad parent.” That if my children saw me put my foot down, they would hate me. I feared they would want and long for the one who wouldn’t even take the time to pick up the phone to return a call. I had to be all they needed wrapped in one. Believe it or not, I needed their love during this difficult time as much as they needed mine. I was afraid to parent my own children.

As I continued this path of destruction, I slowly began to realize that my pattern of enabling them was like putting scotch tape on a leaky pipe; sooner or later, that tape slides off, and the real problem bursts through. The gifts and the ice cream didn’t stop the anger and only calmed the raging storms. The phone calls from school didn’t stop. The ADD/ADHD diagnosis came next, which led to bigger, more underlying issues being discovered. My children were in pain, and no toy could fix that. More needed to be done!

I had to recognize my own toxic behavior in being my children’s enabler. The naysayers were right—they needed love, yes—but they also need guidance and a strong mother who stood firm in her decisions and who wouldn’t waffle at their whimpering. They needed a mother who was confident enough to know that she could never fully fill the void of their absent father.

I also had to acknowledge that I, too, was in pain. Divorce is never easy for children, but for the parties who vowed to spend the rest of their lives together, it was devastating. I cried myself to sleep some nights, afraid to face the world as something I never wanted to be. I was now a single mother and, most of all, alone. Loneliness eats away at you, and I longed to fill the void.

As these thoughts came rushing over me, I realized what I was doing to myself. Trying to overcompensate for someone who couldn’t care less was like ordering a Big Mac with a Diet Coke—it made no sense. I was an emotional wreck and I was passing that disease to my own children. I had to make a choice. I had to decide if I wanted to continue to fill the emotional loss with worthless items or if I wanted to help my children heal.

I wanted them to heal, so I had to hold myself and them accountable for our poor choices.

Part of that process meant allowing my children to talk it out with someone other than myself. The school counselors were amazing in this transition; my boys opened up and let them into their safe zone. They were given strategies to deal with anger and to calm themselves. They began talking more about missing their father and how it made them feel that he rarely fulfilled his role. While these were steps in the right direction, the healing process takes time. We continue to take it step by step and remember that we are in it together.

I know that we are not all lucky enough to have the perfect co-parenting scenario, though that’s what we all want for our children. In the event that we don’t get that happy ending, understanding that we are in charge of guarding our children’s emotional healing—and proceeding carefully and responsibly—is key.

Originally published January 2019.

RELATED LINKS
When Divorce Is the Only Answer
Dear Husband: I Need More Help from You
My Child with ADHD Needs Kinder—Not Tougher—Parenting

I am just regular mom of three wonderful boys and a married to the love of my life! I hope to reach people through writing and expressing my true experiences. My goal is to help a parent realize that no matter the struggle, they are not alone in the journey! 

Dear Momma,

I see you, driving down the road with tears in your eyes. I see the deer caught in headlights look as your hands firmly grip the wheel. You sob, uncontrollably, afraid to utter the words that well within your body. I know you utter how much your child is loved, how you wouldn’t change them for the world, that you will get through it together but I know you’d give your life in a heartbeat to have it so your child didn’t struggle with aggression.

I know the type of day you had. The one where you listened carefully as little feet hit the ground and you cautiously walked on eggshells trying to figure out just what kind of day you may have. You tried to find the perfect clothes, that didn’t tug or pull on your little one’s body. You gently brushed their hair avoiding any snarls for fear that one misstep would send you into a place no parent ever imagines you could be. I know you spent the day offering tokens for positive behaviors and lavishing your child with the love they need to know they are so precious, so wanted, so exceptional that they haven’t been put here just to change your world but to help you change the world for them and others who will walk in the same shoes.

I know it’s late in the day. You’ve iced the bruises and yet your heart is broken. You carefully cradle your child and secure them in their seat to drive. A drive might fix it, or at least keep your child safe and allow you to release the pain that has built up inside, all day. As you head into the darkness I know you wonder if anyone gets it. I know you have been told you are “too much” by friends because well, maybe you are. Maybe the pain and suffering you live with are too much for others to bear, but not me. I am here Momma, I am here for you.

I’m driving too, my child is buckled in. I look in the rearview mirror, and I see you. I see your eyes, darkened with sadness, your cheeks, tear-stained from not just the physical pain but the emotional pain. I know your fear. I live it too.

Aggressive autism isn’t talked about a lot. Most parents fear coming out, afraid to be honest with others or even themselves. They fear saying it out loud because then, it’s true. They fear judgment. They don’t believe they will ever be understood and so, they live in hiding, covering up their bruises with make-up, wearing long sleeves, and perhaps going so far as to get tattoos to hide the scars, at least the physical ones that others can see.

Momma, I want you to know, I see you. I am here. I am you. Except, I am tired. Tired of doing this alone. Tired of hiding. Tired of being ashamed because ashamed I am not. My daughter is more than her aggressive autism and when the autism aggression takes hold of her, she, the child I birthed is gone. She is morphed into a being that she cannot control.

As I rock her, try to gain control of one arm or another to keep her from hurting herself or someone else, I whisper, I am here. We will do this. Together. You are special and I will work through this by your side. She flails and screams unable to control herself, in that moment I find myself in what feels like an out of body experience, turning my mind away from the searing pain of the bites, pinches, and hair-pulling because I know this is not my daughter. And sometimes, sometimes as quickly as it started, that autism aggression escapes her body and she is left limp.

I cradle her in my arms. Rocking. Rocking her. Reminding her I am with her. She is mine and she is so loved.

Momma, come out. You are not alone. You need love. Your child needs to be celebrated, to be shared, to be lavished with the same gifts of other children who don’t live with aggression because of her aggression, she can’t control and Momma, there is nothing to be ashamed of. You show up. Daily. You walk beside your child. You show them love and you, my friend, are their greatest advocate and there is no reason to hide any of that.

 

This post originally appeared on www.messyblessymomma.com.

I'm a mom of many who is living her best life navigating a busy world full of ups and downs. Managing five kids and one with additional needs I enjoy learning through living and sharing what I know. I can't wait to share our Messy World with you.