Today is Her Birthday. I’m Gonna Have a Meltdown

By: Elizabeth Redhead Kriston

Today’s my first daughters sixteenth birthday. I am verklempt.

I was never one to wish that my girls remain one age forever. I have enjoyed watching them grow and evolve from little bundles of joy who only sleep and eat and whine and fuss to big bundles of joy who only sleep and eat and whine and fuss. It has been truly rewarding.

Each age and stage has its good and bad parts. My least favorite parts were the potty training and the eye roll-door slamming-sassy stage that seems to be lasting a decade. My favorites were the snuggle bug, learning to talk and doing chores stages.  If your kids can’t scrub a toilet and make you a plate of spaghetti, what’s the point of it all?

When I first came to the realization and then acceptance of my infertility, I was scared because I so desperately wanted to be a mother. I was angry because I so desperately wanted to be a mother. I was sad because I so desperately wanted to be a mother.

My dreams came true one Fall day when our adoption case worker phoned me in the middle of the day when I was home ill to announce that I was to be a mother. From the first moment I laid eyes on her photograph, my heart melted and I was deeply in love. I vowed to that pixelated photo on my computer screen that I would be the best mother.

I promised her all kinds of crazy things like I would never get mad at her. I promised I would never yell. I promised that I would be there for every moment and every milestone. Eventually, reality settled-in, and I realized those things were unrealistic promises.

The day I met her for the first time I felt elated but scared. Would she like me? Would I love her, for real? We rode up the old musty court house elevator a few floors and were lead into a drab and dusty conference/interrogation room where I was handed my daughter. We sat for an hour on the stained carpeted floor wondering what goo the felons who had inhabited this room left behind. We gazed at her, held her, talked to her and fell in love with her while we protected her delicate baby flesh from the horrors on that floor.

Walking out of that building without my daughter was the hardest thing I had ever done. Any doubts I had about how much I could love a child I did not give birth to vanished. She was my daughter, as if she had been born to me. I just needed to wait one more week before I could take her home forever.

Over the years, even though I broke many of my promises, I feel I have done my best to raise her to be a strong, independent thinker who is kind and resilient. I raised her to be self-sufficient and savvy. I raised her with lots of love, lots of life experiences and lots of really good food.

Today I am filed with emotion not because she is getting older, but because I must fulfill one of my many early promises. Today I will hand her a beautiful handmade and engraved box that contains her history. It contains the love of not just her dad and me, but of her birth parents. Within that box she will find letters from the four people who love her the most that were written when she was just a newborn baby and promised to her for her Sweet Sixteen.

I worry that she too will be overcome with emotion. Even though I wrote one of those letters, I do not know what it contains. I am certain it is bursting with the love and joy and adoration I have always felt when I look at her. I am certain that she will cherish the contents of that special box. I know she will have many questions answered even if she did not realize she had those questions.

I am so blessed to have my girls and my husband. We have been on quite a journey the last fifteen years and nine months together. I have had many verklempt moments over the years and I look forward to many more over the next eighty or more years.

7 Lists From the Past Put Parenting into Perspective

By Elizabeth Redhead Kriston

Fewer things make me happier than crossing an item off of a To Do list. In fact, I love the act of crossing things off so much that I often add previously unlisted completed chores and mundane tasks, like “brush teeth,” just so I can have a sense of accomplishment that a left to right swipe of my ink pen on the lined paper gives me.

Sometimes I amaze myself at the number of things I can get done in a morning. I do more before 11:00 am than most people do in a week, or so I like to think. I find an odd sense of pride in being busy and productive. I wish I could get the same sense of fulfillment from lounging around in my PJ’s, sipping coffee and reading a magazine. Wait, those things can be put on a list too!

I often wonder where and when my penchant for making lists arose. Was it born out of necessity as an adult I found myself with a never-ending stream of chores and work-related responsibilities? Was it a result of my "mommy brain" and its inability to remember what I ate for breakfast let alone my kids' names? Was it the result of my feeling compelled to track the daily schedules and responsibilities of three other people, not just mine?

I inadvertently answered my question, ending my supposing, when I dug through some memorabilia with the mission of finding a grade school picture. As I sifted through a progression of bad school pictures, old report cards and notes I passed (then inexplicably saved) to my schoolgirl friend that provided boxes for her to check-off indicating how mad she was at another girl (her choices included three boxes: 1. a smiley face, 2.  a frowny face, 3. a crying face), I happened upon an orange spiral note book that was nearly empty aside from a few frayed pages. Oh,and apparently my friend was crying face mad at the other girl, that's really mad!

