Perfectionist Rehab

I’m sitting in my favorite recliner in my living room. The one perfectly broken in from countless nights breastfeeding my children. The footrest mechanism is finicky, and often requires some jostling and colorful profanities to function correctly.

 I have a cup of Herbal Cold Care tea from Traditional Medicinals in my favorite teal mug. The mug has “herbal remedy” stamped across the front, and it perfectly fits into my hand. It holds about ten ounces of liquid and slightly tapers towards the base. My husband and I found the mug at a Bed Bath and Beyond close-out sale five years ago. It was an impulse purchase that I certainly didn’t need but quickly became my favorite mug. That justifies the purchase, right?

My Christmas tree is to my right and is fully lit, with rustic ornaments and festive truck ribbons falling off the branches. This was the handiwork of my 20-month-old a couple of weeks ago. I never got around to fixing it, and at this point, I genuinely don’t plan to. My cream cable knit tree skirt is rumpled and unbuttoned.

My three-and-a-half-year-old is crafting paper snowmen with his father in the kitchen. Frozen is playing in the background, and every time we get comfortable, my Siberian husky howls to play in the snow. My orange tabby is asleep in his fuzzy green cactus-shaped cat tree.

Mushroom and sausage lasagna is reheated on the stove, and garlic bread is in the oven. Everyone is settling in for the afternoon after a long, overstimulating, busy day.

The four of us were awake at 5am this morning. To be fair, 5am is our usual start to the day since we have two toddlers. My eldest child has finally realized that Christmas means presents, so I got to witness a new kind of childhood magic this morning.

My little family spent the entire day enjoying each other’s company. We woke up early, opened presents (before my husband and I even remembered to make coffee!). We ate eggs and marzipan stollen for breakfast. We annihilated too many sweets and guzzled several herbal teas. I’d say the tea was because all four of us have head colds, but we all love herbal tea. We tend to drink 2-4 cups each a day (yes, even my youngest!).

We spent the day playing, snuggling, dancing, painting, drawing, reading, napping, and watching movies. Whenever we got bored of one activity, we moved on to the next.

After lunch, I set up a play-tent for my sons in their bedroom. It’s rocket-shaped, and my youngest ADORES anything space themed. To go with it, I procured 500 ball pit balls.

When I first told my best friend about the 500-pack of ball pit balls, she was instantly concerned.

“You do realize the boys are just going to huck those balls at each other, right?”

That was literally the whole reason why I bought them.

 My little family wreaked HAVOC in the boy’s bedroom this afternoon. My husband, two children, and I were whipping these ball pit balls at each other. Laughing, squealing, running, jumping, yelping. The battle raged a solid two hours before we were satisfied. The whole family was drip-sweating, red faced, and grinning,

What. A. Gift.

My exhausted children are now calm and collected, which I expect will only continue until it’s time to brush their teeth. Then, my three-year-old will roar at me like a tiny dinosaur, and my 20-month-old will transform into the Tasmanian Devil, spinning in circles and cackling mischievously while sprinting as far away from me as possible.

Today has been beautiful. Wonderful. Chaotic.

There aren’t enough words in the English language to describe how different by children’s childhoods are from my own. I’m so proud of that. I’m grateful, happy, and deeply grieving.

When my children opened their presents this morning, I was hypervigilant the entire time. Nothing specific happened, but Christmas was never a joyful time in the many houses I grew up in. Keep in mind that I was raised through the foster care system. Some houses chose not to give presents to the foster kids (but had plenty of presents for their own children). I was never a greedy child, but being the only child to not receive a gift in a house filled with them felt intentional.

It reinforced my ‘otherness’. My lack of belonging. My unworthiness.

One year, I received coal in my stocking. It was the only gift I received – I’m a grown woman and I have never forgotten how ashamed I was.

“Only good kids get presents. Good kids don’t go into foster care.”

