stand by me.

Has it really been ten years?

Ten years since the take-away that led us right into the mess we were hoping to avoid?

How didn't I see that the observation came with a judgement? For SOOO long, I carried these words like scripture... "they realize that this behavior isn't doing anything for them and they change"... 

But you can't know what you can't know until you see for yourself.

Only a few weeks ago I said to Matt, "I think that what really happens is that they grow up and get out of the homes where they were scared all of the time and they start to feel safe so they can finally heal and change."

I guess that thought needs a little background.

The shortest way to say what I'm trying to say is "felt-safety." Because some children don't feel safe even when the adults know they are safe. These bodies swim and sizzle with excitatory neurotransmitters, simmering in a bath of distress, as if they're in the front lines of a war. Always. And they've been scared so long that they don't know they are even scared any more. 

My sweet boy, you would have if you could have.

I'm sorry I was so wrong for so long, even eight of those ten precious years that passed.

You see, I thought you had to earn my trust. But those were MY trust issues, not yours. You were a baby, my darling. Babies can be trusted to be babies. They learn and try things, that's all. Their mistakes are never anything personal, they are just about figuring-out. 

What makes parents so backwards in belief? Because it was MY job to earn your trust, dear one. I should have been your safe space all of these years. 

I didn't realize the word "no" hurt you like a bullet. I didn't comprehend that when I took away your toys it was only more evidence that you were alone like you'd thought since before you really thought about anything. I didn't really see how unsafe you felt in your own bed at night, though it was plain as day. 

I'm sorry I dismissed you when you needed me and hovered when you didn't. That's another word I'm glad I finally learned, "attunement."

Earlier today we were riding in the car, on our way back from the Y, and you started singing the bass line of a familiar song. I joined with the melody, oh, so gently. And you didn't stop singing. So I got a little louder. And I can hardly believe that we're actually starting over the way we should have gone all along.