The notebook's front and back covers were littered with mixed media warnings penned with black magic marker and rubber stamp sayings. The edict read “Don’t Remove Cover Because it’s Strictly Confidential.” The words remove and strictly confidential were authoritatively stamped delivering the strict warnings to those who might dare to peek. To make the point even more obvious, a smattering of strictly confidential stamps were splayed across the entirety of the orange shiny cardboard cover. Clearly, someone with high level clearance made this rule, not just anyone has rubber stamps with such demanding decrees.

Because I knew it was my 12-year-old self who had made the edict, I felt comfortable opening up the book to see what I'd believed to be so secretive. I'm not sure what I expected, but I was fascinate by what I discovered on the few remaining pages. My twelve-year-old self was a list maker too!

These lists revealed so much about who I was in my middle school years. What I learned about myself caused a mix of emotions to stir deep within. My words and my lists made me swell with tears, burst into laughter and ponder about the girl I was and the mom I became.

My youngest daughter is the same age I was when I wrote those lists. Up until that moment, I really felt like I was doing something wrong as a parent. I, like most mom's I know, am riddled with guilt. I second guess my every decision on this precarious path of parenthood. I am constantly finding my faults and rarely patting myself on the back for doing the best I can and maybe even doing it well.

I can't help but blame myself for the things I perceive to be my daughter's weaknesses or her needs. I question my role in her need to be better. Her struggles with reading and spelling I blame on my slacking on working with her more directly with homework. Her weak social skills I attributed to me not helping her reach out and make friends. Her obsession with television I thought could only be from my being too tired to make her entertain herself in more creative ways. Her tenuous relationship with her older sister must be the direct result of me not actively nurturing their relationship. Everything that is not perfect in her life must be because I'm not perfect.

All of those things worried me and caused me to beat myself up. If I was just a better mother she would be a Rhodes Scholar who was the most popular girl in the junior high and read Shakespeare in between her turns at the national spelling bee where she was defending her third straight title as world champion.

The discovery of my six lists made realize that I am my daughter or I was my daughter or my daughter is the me I used to be…. Whatever. We are one in the same twelve-year-old girl.

The good thing is that as troubled as I was at twelve, I grew-up to be a pretty okay person. The lists gave me permission to not be so hard on my mom-self. The uncovering of this historical gem gave me permission to admit that my daughter will get through this stage and evolve into a person who can spell and can make friends and can watch a lot of TV but still navigate real life experiences.

The 6 Lists

1. People I am Mad At: This listed family and friends and utilized a complex rating system to determine the degree of anger I felt toward them. The system was as follows: Check marks = sort of mad; double check marks = real mad or hate; and boxes with X marks = don’t like that much. The people who ranked the highest on my Mad At list were my sister and all the boys in 7th grade. Those damn boys. Mom and dad came in a close second.

2. Books I Like: Forever topped the list as it was Judy Blume’s porn for teens. I listed the “Pisacheo Persriostion” which I am pretty sure is supposed to be the “Pistachio Prescription.” My spelling was achroscus, I mean atrocious.

3. What I Need to Improve How I Look: Many of the items on this list were scratched off so I am assuming I met my high standards by accomplishing them at some point. Things I had yet to achieve included “no mustache, nice haircut and nice tan.” So, my mustache situation is mostly taken care of thanks a light zapping hair removal machine I discovered! I do have to pluck a few strays from time to time, but it’s all good. The nice haircut still eludes me as my hair is become thin, brittle and grey in my old age. The nice tan thing was never hard to come by with my olive skin so now I have leathery skin covered in sunspots…. If only I knew better....sigh. I scratched off some items  like "smaller eyes" and "no buty (beauty) marks" so I must assume I came to terms with my bug eyes and moles.

4. Things I like To Do: This list included "jumping off high things" and fighting with my sister. Currently, I am very afraid of heights and I no longer consider "jumping off of high things" as a fun way to pass the time. So, my feet are firmly planted on the earth. As of today, I am not a fan of fighting with my sister, but I won’t rule it out in the future. I do owe her a few “Indian Burns” (sorry, no PC term exists to describe this old torture technique from the school yards of long ago) and nails dug deep into her arm skin.

5. Things I Don’t Like To Do: “Be board” topped the list. Even then I could not lounge about doing nothing. Clearly, even practicing my spelling words would not help me while away the time. The boredom was too much to bear.. I really did not like being picked on by the 7^th grade boys which explains why they got so many double check marks on my "Mad At" list.

