Mid-CenturyModernMoms

Two different stories, one hurting kid

I attend a support group for parents of 'difficult' adolescents. Which isn't really what it is at all, incidentally. All of the parents who attend this group have kids with some type of mental or emotional disorder. We have depressed kids, suicidal kids, bipolar kids, kids with rare genetic disorders, kids who just don't fit any mold. The thing all these kids have in common is that they've been hospitalized, many multiple times, because they were either a danger to themselves or a danger to others. Oh, and they all have parents who are tearing their hair out in frustration trying to figure out just what to do.

We're a fairly tight knit group of moms. We not only support each other in our quest to find the best care for each of our respective kids, we attend each other's school meetings, visits to special programs, and just to hang out and give each other hugs. In the short time I've been part of this group, I've made a good friend, and I've gotten a lot of great advice. It's really a fabulous support group.

So what's the but?

Today, for the first time, we had a dad come to our meeting. It wasn't a big deal that he was male, as we're all grown ups. He is a single dad and he introduced us to his daughter (figuratively) who is a hurting buckaroo for a variety of reasons. We all encouraged him to take certain types of actions, we listened to his story, we were more than supportive to him, we didn't scare him off, and he promised to return.

And the problem is?

Oy! Privacy. My favorite issue. His daughter and my son were in a program together. A program that encourages the kids to share their issues with the small group. What my son knows of this girl is not essentially what the father reported to our group. This makes me VERY uncomfortable. Because I know things about her that her father doesn't, from the things my son reported. But it gets even more uncomfortable. While my son was in this program, another friend of his who we'll call Dirty (because he is) was also at the program. Dirty and my son have known each other for years. Dirty and this man's daughter evidentially had it in for each other, and when Dirty came over during this time, he talked a lot about this particular girl. Now, I had no clue I'd EVER meet this girl's parent. They live hours away from us. Who would have thunk it? But damn... the girl who was a big topic of conversation in our house for weeks is this guy's daughter. Doesn't that suck?

I know I need to keep my mouth shut. I'm not completely idiotic. But I feel incredibly uncomfortable knowing some things that her father SHOULD know, but apparently doesn't. His daughter is in a lot of emotional pain for reasons totally unknown to him. But not to me. And if that doesn't bite, I don't know what does.

That's one of the problems with your kids being in programs. So much is shared, some of it the truth, some of it false, but a lot of it just plain painful. They're encouraged to get their pain out their, to acknowledge it and then move on. The groups help these kids to learn coping mechanisms, to recognize where their behavior comes from, and to be able to grow from their problems. Those are all good things. But the problem is that the kids gossip both amongst themselves, and they often come home and bitch about the other kids in the program. Which is exactly what happened here. My kid and Dirty weren't outing this girl. They were talking about how tough she was to deal with, and during those discussions, personal things were revealed.

So, here I am, brimming with information I wish I didn't have and not knowing what to do with it. Any advice?

Who’s the Rebel Now?

by Laura Benedict

Just now—no lie—Pomegranate came in to say that she knows that just because she doesn’t do drugs or have sex doesn’t mean she’s a good person. Also that it scares her a little because God gives her pretty much everything she asks for now, and does it mean her life is going to suck later, or will she suddenly die in a tsunami or something.

Our discussion veered well into the religious and philosophical, so I won’t delve into it here. But I will say that she is a good person. She’s nice without being sappy or condescending; she’s one of those kids who doesn’t just hang with one group of friends, but floats. She works very hard for her grades and the solos she gets in choir performances. She’s almost always kind to her unpredictable, emotion-driven little brother. And she’s occasionally grateful for what she has.

How in the hell did this happen? Where did this angel-child come from?

Oh, I have my exasperated moments: When she says, “Why do you hate me?” after realizing that I’m not going to change the whole family’s travel plans so that she can go to a party. Or when her father replaces the five gajillion gigabyte video Ipod he bought her “just because” with a refurbished one because she carelessly lost the one he gave her. Or when she asks me if she can pretty-please drive on her own to meet her boyfriend a mere three days after we revoked her driving privileges for an undetermined amount of time—and you would’ve done the same if you had seen her pull out in front of a school bus, nearly killing herself and her little brother because she hadn’t bothered to wipe off the passenger window. Or when she hurt my feelings last week, making me want to cry.  But, I digress….

Sometimes I get a little suspicious of the goodness of her in much the same way she is suspicious of the bountiful circumstances of her life. Does that sound ridiculous? I don’t understand how she is the way she is, and I certainly don’t deserve to have such a well-behaved child. It freaks me out.

I’ve probably mentioned this before, but I was a nightmare of a teenager—that girl who was always getting other kids into trouble, that girl that no mother of a son wanted to see show up on her doorstep. Ah, those were the days. I’m so tame now. For a long time I looked back on those years with intense mortification. But I confess that I’m just a smidge proud of that rebel girl who got a job taking clothes at the dry cleaner’s counter at the age of fifteen so she could support her clothes, gasoline, concert ticket, boyfriend, and—not long after—beer and Jack Daniel’s habits. My parents were generous with their car and made sure I had all the necessities and lovely vacations. Plus, they loved me. I was never grateful, though, and I treated them badly.

My father keeps warning me that Pom’s going to go off the rails someday and rebel in some catastrophic way. Presumably it’s in the genes. Maybe she will eventually rebel. But I don’t think it will be in any way that I’ll immediately recognize.

Or maybe Pom missed the gene. Maybe it’s her brother who has inherited the nightmare-teenager gene. I hadn’t thought of that. Damn.