And then came “The Day.”
My older child’s left hearing aid was broken, and I had no idea where to get it fixed. My younger son had had a particularly rough day at school, causing the principal to call me in for a conference. Our case manager had dropped in for a visit and stayed so long waiting for me to fill out the paperwork I’d forgotten that I was late getting dinner on the table. We were all tired, hungry, and at the end of our rope. In one day, the well-oiled machine that was our life exploded, sending parts flying in all directions and filling the house with smoke.
I lost it. I screamed, slammed things, railed, and shut myself away in a closet to sob.
Even with all the resources I have—an education, employment, reliable transportation, a house in a good neighborhood, food on the table, medical insurance, friends to lend a hand—it is still challenging to care for our boys. How had she managed it for a few months, let alone years? I wondered, wiping my nose with a shirtsleeve. Sure, my family had been poor when I was growing up, but I’d had a mother and father who loved one another, a stable home life, and a safety net.
When my husband and I were first married and struggling to make ends meet, my grandmother told me, “Baby, we won’t let you get in a mess. If I have to scrape the bottom of the barrel, I’ll split it with you.” It had always been that way. When trouble came knocking, my family went to the front door to answer it together. That kind of certitude has a way of shaping a person. It undoubtedly gave me a different perspective and helped me to make decisions with the long game in mind. My boys’ birth mother had few or none of those advantages. Sure, she’d made poor choices—I’m not trying to excuse her by any means—but ignorance and desperation, rather than malice, accounted for many of them.I was holding my sons’ birth mother accountable for not making the choices I’d been taught were right.