6. People I don’t Like That Much and Why was a revealing list about my relationships with my family. Apparently, a girl named Bridgette really drew my ire for unknown reasons. She stirred the harshest of my sentiments which I will not repeat here. Last I heard, she had a successful career in academia and I do not want my misplaced negativity to impact her future relationships and successes. I will just say, I’m sorry Bridgette. I knew not what I wrote. Of course, those 7^th grade boys did not fare well on this list.

7. T.V. Shows I Like: This extensive list includes nearly every single show aired on television that year. We had five stations including PBS and the local Cleveland station, channel 43. Channel 43 usually aired really bad black and white movies. Oh heck, everything was in black and white back then. Some of my favorites that somehow made the list include Benny Hill, Game Shows (all of them), and “all soaps on channel 3 and General Hospital from channel 5.” I was less of an aficionado and more of a boob tube glutton.

My lists have evolved over the years and usually revolve around things I must do rather than my likes and dislikes. I’m pretty sure if I actually documented my likes and dislikes I would run out of paper.

Finding these lists forced me to remember that I was not a perfect child. It made me face the fact that the things I characterize as needs in my daughter are just normal things that kids go through. We all have our strengths, but societal expectations force us to spend more time emphasizing the weaknesses of our kids rather than celebrating their innocence. We try to push our kids through the stages of development hoping that they will be stellar adults, but in this hastiness we deprive them of the luxury to make mistakes and be imperfect.

It is through the imperfect moments that we all grow and learn. Those moments enable us to be ourselves and understand what we want to improve upon. The individual must decide her own priorities otherwise she becomes inauthentic, and probably unhappy.

My twelve-year-old self was wise. She knew I would need a dose of reality 35 years in the future. So, she tucked those lists away for safe keeping. If I could, I would kiss her mustachioed lips in gratitude.

Junior High Lies Lead to Adult Sized Lessons

By: Elizabeth Redhead Kriston

As a mandated reporter, I didn’t expect to find myself in the role of suspected child abuser. I should have been nervous and worried when I called the guidance counselor that day. I mean my daughter did just divulge that the school counselor asked her to explain why her friends had reported that her parent’s “hold her down and beat her.”

When my daughter first shared this juicy nugget of information that a parent never wants to hear, I cycled through a series of emotions. I felt fear, rage, pride, mirth and curiosity to name a few.

The 5 Emotions

1. My fear emerged from that primal place that opens when parents think that Children and Youth or Child and Family Services is waiting around every corner judging and plotting ways to remove our children from our care and place them in a foster home or an orphanage then lock us up behind steel bars for eternity. I mean who would complete all the forgotten and mundane chores like filling the napkin holder or changing the toothpaste crusted hand towel if I was carted away?  

2. My rage came from the fact that my daughter’s school “friends” have been causing her trouble all year long. She comes home daily in tears due to the stress of lunchtime table talk and what she characterizes as “bullying.” Perhaps these kids just found a new way to torment her and bring me down too.

3. My pride was rooted in the knowledge that she has friends who care enough to keep her safe by reporting what they perceive to be potential safety concerns to trusted adults. I am proud of the school for creating a safe place for kids to report concerns. I am proud that I have established an open and trusting relationship which allows my daughter to feel safe sharing tough information. I am proud that I have restrained my primal urges to hold her down and beat her as she finds new and creative ways to test my ever-thinning patience.

4. My mirth rose from the fact that I find much of what goes on in middle school a bit ridiculous. If I don’t laugh, I’ll cry. So, I choose to laugh as much as possible.

5. My curiosity propelled me to ask questions like “why on God’s green earth would your friends think that I hold you down and beat you?” The same curiosity drove me directly to the phone to dial the number for the school and press the extension number for the sixth-grade guidance counselor in hopes of diffusing the situation by pleading my case.

 "I must accept the fact that I will most likely never know the answer to the most basic questions.

My daughter is not the best story teller. Getting a straight answer is never possible. She takes more side streets and dead ends on her way to explaining every single thing in her life. I must accept the fact that I will most likely never know the answer to the most basic questions.

For example, I will ask her, What did you eat for lunch today? She will say, Well you see… and then proceed to tell me everything that happened before, during and after lunch without revealing what she ate.

This, of course, goes on for over an hour as she takes long pauses before embarking on tangents as each word she says reminds her of something else that she needs to tell me. My job is to keep her on track which usually requires fervent directives like, “Makena! Stay focused!” or “Makena, stop!” over and over until I finally forget what we were actually talking about.

"My prodding her for more information revealed a story that was bit more elaborate and much more disturbing.

On this day, her story required further investigation. Though I appreciated the brevity of her story, I felt more detail, as to how or why her friends believed I held her down and beat her, was important, very important.  My prodding her for more information revealed a story that was bit more elaborate and much more disturbing.

