I got up early this morning– no easy feat when you’re dealing with the sleep interruptions of having a newborn in the house. I got up early so I could get a child ready for a visit. A quick morning bath, an adorable pre-planned outfit, hair done just right, fed at the appropriate time so she wouldn’t be cranky at the start of the visit. This takes work. Work I’m happy to do because I believe it’s vitally important that kids have the opportunity to do visits with their family.
But the visit didn’t happen.
I had some tears for this lost moment, but it struck me that the child in my arms had no idea what was going on. She didn’t know about the court hearing yesterday. She doesn’t have any concept of the big decisions swirling around her and the professional adults who get to decide her fate. She is protected from all of that.
And I am her protector.
I am her umbrella. I shelter her from the storms of uncertainty that rage around her. There is so much I can’t control, but I can control this little bit of her world. I can be sure she knows she’s loved. I can speak kindly about her family. I can protect her from what she is not yet ready to carry. But I have learned that it comes at a cost. This child stays dry and protected. But the umbrella gets wet.
It’s my job to keep her world stable, even at the cost of my own stability. Work schedules have to get adjusted. I have to ask for help. I can’t get the things done I wanted to get done. My other kids have to sacrifice. Helping her, protecting her, healing her comes first. I take the heat from upset family members who have an easier time criticizing my parenting than focusing on the work they need to do. I prioritize communicating with a team who needs to know how she’s doing, even if they make decisions I may or may not feel prioritize her best interests. I frame things as positively as possible to maintain relationships with everybody. I am essentially a hostage negotiator, working to keep everybody happy at all times so this child stays the focus. And then I call my mom or my friend or my husband and I cry. Because while I tell this child that she is loved and safe and wanted, I struggle with my own feelings about how she’s being treated and all the things I can’t control.
I believe being her umbrella is the right thing to do. I have seen how it plays out in the long run and I know it’s what she needs. I know as these kids get older, there is less and less I can protect them from. And that is how it should be. There is a time for them to understand the full reality of their situation and the decisions that were made about them and around them. This is their story and they need to own it, in all its grief and joy. I will always tell these children the truth in ways they can understand when the time is right that they can understand it. My protection of them will mean that they trust me when it’s time for these conversations to happen. They learn to be empathetic and understanding because they have lived a life where those who were struggling were talked about with grace, honesty and a compassionate curiosity. They can carry the instability of their story because of the stability I have created for them.
I will take the tears. I’ll take the pain. I’ll take the insults and criticism and second-guessing of my motives. And as much as I can help it, this child will know love. She will know safety and security and joy in the interactions I am responsible for. She will be protected. She will get attached. She will be loved. Even if it hurts me. Because I am her umbrella.