Teach the children to comply,
to learn by rote, to master
the art of performance
encourage them to control
the chatter, their fidgets
behave like little adults
so as adults they may
struggle for authenticity
confuse society with audience
forgo instincts for crowd
pleasing responses – wonder
at the innocence of children.
Child of mine,
what rage is this
that sets you against
a younger brother?
What discontent stirs
so deeply within that
you would lash out
at me, your mother?
Let us sit a moment,
and let me, with tenderness
listen, for your anger masks
pain, and I am not so far
removed from childhood
to recognize that tone.
If I have wronged you,
speak, I need to hear it;
if peers are pressuring,
or bullying, or you feel
betrayed, lay it here
in my hands, and I will
comfort you, and offer
what wisdom I have.
Your well-being is sacred
to me; let me hold you –
you’re not too old; linger
here in my embrace until
the tears come, and the storm
passes; I will hear your fears,
frustrations, and disappointments,
and together we will figure it out.
Child of mine,
I am here for you,
no matter the reason,
your pain is my pain,
talk to me; I am listening.
(Image: confessionsofanadoptiveparent.com)
Favourite colour?
Black, says she
without hesitation;
I falter, stumble
mind reaching –
who likes black?
Is that a colour?
It’s all colours,
she’s nonchalant
intent on task –
carefully keeping
within the lines
Of course it is,
ill equipped am I
to disagree, images
of dark somber
corners, sorrow
and death crows –
Why black? ask I –
composure forced –
had anticipated pink
equate childhood
with primary shades
splotches of yellow
and rainbow skies
candy red apples
on lollipop trees
but black? no –
black obliterates,
negates, destroys
It holds the colour
inside, she explains;
It’s the outline.
Not annihilation –
order; her mind
conceives of order
so much to learn
from innocence
have long forgotten
the art of staying,
within lines, finding
good in all things.
(Image: www.siparent.com)
eyes wide with wonderment
fix on me, beseeching attention
rosebud lips part in genuine glee
when my coveted gaze meets hers
she tilts her peach fuzz head and
with a shrug of a shoulder expresses
a learned coyness, a treasured cuteness,
softening this old woman’s jaded edges
clumsy, chubby fingers reach, fumble,
eventually grasp their target, instinctively
raised to mouth, pink fleshy tongue
ready to explore – my aged hands
reacting, reflexes set to protect,
shelter inexperience, purity
I am awed by her perfection –
innocence flanked by innate trust
what do I have to teach this precious soul
whose joy of life, untarnished, mocks
my own brand of cynicism, my words
painted with such bias as to destruct
not encourage the fearlessness she displays
eager arms reach for mine, seeking support
unskilled legs desperate to gain a stride
wobble, infantile toes slightly curled
she leads me to the staircase, pridefully
demonstrates how she’s learning to climb
fear fogs my appreciation, having known
the pain of many falls, I reluctantly follow
admire her determination, the patience
it takes to build such dexterity, a resilience
I could learn from, wonder which of us
has more to offer the other, and then
she is done with the exercise, desires to
descend, has no idea how to proceed, and I
happy to oblige, guide her with the proficiency
of someone artful in the act of backing down.
Bring the children to the waters’ edge,
let spirits that dwell there enchant,
sun glistening on star-filled eyes…..
teach the essence of dolphin breathing,
the presence of manna, how to question
roots and behold miracles of fish that fly
and colours that shimmer below the surface,
and sons that walk on water – there are stories
to be told by tides, whose rhythmic waves
follow a primal chant; the ocean’s whispers
reminders that survival is a game for the living
and that in death all return to its vast depths.
(Image: www.shallowwaterexpeditions.com)
Motoring through duality,
straining, in the middle –
socialized, yet reticent –
My heart is overflowing,
like an unwatched sink
falling apart, too much
Driving, the past’s rain
blurring any joy; feel
dirty, taut, losing control
Harm vanishes, comes
back around; hosting
good intentions, rank;
Progression entirely
defined by vulnerability
smothering celebration
Towed along by sweetness
of children, dining on their
innocence banishes despair.
Baby Whisperer, they call me –
some definitions we just slide
into, naturally; discovered mine
at the age of nine, when my sister,
a child herself, gave birth and I,
the babysitter, was also born.
