Last summer my partner and I sat baby-poolside while our boys splashed. Suddenly our then-five-year-old son leapt out of the pool, ran to me, and wrapped his wet arms around my head to pull my ear to his lips.
As water dripped off him and down my back, he whispered, “I think you and Duda belong together.” Surprised and confused, I replied, “What makes you say that, buddy?”
“What your sister believes? I don’t believe that.”
He hugged me quickly before jumping back into the pool. I sat there, a little stunned, blinking back tears, watching him and his little brother play together in the evening light.
Months before, when he complained about not seeing his boy cousins more, I told him that their parents believe that we shouldn’t be together at all or have children. And that’s why we rarely visit with them.
I didn’t expect this information to still be tumbling around in his little head or that his polished response would pop out months later, almost exactly fifteen years after the hot, awful night I came out to my big sister and lost her, probably forever.
In that moment at the pool with my son, I felt a lot of things. But mostly I felt relief and triumph. I had done it. Together with my partner, I had made these two little humans and this family and it was the complete opposite of the horror my sister imagined it would be.
No Cracks in the Facade
Three and five for our boys were magical ages. Sure, there were the usual tantrums and bedtime dramas, but mostly life was good. Yet if you could have somehow rewound five years of our family life and watched them over, not the parts broadcast on Facebook, but the behind-the-scenes, real-life footage, you would have seen a lot of heartache borne alone.
There was the first year of our first son’s life when I barely slept because he barely did, the marriage problems that came with new parenthood—made worse by the lack of sleep, the extreme anxiety that came with all of that, and then (after couple’s counseling and weaning and finally sleep) a peaceful lull that spurred us to do it all over again, followed swiftly by the shock of a long-distance move, a new town with a baby and a toddler but no friends, and my collapse into a full-blown panic disorder. And then a putting-back-together, a soldiering on, and a warming to that day at the pool.
Most parents feel pressure to present a happy, I’ve-got-this facade to the world. We don’t want to be judged. We don’t want our kids to be labeled. Now add to that the ever-present noise of politicians and faith leaders and other talking heads ranting that people like you aren’t even capable of raising healthy children. Imagine your big sister, the one you played house with and idolized your entire childhood—your first friend—standing with them. Imagine the anxiety of each new school year compounded by the worry over whether your sons’ new teachers will be “comfortable” with your family. Imagine your marriage rights (AKA family protection laws) being repeatedly voted on by fellow citizens. Imagine the Supreme fucking Court weighing in over and over again.
Any crack in your happy-family facade feels like a win for the other side.
“What your sister believes? I don’t believe that.”
Everything was going to be okay.
When All Falls Down
Months passed. Our older son started kindergarten. He became sullen. His tantrums got bigger, and louder, and stunningly, violent. We talked to his teacher. She was puzzled. He behaved well in school and seemed to enjoy it.
The tantrums at home got worse and more frequent until every day he was turning over furniture and screaming about how he hated me and what a bad mother I was—and not just for a few minutes but for an hour or more each time.
I stayed positive and googled relentlessly into the night for answers. Was it school? A natural boy stage? B12 deficiency? Food dye allergy? Sleep deficit? I tried ignoring his rampages. I tried holding him in place. I tried other things. I tried. And I tried. Day after day I tried until I was literally balled up on the couch in tears while this little kid stood there berating me, unmoved. It was surreal.
I was hurt and I was confused. But mostly I was terrified that I had failed my child. This is the sort of thing you want to call your big sister about—the one who has four older children and probably would know what to do. Except you can’t. Ever.
The thing is, I’ve never for one second worried that my big sister is right about me or my family. But as my sons grew, I began hoping they would help her see me again instead of “my sin,” that I’m a good mom with thriving children, and that my little family is just as worthy and beautiful as hers… and that maybe she might come back to me as a result.
Of course that’s not fair to my kids. Of course it puts more pressure on me to keep up appearances. Of course it was bound to end badly.
the power of positive phone numbers
After one more terrible child explosion/total parent response fail, I reached out to an online group that I knew no one intimately in, looking for resources or articles or advice on when to seek professional help for angry kids. What I got was solidarity and support and phone numbers.
Phone numbers! From complete strangers on the Internet! And I called them! And these conversations gave me comfort and the courage to open up to people in my life.
I set up a small, private Facebook group and I let it all out to some mom friends of similar-aged or older children. Initially I worried that they would judge or just ignore me and my weird cry for help. Instead they stepped up to reply, often within minutes, every time I posted a meltdown report or progress update. Their quick, supportive feedback had an incredible buoying effect on me.
I also called child psychologists and asked them whether or not they were supportive of LGBT parents before I made any appointments. The last thing I needed was to pay to hear that our family problems were the result of a lack of dad energy. Lucky for me, all three I asked said yes. But it’s a humiliating hurdle to have to leap—especially when you’re already feeling so low.
Six months after the initial descent of our home life, it’s summer again. The therapist’s advice for managing our big, sensitive boy helped immensely. So did my renewed commitment to regular, anxiety-busting exercise. Our son still freaks out sometimes but the frequency, duration, and intensity of his outbursts are back to what we know as normal for him.
Filling the cracks
I asked him recently why he thinks he’s staying calmer now. He says it’s because he’s six and six-year-olds are like that. He might be right. Turns out, five and a half to six is a notoriously rough age. Of course there will be other bad days and months and maybe even years ahead. This world can overwhelm any of us.
I should know.
But when I finally threw off that suffocating happy-family facade and asked for help instead of dragging myself through another crisis alone, I found wise, compassionate women ready to encourage me, laugh with me, and commiserate. That sister-shaped hole in my life is a helluva lot smaller because of them. That’s helping me stay calmer too.
