The commentary is always the same and I know that it will find me. At preschool pick-up. In the check out line.

There is no return policy.  Children are not dogs.  Adoption is for life.  Did she think it would be easy?  How dare she?  Awful.  Selfish.

What part of forever don’t these horrible people who adopt children and give up understand?  What part of parent don’t they understand?

No part. I understand too well. I understand parenting one child to the trauma and detriment of another.  I understand choosing between the needs of one child and another.

How could I give up?

I will try and paint it for you. If you will try to keep in mind that I am shaking as I write four long years later.

The sun shone in the windows and for the first time in two months, I felt a fragile peace. My traumatized, institutionalized five-year-old son with valid grief, with understandable rage and abandonment issues, actually leaned against me to see the story that I read. The tentative, warm touch of his arm against mine made it difficult for me to focus on the words. He had chosen to touch me. Months of screaming tantrums set off by nothing and rages and incidents with our little ones that I tried to ignore faded away, melted into nothing at my feet. I could do this.  I could do it if we could have these moments. If I could see the progress. If I could have something to give me hope that I was on the right track and he might someday love me and trust me enough that I could breathe.

My one-year-old son, my healthy, untraumatized child toddled back and forth from the bookshelf to us, carrying offerings. He asked to sit in my lap and I pulled him up, but he cried and fussed and I set him down. He leaned against me from the floor and then started to cry and crawled away. Maybe eight or ten times, until I wondered if he was sick, but the fragile bond with my oldest boy held  and so when the baby found a quiet game to play on the far side of the room, I read books and snuggled with him as long as I could.

Shadows fell. I kissed my son and got up to start the evening routine. I sat on the ground to change the baby’s diaper, pulled off his pants and pushed up his shirt. Angry red welts scattered across his stomach. One on his side. One on his back. My heart leaped to my throat. An allergic reaction? Hives? They weren’t raised. They weren’t itchy. In the middle they looked bruised.

I knew, then. I looked up and met my oldest son’s eyes and I knew. The hard, angry heart-breakingly familiar set of his face. Defiant, daring, asking. What are you going to do now? Do you still want to be my mother now? The price for my peace. The price for my oblivion and my quiet and my desperate need to have everything work for just one afternoon. I could see my older son’s rage splashed in vivid red on my baby’s stomach.

I could see the price and it was too high for me. I knew he needed to learn that he would be loved no matter what. Trauma, anger, grief, some part of my brain whispered to whatever small part of me remembered to be his mother. I know. I know. I know. I knew and I still shook with rage at a five-year-old boy. There’s no easier way to say it. I shook with rage at a five-year-old boy.

I took his hand and he writhed and screamed and fought and bit and scratched and I don’t blame him. Pure survival instincts. He sensed the danger as well as I did. I pulled him up the stairs as gently, but quickly, as I could, protecting myself as best I could and I put him in his room and I locked the door.

It wasn’t to keep him in. It wasn’t to contain his tantrum which raged inside, turning over furniture and ripping apart bedding and kicking and screaming.

I didn’t lock the door to keep him in.

I turned the lock because I didn’t think I could open a locked door to hurt a child.

And I didn’t. But I wanted to. I wanted to go in there and spank him until I couldn’t lift my arm. I wanted to hold him down and hurt him like he hurt my baby.

I stood on the other side of the door with my head against it and all my education, all my love, all my good intentions, all my reading, all my preparation, the time with the social workers, the words of the attachment therapist were nothing. Nothing. There was nothing and no one there to help me and I have never been so angry, so on the edge of out of control, in my life.

That’s where we are, these parents the world condemns. That is what the bottom looks like.  Imagine that you stand at the top of a dark well, looking down at a parent, sitting at the bottom with her head on her knees. Would you try to throw her a rope, or would you spit on her? Which do you think helps the child?

I will tell you what helped my children. A family that wanted a child. A family with only teenagers. A family that had parented traumatized, reactive attachment disorder children before. A mother who on the day that my oldest child became hers said to me not only, “we can do this; it’s okay to let go,” but also, “we understand why you can’t.”

They didn’t throw me a rope, they built my whole family a staircase and it was in the best interest of every single one of my children, my oldest son most of all.

What can we do to help? What can we offer in the place of judgment, instead of scathing commentary? We don’t have to be the whole rope. All we have to be is a thread.

It is a painful reality that a child can be so damaged in the first few years of life that he becomes a terrifying and heartbreaking impossibility for the parents who have opened their hearts and their homes to try and love him.  But each and every one of us can be a thread in the rope for change and healing.

How about this? The next time you see a mom “with a horrible kid” “losing it” at the playground, take a deep breath and instead of commenting on the “terrible parent doing nothing while her daughter screams,” think:

Maybe this is the twentieth tantrum today;
Maybe she was up all night;
Maybe the situation is ten million times more complicated than I realize;

And then meet that mother’s eyes and smile at her.

Because maybe, just maybe, an hour ago, she walked away from that child’s door. And maybe, just maybe, for the cost of a smile, you gave her the strength to do it again.

Just like that, you’re a thread in the rope. Now we’re helping children.


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  1. 2

    Carla says

    Oh Stacey, I want to hug you. This is such a scary story to share. Your heart is so tender and full of love. Your oldest was lucky to be in your care, with someone wise enough to stand on the other side of that door instead of walking in. I can’t imagine the emotions your family has endured. Much love and strength to you.

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    • 3

      Carolyn says

      Carla, I wholeheartedly agree! Stacey you will stay in my prayers. I tried to picture myself in your place while I read and felt just torture and heartbreak… And I was so blessed and blown away with how this was resolved. Thank you for sharing this.