My final placement was a terrible experience, where I was constantly reminded how burdensome I was. Christmas was always a spectacle – we received gifts, but they were performative. The rest of the day was filled with abuse – physical, mental, and emotional. Even as an adult, I find myself waiting for the screaming to begin every time Christmas comes around.

When you grow up unwanted, it leaves a mark that never completely fades away.  

My youngest was overwhelmed and overstimulated almost immediately this morning, so I unwrapped his gifts for him. I felt like a terrible mother.

“Am I rushing to open these presents just get this over with?”

“Did I buy too many presents?”

“Am I spoiling my children?”

I’m maintaining my cool the best I can, but I’ve been told my expressions always give away how I’m feeling. I begin some breathing exercises to self-regulate, and my eldest comes up to me and puts his hand on my arm.

“Merry Christmas, everyone! This is a wonderful day! Thanks, Mommy, for my presents!’

This is what Christmas is for my boys. Love. Light. Gratitude. Happiness.

My foster family drank themselves until they were incoherent every holiday, and Christmas was no exception. The abuse my brother and I sustained was often the worst around holidays, but especially Christmas. My foster family had to keep up appearances. They needed people to believe they were doting parents, else they would no longer receive their checks from the state. They loved feeling important. They craved praise.

“What wonderful people you are to take in such damaged kids.”

“You’re so good to them – I bet they don’t even know how great they have it!”

“I don’t know why you even bother; it’s not like they’re going to appreciate the gifts. You might as well save yourself the money and get yourself something nice. You deserve it after all those kids put you through.”

 My foster parents often overspent and overextended themselves to pull off this ridiculous facade. The guilt and stress and rage they felt likely is what motivated their yuletide cruelty. I distinctly remember the Christmas when I was 13 years old. I realized that year that I would never experience a loving family unless I made one of my own.

Here I am, sitting next to the sparkling lights on the tree, wishing they’d exorcise the ghosts of my-Christmases past.

I’m ashamed. I am finally part of a loving family, and the wounded parts of my brain constantly remind me of the life I never had. The same old narrative:

“You don’t deserve to be loved.”

I don’t think I ever truly understood the meaning of the word “bittersweet” before I became a mother. Merriam-Webster defines “bittersweet” as pleasure accompanied by suffering or regret. It describes a feeling or experience that is both pleasant and painful, and my matrescence (the physical, emotional, chemical process of becoming a mother) is best described this way.

I recently learned the term “anticipated nostalgia”. This phrase describes the common phenomenon of expecting to feel nostalgic about the current moment at an unspecified time in the future. It’s the keen awareness that one day you will look back on this moment with fondness, longing, and perhaps even loss. Studies even suggest that anticipated nostalgia can enhance enjoyment of the present – it can encourage us to be engaged in the moment and really soak it all in. I experienced this heavily with both of my boys – and I still do. I’ve often been brought to tears by the depth of gratitude and grief rolling through me.

I’m also deeply grieving the loss of my own childhood. I didn’t get to be a child. I wished my formative years away. I have never known the warmth of a mother’s love.

I’ll be damned if my children ever know such pain.

Because I was raised to understand that I was a burden.

Unwanted. Unloved. Wrong.

I’m constantly speaking affirmations over my boys. I hug them whenever they want. I respond to every cry. I bend myself backwards to support them, in the hopes that they grow up knowing that they are the greatest blessing I’ve ever received. I heal for them. I laugh with them. I play with them. I take interest in even the smallest things, because the small things are the biggest things when you are small.

“I’ve always wanted you, and I’m so glad that you’re here.”

“You are my greatest wish come true. I’m so lucky – not everyone gets their wishes”.

“I love being your mother.”

“You boys are the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“You are safe. You are loved. You are cherished. You are adored. You are wanted. You are mine, and I am yours.”

“We’re a team, you and me. We’ll figure this out together.”

“I’m sorry.”

“There is nothing you could ever do that would make me love you any less.”

“Let’s breathe together and try again.”