GBE Challenge: Judgment

It is the autumn of recovery in our home, and, by recovery, I certainly don't mean that we are all lying on the sofa contemplating the proverbial bombs that have exploded in front of us in recent months. In fact, bombs are still exploding, but my husband and I are digging out of the hole we feel we are in as a result of living in crisis mode for so long.

The crisp autums air has given me clarity, and I'm feeling the need to launch into warrior status, attacking this house and our lives from all angles in order to gain control. I've cleaning, dumping, donating and organizing. I've had it with living within chaos while also dealing with chaos.

And, yes, I realize that life breeds chaos and kids breed mess, but, c'mon, people!

And, as for that little boy who doesn't sleep? We've had it. For nearly ten years we've worked with him. He's gone in and out of cycles with it, and we've tried all that we can to work nicely, and now we are so strung out that our entire existence is fried.

This weekend, as I was hauling things to the curb, garage and to trash cans, I heard the familiar sound of my husband drilling into our son's bedroom door. He was installing a lock.

He did this years ago, when our young child was wandering aimlessly in the middle of the night. He was a danger to himself, and it was heartwrenching for us to make the decision to lock OUR CHILD into his own bedroom.

This was the day that I realized that we operated by different rules than most of society. And, while most other special needs parents have affirmed our parenting methods, well, as parents, my husband and I have found it difficult to retrain our own minds over the years.

"You should have seen the look on his face," my husband said to me when he came downstairs after installing this second batch of locks. "It was as if he was saying, 'Oh, you guys are going to do this again to me?'"

"I'm sure you are reading into it," I tried to assure him. "I bet he was watching your installation for mistakes that he can use against us later."

Despite my words of assurances, I knew exactly what my husband meant. I knew how he felt: what kind of parent would lock up his/her own child? Yes, we understand that we have a severely disabled child who is unsafe and who has a disability that needs shaping. We know that we are right outside the door. HE knows that we are right outside the door. Still, it feels awful. Even we judge ourselves.

I can't say how many times along this path I visit that feeling of judgment.

When we first realized that our son had gastric issues, he was just two years old. We weren't sure exactly the problem, but we were given a plan of action conduct a food elimination in order to see what was upsetting his system. Several gastric procedures later would affirm what these food eliminations told us, but, still, when taking away a tasty food from a toddler, you are bound to judge if this is the right step. When hearing from people around you say that your actions are mean and unfair to that child, sure, you are going to judge your actions as a parent.

Beneath the critical eye of others, my husband and I have learned to just plow forward in the names of our children, but that doesn't mean that we don't ever judge our actions, silently or to each other. It's a difficult burden to bear.

Parents--and I would venture further to say MOTHERS--are incredibly hard on one another, looking at one another through such a critical lens. Is that other person feeding her baby by breast or by bottle? Does she cry-it-out or feed on demand? How quickly is the baby toilet trained? Is she speaking Japanese by three? (lol).

Why do we do this? I hear the criticism in quiet circles all the time. ALL THE TIME.

The truth of the matter is that, while I have found much laughter doing it, it has challenged me. And, it has also broken me. I'm sure not going to spend time picking apart another's parenting when I have enough challenges of my own.

Let me go on record as saying: there is nothing anyone can say about my parenting that I haven't said to myself. Parenting is the most difficult job I have ever encountered. I have judged myself for my efforts probably harder than any of my harshest critics.

But, don't worry, I got over it.

My trick was turning 40. I've come to the decision that with age either comes blissful ignorance, resignation, wisdom or a combination of all three.

When I turned forty, I released it. If at age forty, ten years into parenting with special needs, I wasn't competant enough to make a reasoned decision for my children, I figured worrying wasn't going to help me. And, frankly, I know that I am doing a good job.

The hurdle was learning to live and let live.

I hope that parents who are traveling down the path of special needs behind me take a little less time to learn this lesson than I did.