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  2. 4

    Dawn says

    This hits close to home for me. Although ours is now a 14 year old and she is currently a run away. We have tried everything, even having her committed for 5 months last year, and still there is nothing no one can/will do to help us.

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  3. 6

    Sili says

    Tears in my eyes. Thank you for sharing this and for the comment about not judging parents because we have no idea what just happened.

    A smile can go a long way, can’t it?

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  4. 9

    Janel says

    Wow, this was an amazing read. Kudos to you for being brave enough to write this. I can 100% identify with your description of the rage you can feel towards your children when you’re at the end of your rope. Thanks so much for sharing your experience.

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  5. 10

    Lori says

    Wow. God bless you. I’d like to think I would throw you a rope because, God knows, I need one myself these days. Thank you for sharing your story.

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  6. 12

    Lexi Sweatpants says

    I ache so much for you and for the trauma you’ve been through, too. I could not imagine being in a position to have to make such an impossible choice.

    My middle son is autistic and has rage issues. I’ve had brushes with the thoughts of him hurting his little sister who is incapable of protecting herself. Until I felt even a tiny bit of that, I had no understanding of what parents like you have gone through.

    This was haunting to read but entirely necessary. Too many mothers, myself included, judge other mothers for things they have no understanding of. Too many mothers blame, judge and condemn who have never been faced with such a reality.

    beautifully written and so powerful. Thank you for sharing.

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  7. 13

    Wendy Cuell says

    Thank you for this post as I know the feeling… my step-son and my daughter. I’ve surprised myself on how instinctively protective and scary I can be when it come to my children, even if I have to protect her from her older 1/2 brother.
    I’ve felt ashamed for the feelings and rage I have encountered from a child and it has scared me. How can I be a good mom when full of rage because of one. 1) it’s not his fault for how he’s turned out and 2) he knows right from wrong…
    My step-son lives with his mom in another province and I’ve had to instruct my husband he has to go and visit his son instead of his son visiting us because I don’t know how to deal with not trusting him when he’s with us. He’s 9, my daughters are 4 and 2.

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  8. 14

    Heather O. says

    Beautiful. I am the parent of a child just like you describe. I have been the parent leaning on the door, more times than I care to think about. I thank you very much for your touching honesty.

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  9. 15

    Kristin says

    Thank you for sharing. After a morning of trying to hold it together and trying to walk away from the screaming, throwing things, and the “I hate you,” lingering in my mind….. you just gave me that playground smile that lets me know I’m not alone.

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  10. 17

    anna whiston-donaldson says

    Every time I read this, I get chills. Thank you for reminding us how we can help each other instead of hurting each other as moms.

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  11. 18

    debi9kids says

    I know how difficult this must’ve been to write.
    I have an adopted daughter with RAD and we have literally struggled for YEARS to get beyond her lies, manipulation, stealing, hatred, etc and much to the detriment of our entire family.

    It has caused me to struggle with depression and feeling like a complete failure as a parent and I admit, there are MANY days that I wish I had listened to her therapists when she was a little girl who told us to “give her up and let her go to a family with no other children”.
    But I thought our love would be enough.

    18 years later and it isn’t :(

    She is moving out when she graduates and it hurts.
    Her feelings are that it will be better anywhere but here and she isn’t even sort-of attached to us, not even sort-of sorry to leave and my heart… broken.

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    • 19

      Holly says

      So sorry Debi,
      I say from experience that the hurt does not go away, almost two years later and the pain and hurt from losing Tyvonne is still there, some days as fresh as the day he left.
      We are just now learning about the hurt that he caused Brian and the effect that it has had on his life, I feel eternally guilty that I was not more aware and proactive in this situation.
      Love to you, feel free to call/text me even if it is just ot vent.

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      • 20

        debi9kids says

        Thanks Holly.

        And yes, I totally get the “effect” on the other kids. We see it every day in our home.
        To some extent, I am looking forward to the idea of a “normal” home when she moves out and looking forward to everyone getting along, esp considering everyone does except for her.
        (but it also makes me feel very guilty to be looking forward to her leaving)

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  12. 21

    Kristin says

    I’m just sobbing. I have no connection to this other than I am the mother of a 2 year old and I can’t imagine how I would feel to see those marks. Very powerful post.

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  13. 24

    Dawn Murphy says

    That was amazing! I can totally put myself in your place outside his bedroom door.

    You are strong, you are amazing and you are the perfect Mommy. That little boy is so lucky to have you as his mother.

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  14. 25

    Tanya says

    I adopted my son when he was 3 and his biological sister was 18 months. My son had RADS. It was the hardest thing I have every been through. I remember a six month visit from my adoption social worker. She took me aside and said “do you want to keep him.” Even she could not possibly imagine how I could want him. He tried to poke out my eyeballs til I could feel them almost burst, my husband would lie and tell total strangers as he kicked and screamed and bit while we held him that he had autism because it was just an easier answer, he hurt my cats, he would physically destroy any object he knew I valued, he tried to strangle me numerous time when we would cuddle, he would eat til he vomited and then scream for more, and he would have four hour screaming sessions up to 6 times a day. Needless to say, I understand it. We had an amazing amount of support from CAS, with training and therapies. For us it worked out and my son grew to know that love could be safe and love could be for always; but there were moments when my own survival mode would kick in and I often would think it was going to be either him or me, but one of would have to leave. My heart goes out to those who are going through the same and for those who must make that hard desision.

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    • 26

      Tammy Graham says

      I really sympathize with all who go through RAD or any other violent behavioral problems with their children. I am a mom of a child with autism. We went through a rough patch, but it wasn’t that severe and we pulled through (not due to my stellar parenting, just luck of the genetic draw). I saw enough to gain an understanding of those who have a child with tough anger or violence issues. No judgement from me. You did what was best for everyone.

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