Ran a school that summer –
charged a quarter a week to
neighbouring parents, promised
to prepare their children for the
year ahead, turned my knack
into an entrepreneurship.
Uprooted at eleven to a highrise
full of families, filled my calendar
with other’s people’s offspring –
was in demand – while other teens
partied and rebelled, my wallet
bulged with babysitter’s cash.
Projected success into future
plans, told the guidance counsellor
I wanted to get my ECE – work in
day care – she scoffed, said I was
too smart, should be a psychiatrist
the world needs shrinks, not nannies.
So I signed up for psychology and
sociology – did not find myself, quit,
married a man – really just a child –
felt I’d found myself in the role of
wife, ignored the fact that I had
only replaced his mother – grew tired,
ran into the arms of another, racing
to have children of his own – knew
how to do children – returned to school,
studied Children’s literature, psychology,
set my sights on being a teacher – but
it all fell apart; alone raising three.
Married again, finding comfort in the
mothering role, became a teacher –
replaced offspring with classrooms;
certain I was fulfilling a calling, until
illness swept it all away, confined me
to a bed, homebound, erased purpose.
But wait; the story doesn’t end there –
because now I’m a grandmother – my
babies have babies – and even from my
invalid bed, I can care for the wee –
the Baby Whisperer still has the touch –
purpose reignited with each new life.
Younger women than I
are giving birth, unaware
of indifference; joyous
expectancy blotting out
smells of disinfectant,
and decay – I am invisible
to them, my daughters.
Babies they are, bringing
forth life, unripened souls,
hopeful, ignorant, unaware
that I know what violations
have planted the seeds, am
no stranger to the cruelties
of humanity, my sisters.
I may be unknown here,
but neglect is universal –
it’s brutality unremarkable –
am praying for miracles,
while the world spins, lives
losing control, and all I can
do is stand witness, Mother.
(Photo credit: Huffington Post)
This place is both school and residence,
where I have come to live and work –
‘Live’ is a stretch – these old walls hold
secrets, tension dissuading recreation.
The work is meant to be education, but
survival seems to be what we are learning,
the students and I, shivering in the isolation
of this cold setting – fields of rolling green
within our view torment us – the open air
as inaccessible as the homes we long for.
Inside, the heat is stifling and the constant
clatter of keys and rustle of gowns, starched
and unforgiving, remind us of the permanency
of our stay – perhaps, I am just too young,
too fresh to be a teacher here – have visited
this place before in the dream time, known
it’s horrors, am all too awake now, certain
that the hidden places exist, that evil lives
within these walls, is watching us, waiting –
have seen movement behind shutters, where
none was warranted, heard breathing at the
grates in the baseboard, am skin-crawling
paranoid, everywhere eyes, ears, but no voices.
All too afraid to speak – two children are missing.
The authorities have investigated; say the girl
ran off with some fellow, and that the boy went
home, but I know this not true – runners are brought
back and punished into submissions, and home is
not an option – something sinister is at work – my
heart aches. She was such a bright child, optimistic,
despite oppression, a light in our days, I cannot imagine
where she would have run to other than her own demise,
uncharacteristic really. And he, tall and strong – a silent
oak among us, gentle and peaceful – he endured much;
why is he suddenly gone? I cannot stand by, and let this
happen, must investigate – will myself to pry the grate
loose, peer beyond into the murky space below – spy
concrete, a warehouse like cellar – a single light bulb
burning in a corner, interrogation style. I shudder, am
compelled to learn more, search for an entrance,
encounter locked doors, my paranoia peaking – there
is movement – a man emerging from the horrid depths
an authority figure; I sigh with relief – I am not alone
in my suspicions – those in charge are on the case.
(photo from globalnews.ca)
My first impression of Sherry was “Stepford Wife”. A tall, thin, blonde, Sherry appeared to be the perfect wife and mother. The stones in her garden coordinated with the ruffled awning above her front door, and accented her meticulously manicured lawn and flower bed. Inside was no different: her floors shone spotlessly, despite the presence of three children; and a smell of fresh baking wafted through the air. Even though my visit was impromptu, Sherry was dressed stylishly in a crisp white blouse, and form-fitting skirt, complete with heels, and suitable accessories. I was immediately intimidated.
