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| Me smiling, hugging Clark (who appears to be missing his head). |
For all that Clark finds a challenge, there a few things he
does better than anyone I know.
He returns to center. He forgives me. And I wish I didn't have to know how good he is at these two
things.
It's already painful enough to
watch your kid hurt at other people's hands, much less your own. To see him go through friendless years with
no birthday parties or sleepovers, no pick up ball games in the park, no casual
drop-in's to play Xbox.
Or to see him hurt himself.
It is excruciating to hear him say, "Mom, it's just so hard to be
me. If you could just feel what it is
like inside me, you'd see. It's really
confusing, it's really fast." Of
course, he'd say this at the same time he protested that he didn't want to take
his meds because they made him feel like someone else. But, still, I ache for him, and I think I
almost understand.
So, yes, I am angry at the people who overlook his
awesomeness, who see only the negative.
But I am most angry at myself.
I remember all the times I lost patience with his lack of
focus and easy distractability and yelled at him. Yelled until he cried. Yelled until I knew that I, the one he
trusted most and needed to rely upon, had wounded him.
I remember all the times I hit the end of my endurance with
his impulsivity and insensitivity, when I let him see me cry, when I spoke the
words of my frustrated brain and battered heart aloud in his presence. I see him diminishing in size in my mind's
eye. I see him folding inward. I know I did that to him.
I remember throwing things across the room when I couldn't
get him to stop the lying, the book thudding on the couch, the coffee cup
shattering on the floor as inside I raged.
I can see his crumpled face, scared eyes, and the back of his bowed head
as he walked away to hide his tears. But
I couldn't stop the angry words in my
head.
Why? Why does he lie to me? What is wrong with me as a parent that I
can't instill an ethical compass in this child?
Is he patterning himself after something missing in me? Is he a morally deficient person? I know what the doctors say, I know what the
literature says, but all of this is outside my previous reality. How do I know they're right? How do I parent like they tell me to when it
is so different from everything I've known before?
Sometimes, I would put my husband Eric in as a buffer between
Clark and me, when I was in the stranglehold of PMS. Clark seemed intuitively to know when I was
at my worst, and sink to his worst gleefully along with me.
"Get him completely away from me," I would beg
Eric.
"Why do you do this to your mother when you know she's
having a rough time?" Eric would ask Clark.
"Huh?" Clark would answer, but his smirk gave him away.
My former mother-in-law, Clark's paternal grandmother, once
told me that every single night in her years as a mother she knelt by the bathtub in tears, asking for God's forgiveness and a
chance to do better the next day. I
could relate to how she felt, yet I knew we were different; in my heart I knew I had truly failed Clark as a mother.
Failed Clark. Not my other kids. I got mad at my daughter or step-children at
times. I raised my voice. I informed them of the dire consequences of
their actions. Those times were rare,
though. And never, not once, did my
self-control shatter into millions of shards of flying glass like it did with
my beautiful, sensitive son.
I failed Clark as a mother, at times.
And I wept. I weep
now as I type these words. How could I
so cruelly hurt him ? How, God?
How? I am a good person. Ask anyone.
Whenever these moments occurred with Clark, it would not
take many hours, sometimes only minutes, before I found myself humbled and prostrate.
I can do this,
God. You saw fit to give a Type A slightly
OCD quick-tempered woman this boy. You know I can do this. I can
do better. I will do better. Please help me.
No matter what else I did wrong, I think I got one thing
right. I always, always, always
confessed my shortcomings to my son. I
explained. I tried to teach. I wasted way too many words on a kid who I
lost after, "I'm so sorry, Clark. I
was wrong. I love you."
His response? 100% of
the time?
"That's OK, Mom.
It's no big deal. I love you,
too."
And once, branded on my memory, when he was 14, as I stood
before him with tears running down my cheeks?
"Please don't cry, Mom.
It's my fault, not yours. I know
how hard I make it for you. I make it
hard for me, too."
Oh, God, the question
is not why did you saddle two such different creatures with each other, it's
how could you have blessed me so, have given me this resilient, kind soul and
used him to mold me into a better person?
Now, I am not a churchy kind of person. But there are times I know God sees my heart
and speaks straight to it. And I promise
you, that the words he puts upon it, I hear as clearly as if he were sitting in
front of me on my green garage sale love seat speaking to me aloud.
"Forgive yourself like Clark and I forgive you. Love yourself as Clark and I love you. Marvel at and love this passionate, well-adjusted
child. I believe in you."
Sometimes I cry. But
only in between the times I marvel at my son, and laugh.
My son is a wonder. A
180-pound wonder that wants a hug every day before and after school, his head
tucked over and on top of mine. I am not
worthy. I will continue, however, to do
my best and know that it is usually good enough.
For all of us. Even me.
Until next time,Pamela, aka Clark's Mom
Pamela Fagan Hutchins writes the Clark Kent Chronicles on parenting ADHD wonder kids, thanks to the crash course given to her by her ADHD son and his ADHD father. She focuses on the post-elementary school years. Visit her blog, Road to Joy, but hang on for the ride as she screws up her kids, drives her husband insane, embarrasses herself in triathlon, and sometimes writes utter nonsense.