She told me that her friends did not say that we beat her, but rather, that we held her down so her older sister could beat her. Ahh, much better…ugh. While this never happened, I guarantee you that her sister has fantasized about doing this.

So, here I was waiting for the beep on the voicemail to leave my semi-panicked message for the school counselor because, of course, she was gone for the day. I too would have raced home at the end of the school day after trying to sort out the brain numbing issues of pubescent, emotionally immature and needy twelve-year olds. God love her.

I had to accept the fact that this drama would not be resolved until morning. After breathing in deeply and counting to ten, I plastered a look that mimicked calm and pleasantness on my face as I attempted to comfort my daughter’s fears that “the police were going to come and take you to jail.”

I must admit that I was listening carefully for the county car the social worker drives to pull into our driveway. I also knew that because I did not actually hold my daughter down and beat her, things would work out fine, or so I hoped.

My daughter spent the night worrying and apologizing. She insisted that she had no idea why her friends would say such a thing. I had a good idea why...she told them that.

My daughter loves to watch television, and she has a creative mind that likes to reimagine dramatic scenes. She acts them out while talking and gesticulating to herself in the mirror. Sometimes, I think her reality and fantasy worlds blur together. She better grow-up to be a rich actor and buy me a gorgeous lake house. She owes me that much.

"She was confident that we were good parents who do not hold their daughter down so her sister can beat her.

The next morning the counselor called. I thanked her for all she does and commended her on surviving a long year dealing with my daughter and her friends and all the drama that they created. My daughter spent many hours talking and crying to this counselor and I was truly grateful that she did not ignore or tire of her intense needs.

We laughed a bit at the dramas of middle school girls. We reflected on how things had evolved or devolved over the year. We danced around the real purpose of the call, did she call the authorities on me. Did she think I was a child abuser?

Not able to avoid it any longer I said, So Makena’s friends told you I beat her. She said, Yes, they did. Pause. Pause. Excruciatingly long pause. She wasn’t revealing her hand.

With a shaky voice and a half laugh, half cry I replied, You know that is not true, right? She responded in her best counselor voice, The fact that she went home and told you what happened and that you are calling today tells me my instinct to not believe the story was correct. I exhaled the breath I was inadvertently holding and took in some much-needed oxygenated air. I no longer felt woozy or faint.

She informed me that she had not called CYS “though she probably should have.” She told me she and Makena had a nice long talk and she determined that the information from the friends was false. She was confident that we were good parents who do not hold their daughter down so her sister can beat her. Yeah!

I work closely with families and have met hundreds over the years. Some are good parents some are scary parents. Most love their kids deeply and irrevocably. All of them make mistakes because parenting is tough, really tough.

Every parent fears that with each misstep some well-meaning neighbor or family member will call the authorities on them. Being a mandated reporter means that I am required to report everything I see that could be abuse. For example, if I see a car drive down the street with a small child not in a car seat, I am supposed to call that in to Childline.

We are living in a world where we are legally as well as morally bound to look after our littlest citizens and keep them safe. While it is uncomfortable, I am happy that we are holding adults, especially those who are charged with caring for children in a variety of capacities, accountable for protecting all kids.

Knowing when or if something is really abuse is not our jobs. Recognizing the common signs of abuse and alerting those whose job it is to investigate abuse is. While I am grateful that our school counselor knew that the stories of preteens are not always truth and therefore she should not react hastily by reporting heresay to the authorities, I would not have been angry if she had felt compelled to make the call.

We must make a lot of tough choices in the world. Just like I tell my girls, you have to trust your gut even if you might be wrong. Protecting ourselves and the children around us is so important. We cannot dwell on the what ifs especially if we are risking the safety, health or well-being of someone smaller and weaker.

How to Report Suspected Child Abuse

• Professionals who are mandated reporters must follow the rules of their county and state.
• Each state has a toll free number that anyone can call. Find your states number here: https://www.childwelfare.gov/organizations/?CWIGFunctionsaction=rols:main.dspList&rolType=Custom&RS_ID=5
• If you are unsure what to do, a crisis hotline will help. Call 1.800.4.A.CHILD (1.800.422.4453).
• A variety of other resources can be found at https://www.childwelfare.gov/aboutus/find-help/

Though nobody holds down my daughter and beats her in our house, this event provided us with an opportunity to talk about being brave and speaking up to protect those around us. It allowed us to examine hyperbole and how if we are not careful others may misunderstand irony and take our words at face value. If we are not careful, mom just might end up in jail and then who would change the toilet paper rolls?