I worry.

I worry one day Middle will tell someone the bruises came from me.

I worry that she will tell someone that the bruises came from me and they will take my children away.

I worry that all the time and energy I've spent trying to help her and her brothers will be for nothing.

I worry that someone WILL actually hurt my babies and I will not be able to do anything.

I worry that Middle and Little will be institutionalized because I missed some vital clue that I could have seen if I had just been present instead of at work.

I worry that I will have a position forced upon me at work that will rob me of more time from them.

I worry that there will never be enough time to undo the harm that was done to them before I was able to use my voice.

I worry that the 36 hours they're not in my home every two weeks, that they are putting words in their mouths and giving wings to false accusations.

I worry that no amount of sugar coating and biting my tongue will save me from the snakes lying wait.

I worry like I'm getting paid to do so.

***

We went to Callaway Gardens tonight. I'm sure it was beautiful, but instead I was too busy sobbing silently in the dark of my mother's SUV to notice the scenery surrounding us. In my 38 years on this earth, 34 of which was spent here in South Atlanta, I had never been to the Christmas Lights show at the Garden. Nor do I think I've ever actually BEEN to Callaway Gardens.

The drive there was uneventful until Little threw up everything he ate for dinner after we hit a few curvy back roads. Being that we hadn't been on a long drive in a minute with him, I didn't think to pack extra clothes. Why would I ever be prepared? We had to buy some emergency clothes at a Dollar General in the middle of nowhere so he wouldn't have to wear vomit covered clothes or be naked the res of the evening. This meant that my baby came home in women's yoga pants and a hot pink t-shirt. The comic relief is NOT lost on me given how the rest of the evening went.

We were corralled into a congested holding area for 30ish minutes with other running vehicles before entering the site. That's when Middle's brain failed her. There was hair pulling, screaming, hyperventilating, speaking of self harm, actually hitting herself, threatening those around her... for 30 long minutes. Nothing we said would soothe her. Nothing we did would calm the beast that roared within her. All I could do was cry. Until I snapped and wrapped my hand firmly around her knee to try and bring her back. When I pulled my hand away I ended up pinching her flesh above her kneecap and I realized then what I'd done. I'd pinched my child. The way my mom used to pinch us on the soft part of the backs of our arms when we'd act out of line in public. This was not the way my life was supposed to go. This was not the person I wanted to be.

When I finally gave in and called her father (it was either him or emergency services), I had to place him on speaker phone so she would actually listen to him. Hearing him ask her if he knew why she was acting like this and if it had to do with what they'd been talking about was the straw that broke me. A.) she refuses to talk to me unless it's superficial. B.) I can't have her hate me any more than she already does. C.) I absolutely cannot have her one other biological parent use me or my parenting as the reason she acts this way when she only gets this manic within the few days post visitation. It broke me.

There. Are you happy? I could hear your silence when I would try and stifle the sobs. I could hear you stroking her ego and reasoning that her behavior was due to others and not due to her own actions. Are you happy? Do you remember telling them that you would always respect me and have my back? Do you remember telling them that you "always picked good mothers for your children?" I may not be the best mom, but I am HANDS DOWN the best mother to our children. I make mistakes. I own up to them. I love them and yes, I discipline them. Discipline does not mean corporal punishment. Discipline can mean structure, stability, consequences for their actions, cause renders effect... Bad mom's don't feel guilty for pinching their children. Bad mom's don't ask to see if they hurt them and talk to them about WHY they did that and WHY they won't be doing it again and actually NOT doing that again. Because they have to learn that humans make mistakes, and even if their actions aren't forgotten they are recognized as continuously striving to be better and not using "sorry" as a bandaid.

Maybe someday years in the future or even a few days from now I'll think back on what we experienced as "I can't make this shit up" material during this already shitty unforgiving year. Maybe someday my daughter will curl up on my sofa chair and just exist in my presence without any of us walking on eggshells. Maybe one day I will be able to wrap my arms around her without feeling as if I'm handling a bomb.

I just want her to be a good human and know how much she is loved.

I just want her to be happy.