Manipulation
The first two weeks of daycare may have been the absolute worst in my whole parenting life. We'd have breakfast, get dressed and drive the five miles to daycare. As soon as we pulled into the parking lot, the sniffs started. As I unbuckled the car seat the first silent tears of reproach would roll down his cheeks. By the time I reached the door, he was crying in earnest. Handing him over to the lady who worked there was like trying to peel spiderwebs off of flypaper. I had no idea a child could be so strong! He clung to me as if he'd die should he let go. Finally pried loose, the screaming and reaching began and I had to turn around and walk out, leaving my baby to his torturers (as he would have me believe).
I cannot count the amount of time I sat in my car after dropping him off, sobbing because obviously I was the worst mother ever, before finally pulling myself together and heading to work. Thankfully, Miss Martha noticed me in the parking lot and about two weeks into this nightmare, she whispered under the wails to leave, get in my car for a minute, then come back and peek in the window. I did, and found my son happily sitting in the midst of other kids and playing with blocks and toy cars. Apparently, as soon as I got in the car, the waterworks switched off and he got down to serious playtime.
This pissed me off no end, as he had ruined two weeks worth of mornings for me, imaging all kinds of things happening to my son at daycare. The next Monday, I took him in, set him on the floor, looked him dead in the eyes and said "You're okay." Then I stood up and walked out.
We never had that problem again.
So why is this story so close to the surface NOW, 23 years later? Because I am right back in that same place... with my mother.
The two times she's been in rehab this year, her sundowning has been awful. Probably, in part, due to the staff being stretched thin and not having time to deal with her fears and confusion. I try to be there around supper time to make sure she eats. To get her ready for bed and finally put her to bed. She doesn't last long after supper and is usually in her jammies and under the covers about an hour later. I make sure she has water and the remote, her notebook and calendar. That her pillows are just so and her CPAP is on and comfortable. During all of this, she fusses and cries.
One night, I was tired and cranky myself and snapped at her, "Oh, grow up Mom. You're 84 years old for God's sake!" And she looked up at me with tears streaming down her face and said, "But I'm not! I'm just a child!"
THAT stopped me in my tracks.
Because it's true. This woman may be 84. She may have married and had loads of children, pursued wide-ranging interests, sent her children off to marriages and armed services and to far away New York and Germany and Korea (seemingly without batting an eye)... but she is a child. And at this end of her life, childhood is frightening. The wonders of bubbles and balloons are lost on her. Her body remembers every ache and pain even when her mind doesn't, and she doesn't know why she hurts. She just does. And her child's mind doesn't know how to deal with it.
When I try to leave, she doesn't want me to go. Just like my son all those years ago, it seems like (in that moment) I am her whole familiar world and when I go, she feels lost.
My son got over it. I'm not sure my mom will. It feels like manipulation sometimes. She cries so I'll stay longer. There are days when I resent the hell out of it and itch to leave as soon as the waterworks turn on. I am ashamed of those days. Mostly, I tuck her in, kiss her forehead and tell her that I love her. And I tell her "you're okay."
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