My Selfish Grief

I am grieving a death. Not a physical death, and, as a parent who has lost on unborn child, I certainly don't compare this to the loss of a child. But, to me, it is a death. It's a death of my dream, of my baby girl growing up here, of spending Saturday mornings making pancakes for everybody, of the kids playing and reading and sparring and making memories together.

It's selfish, this grief. It's selfish, because she is in a better place. My parents are giving Emma the patience she needs--deserves--and the space she requires to think through her issues. She's able to take a time out, ponder what she means and what my parents are feeling, and then return to the situation in a better frame of mind. We can't give her that here. I know that, deep in my heart, I know that. She loves her new school, and has opportunities that her school here just couldn't give her. Right now, she is at DISNEY with the band. It's amazing. So, yes, I know, it's better for her there.

It's selfish, this grief. It's selfish, because the Littles are still recovering from what we've done to them, insisting that we could deal with Emma's issues. They still have fits like they've seen her, screaming and demanding and throwing. Not "age appropriate" fits, but the kind that verge on madness, and I know that they are trying out that manipulation, seeing how it feels to them, seeing if they can get what they want. It's selfish, because Becca has been sleeping on our floor for two months, sucking her thumb nearly non-stop, and Ben has had dreams where we leave him behind or send him away. We let them see too much, spent too much time trying to do the impossible, running the hamster wheel of Emma's moods, sacrificing two to save one. Now we have the time, the patience, to send them repeatedly to their rooms when they misbehave, the ability to say, "We don't yell in our house," and the tenderness to hold them when that's what they really crave. I have watched them running and playing, laughing and singing, living out the joy of young childhood, as they should have all along. They deserve this, they need this, they have earned this.

It's selfish, this grief, because our dinners are finally calm. We talk about our days and what we've done, instead of arguing and yelling and slamming doors. It's selfish, because we can take turns reading to the Littles and cleaning the kitchen, without one of us (or both of us) going round and round about who knows what with Emma.

Is this not what I was looking for? Is this not why I called my parents and said, "Okay, we've reached the 'boarding school' point. If you don't want her to go to boarding school, you'll have to take her." Is this not why I packed up all of her stuff, drove her to my parents' house, and left her there?

But driving away was so hard. I felt as though I was leaving part of me behind, and I was. My little girl. The one who used to wrap her skinny arm around my neck. The one who told her stuffed kitty, "It's not eyes, it's just a button. Now, GO TO SLEEP!" The one who wrote, "My mom always says, 'Be quiet, I'm trying to take a nap," in her kindergarten book. The one for whom I watched Pongo and Perdita's Sing Along Songs a thousand times. The one who didn't want a baby brother, then fell in love with him at first sight.

What do I say now, when people say, "Wow, three kids? That must be hard." I feel like a liar. I know they don't want my life story, but what do I say?

How do I make sure that she understands, this is the hardest thing I have ever done in my life? I am both certain it is best and regretful every single minute of every single day. When we have joy in this house, I think, "Why can't she be here for this?" though I know that when she was here, we couldn't have that same joy.

I feel like I have given her away, given up on her, given her the message that she was "too bad" for us to love.

And then, someone says, "She was your adopted one, right?" Yes... It is true, I did not carry her in my belly. But, really people, the buck stops there. Ask Emma, and she'll tell you, "Oh, she's not my birth mom, but that's DEFINITELY my 'REAL' mom." Adoption has nothing to do with this, and I hope she understands that, too. That she could have come from Eric and me, biologically, and we still would have had these troubles. That never, in all our discussions, fights, debates, ponderings, brain-storming sessions about her, never once have we thought about Emma being 'adopted'. We've thought about her being difficult, a giant pain-in-the-ass, stubborn, dramatic... But we've never considered her to be "not ours".

And so people ask, "How's Emma doing?" and I start to cry. She's doing great, really. It's the best thing for her. The Littles are doing well. But, me, well, I just don't know that I'll ever be okay. I just don't know if there will ever be a time that I think, "Yup, good decision. Good move, Mom, good move." I just want to hold her and kiss her and make it better. I just want it to be okay... here. It's selfish, this grief, I know. Because she's not sick and she's not dead and she's not gone-gone. She's just... gone. And I want her here. I want it all okay, good, happy, wonderful. But, here.

I miss you, Pook.