Get It? (Part I)

I still remember the way she looked at me at the preschool parent meeting. She'd been gushing for fifteen or twenty minutes, "he's so smart, he's so helpful, he just loves to sit with me." I listened, my battered heart shying from the blows. I nodded. It didn't surprise me, exactly. I'd been through this too much to be surprised, but I had hoped a little. I'd allowed myself to hope.

She paused and then gushed, "you must feel so lucky to be his mother."

Shattered bits of my heart hit the floor. I cleared my throat, shifted, I know my eyes were dead. I know I looked like the one with mental issues, but I didn't have the strength. I had no heart left to let this oblivious professional into my pain. I already knew, from the last fifteen minutes, that she wouldn't understand. She would become defensive, as if her inability to see through my son's masterful manipulations was an accusation on my part. A charge to be denied.

Maybe it was.

My face was stone, my words scripted. "We're having a lot of problems at home."
"No! " she gasped, "I don't believe it."

Anger flared within me, behind the blank mask. Really? Are you so naive? You've worked constantly with five-years-olds for twenty years, you claim so much expertise and knowledge. You can't believe it? You can't fathom a child who is clever enough to be cooperative at school, where you pass out M&Ms for good behavior, and difficult at home? You can't understand that bonding with a mother is the hardest relationship for an institutionalized child? Really? You feel the need, now, as I sit in this tiny chair, bleeding on your floor, to act incredulous. To drive in yet another blade.

You're right. It must be me. The mothering is off, clearly. He is flawless.

It was seconds only, but I hated her now, as I knew I would.

"It's quite common in institutionalized children," I intoned, "to function well in this type of environment. He's not bonding to you, he just understands the rules here. He feels in control. In a family situation, he's very threatened. Anyway, it doesn't matter, we are having a very hard time with his behavior. It's difficult for some people to understand how hard he is to handle at home."

Stop. Stop, Stacey. You're defending. Just facts.

"I don't think he's going to stay with us."

She looked at me like I was contagious and babbled fussily for long moments.

I could not keep the dislike off of my face now. "I'm going to need all his school work, his letter notebook, whatever you have."

She bustled away and I could breathe.

The other teacher, the quiet one, leaned forward and put her hand gently on my knee. "I know," she said simply. "My stepson. He went through a lot before I married his Dad. He's always targeted me for his anger. From age four. I know."

My gratefulness burned my throat. Cindi returned. She handed me a notebook. "He's one of the smartest children I've ever taught."

I nodded. "We'll probably need an evaluation from you in the next month, for the placement agency. Just his work level, his relationship with the other kids. That kind of thing."

"Of course," she pressed forward, "there's a great family I know right here. I think they might be interested. I could talk to them."

I stood, fleeing before I cried, or hit her. "Mmmmmm. No, thank you. We're working with a therapist and a placement agency."

Outside in the cold, I gasped for breath. She followed me out, the other woman, I don't remember her name. She stood there thoughtful and comfortable. "If you ever need to talk," she told me, "I've been through it."

"Thank you." It was all I could say and I hope she knew that. I thought she understood that if I spoke again, I would sob on her shoulder and never, ever stop.

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Of all the steps in the placement process, all the interviews, the professionals, the evaluations, her stupid preschool write up still cuts.

I think it was the tone, the professionalism mixed with obtuse failure to comprehend the situation. Smug expertise that completely missed the issues, the humanity of our entire family, the struggle, the bone-jarring pain. We faced worse judgment, from friends and family, more obstinate refusals to understand the situation as we gave up our son, but they were, at least, uninformed.

Her oblivious expertise still rankles.

"A delightful child," she wrote amid many other accolades. And he was, at times, he still is, I'm sure. "X is always a little distant and withdrawn when he arrives at our door, but after a while, he relaxes and enjoys our program. We had absolutely no problems with X."

She might as well have written what she meant: "Not us! He's just fine here! Must be the parents." No one was looking for a scapegoat, Matt and I had already accepted whatever blame there was to accept, but she was determined to avoid it anyway.

It takes determination to fail to get it so colossally.