My next visit to her home, this time invited, revealed much the same.
Sherry’s husband, Rob, was equally as impressive. Also tall and thin, Rob was a quiet intellectual, who stayed fit by running marathons, and coaching his boys’ soccer teams. He seemed to take his wife’s efficiencies into stride, and like her, was unruffled by his rambunctious young family.
Sherry and Rob soon became part of a social circle: a group of ten couples that met once a month for dinners, cards, and sometimes, social outings. They fit right in. Once a year, we would all gather with our children for a large barbeque and fireworks. Life was good.
Then, one day, I got a phone call from a mutual friend. “Sherry is in a bad way,” she said. “Can you help?”
I knew something was wrong the minute I stepped in the door by the state of disarray in the house. Sherry’s six-year-old daughter let me in. She appeared frightened and withdrawn.
“Where’s your Mom, Sweetheart?”
She led me through the house to the kitchen, where Sherry sat crumpled in a chair, head down on the table, hair matted, and smudges of makeup streaking her face.
“Sherry?”
“He left me.” She didn’t even look up. Her voice, flat and lifeless, spoke volumes.
I spotted her two boys in the adjacent room, watching television. I could see them glancing our way anxiously. Please help! their eyes pleaded.
I reached for the kettle. “Have you eaten yet today?” Telltale signs of kids preparing their own food and abandoning the dishes suggested she hadn’t.
Sherry was slow to respond. “What?……um….I’m not hungry.”
I made her tea and toast and put it before her, and encouraged the children to go out and play. Relieved, they complied. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“He left me for another woman.”
I was stunned. “Honey, try to eat something, and let me help you.”
She sat up, staring at the offering before her with complete disinterest. She pushed the plate away, and cradling the cup, took one tiny sip, then pushed that away too. Her normally thin frame appeared gaunt.
“Back up,” I suggested. “Tell me what happened.”
Rob had had an affair three years earlier with a woman from work. When Sherry found out about it, Rob ended the affair and he and Sherry entered marriage counselling. She had tried really hard to be the perfect wife and mother, so that he would love her again, and thought everything was going well, but out of the blue, he left. He was now living with his mistress.
Sherry’s heartbreak was so intense, it threatened her life. Within weeks she was hospitalized because of severe malnutrition.
It was hard not to sympathize with her situation and write Rob off as a total jerk, but as always, there is another side to every story.
“I reached the end of my rope,” Rob explained. I love my wife, and I adore my children, but living in a constant state of perfection is exhausting. Sherry has to be the best at everything, have the best house, wear the best clothes, everything is about impressing others. There is nothing genuine about her, about us. She is incapable of authenticity. I tried to stay for the children’s sake, but I just couldn’t do it anymore. I am dying inside.”
“So you left for another woman.” I couldn’t keep the edge out of my voice. I am, after all, a woman.
“If you met her, you would understand. She’s so real! “
I wanted to understand. I wanted to know what would drive one person to put his/ her family through so much pain.
“When two people divorce,” a colleague told me, “there are always three truths: his, hers, and a truth that lies beyond their stories.”
I tried to stay impartial, but supportive, and as I did, I began to realize the wisdom in my colleague’s words. Once released from the hospital, Sherry became a woman obsessed. She stalked her husband and his new lover, both at their home, and their places of work. She was determined to get Rob back, and refused to see the folly of her actions.
On his part, Rob became more and more enraged, and retaliated with acts of violence against Sherry.
The scene was escalating out of control, until Rob’s therapist broke the pledge of confidentiality and advised Sherry her life was in danger if she didn’t back off.
Sherry did eventually let go of Rob, but only to rush head long into a tempestuous affair, with no regard for her children. Rob withdrew from his former life, avoiding his friends, and maintaining minimal contact with his children.
Who was right, and who was wrong in this tale? Like many conflicts, there are too many grey areas to tell for certain. Both his and her story made compelling arguments, but the real truth laid somewhere beyond all our comprehension.
One thing was certain, though: the real victims here were the children.
One Woman's Quest 