Stray cats rules our backyard. Billie likes to pretend that they’re hers. The latest cat to grace her presence was surreptitiously dubbed “Locke Nemmernon Carrot Robot.”
Now she’s in the backyard with a stick singing “here kitty, here kitty, here here Locke Nemmernon! Don’t you wanna be my carrot robot?”
I’d apologize to the neighbors but it’s a strict policy of mine not to apologize for awesome.
“I will know how badly I have failed as a parent by how many hours of therapy my kids need.”
Walk It Off
One of my dad’s favorite stories centers around a very young me getting kicked by a horse in the knee and then attempting to walk it off because he told me to.
He thinks it shows my resilience.
Other parents collect stamps or motorcycles. My parents collect stories of stubborn self actualization.
And, don’t get me wrong, it’s an awesome story.
And, even though I still have issues with my knee to this day as a result, I wouldn’t take that lesson (Don’t stand within kicking-distance of an angry horse, dumbass) or the subsequent lessons (perseverance, strength, endurance, etc.) back for all the gold in Equestria.
But, here’s the thing about that incident (and oh- so- many others like it): it became the running theme in my own personal handbook of self-destructive behaviors. The “walk it off” mantra that might as well have been sown onto the Jacoby Family crest, while useful at times, didn’t allot for the nuanced issues that would later enter my life. I took “walk it off” to extreme levels. I prided myself in not needing help or assistance. Ever. Through deaths, traumas, break downs, and other emotionally catastrophic events I refused help in lieu of some false, stubborn sense of mental prowess.
Mind over matter, Heather, I would think. Walk it off.
And it worked. It worked for a long time.
Until it didn’t anymore.
When You Can’t Walk Anymore
I became a shell of myself. I stopped sleeping. There are whole months of my life that I don’t remember. I began to get worried that Billie wouldn’t even recognize her own mother anymore. I needed help. There was too much stuff and I couldn’t wade through it all. Hell, I couldn’t get through any of it. I was stuck. Finally, Doug encouraged me to see a therapist. And I refused. Several times.
I’m fine. I’m being a baby, I told him. I will walk it off.
But there are some things you can’t “walk off.” There are some times that you’re not even aware of your own body let alone your legs.
So… after much deliberation… I went to therapy.
But I Swear I’m Still Strong
My favorite aunt once told me, “I will know how badly I have failed as a parent by how many hours of therapy my kids need.”
My family saw therapy as failure. Hell, it seemed they viewed all outside help as failure. For the same reasons my father never took me to see a doctor after the horse-kicking incident, I was criticized when I told them I had begun to see a therapist.
Was I not strong enough to deal with these issues on my own?
Could I not realize that I was unique and gifted and could get through anything without the help of a medical professional?
Wasn’t I worried they would try to medicate me and take away all my magical individuality?
If I really had all these issues- couldn’t I just talk to them about it? They knew me. They could help. Why take my problems to a complete stranger?
Did I not trust them anymore?
Overcoming my own prejudice against therapy took me years. I was told from a young age that it was the answer of the lazy. The weak. The answer of those who couldn’t figure their own shit out for their damn selves. And, just the act of admitting that I, the strong and resilient product of Jacoby blood, needed outside help was enough to cripple me.
I had failed.
I was the lazy. The weak. The good for nothing.
Letting the Floor Bleed
One morning, after a particularly rough therapy session the day before, I woke up to Billie screaming. It was the horrifying, uninhibited, feral pterodactyl scream that could only indicate she was either a) legitimately hurt or b) she had misplaced her princess shoes (they register the same on the scream- o- meter). Doug was already with her before I could get to her. I could hear him consoling her but her screams persisted. Loud screams. Ear piercing screams.
“HOLY GOD, CHILD. It CANNOT be that bad,” I remember saying. “Walk it off.”
“She can’t, sweetie,” Doug countered.
And that’s when I saw it.
She had sliced the bottom of her foot open.
Her room was littered with all sorts of toys and, hiding under one of her precious stuffed animals was a plastic candle that Santa gave her (look- She’s fascinated with fire. And Santa thought a plastic candle was safer than actual fire. But apparently he was mistaken. Elves shall be fired over the oversight. Trust). When she stepped on the candle, the plastic “flame” part dug into the bottom of her foot and broke her skin.
She literally couldn’t walk it off.
Before this incident, she had never seen herself bleed.
She freaked the fuck out, guys.
They say the first cut is the deepest. That’s not necessarily true. BUT- if you have never been cut before then the first cut is definitely going to feel like a big damn deal.
And Billie had never been cut before.
She had never felt that type of pain.
She didn’t know if it was ever going to end, let alone when. She didn’t know how to process it.
So she screamed.
Holy God, did she scream.
And she cried.
And she bled.
And Daddy held her and told her the story of the Three Little Pigs while mommy stopped the bleeding and got her a bandaid.
And when mommy was done, she calmed down. She took a break. She had me explain everything I had just done to make the bleeding stop. She took it in. She made me repeat myself. Three times. She memorized what to do in case it happened again. She took another breath.
When she had sufficiently calmed down Doug turned to her and said, “Now Billie. Your room is a mess. And you hurt yourself because there was so much stuff on the floor, you couldn’t see where you were going. Had your room been clean- you wouldn’t have cut your foot open. Did you learn your lesson?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
“Which is…?”
She thought about it. Then she responded, “Next time, Daddy, I’m gunna just let the floor bleed.”
Mental Maintenance
“I will know how badly I have failed as a parent by how many hours of therapy my kids need.”
I now know why those words never sat well with me.
I reject the idea that seeking therapy equals failure on the parent’s part.
Sometimes it is, sure. Some parent’s just suck.
But here’s the deal: the world is big. And scary. Sometimes it hurts us in the most obvious ways. And, even more often, we get hurt in disastrously creative ways we could’ve never predicted. Regardless of how it chooses to devour our souls and slowly masticate on our ego until there’s little left than a pulpy, fleshy koosh ball where our heart used to be, it will eventually get to you. And the pain might not be something you’ve ever experienced before and/or you may not know how to handle it.
And that’s okay.
When Billie got hurt she screamed. She cried. Then she she found people who could help her and *gasp* she let them help her. She knew the problem was one she had not experienced before and one that was beyond her depth so she sought help.
And, when all was said and done, she learned from that experience.
In most situations we have two solutions- we can take the hit or we can deflect it elsewhere.
We can slice our foot open or we can let the floor bleed.
But some problems won’t be so easy to fix. Sometimes deflecting isn’t the solution. And taking the hit blows. Sometimes mommy and daddy won’t have the answers handy with her favorite fairy tale and a glass of chocolate milk. Sometimes she’s going to have to be self- reliant enough and strong enough to go outside her comfort zone and seek help. And, while I hope to God it will be a VERY long time before she ever needs to do that, I want to believe that, when she does, I will support her. I will be proud of her.
Because when you’re hurting it’s very easy to hide. It’s easy to cry and pull away and run. The hardest thing you can do is stand up and admit that you’re not as strong as you need to be and that you need some assistance in making that happen.
That doesn’t make you weak.
That doesn’t make you lazy.
That makes you fucking brave.
Period.
End of story.
You’re a badass. You were wounded and battered and bloodied and you slogged yourself over to someone who might be able to assist you. There are not enough words for what a revelation you are.
Walking It Off… Within Reason
And, sure, my parents and I may (to this very day) disagree on the therapy issue. It’s a complex and multi-faceted one that pits self reliance against their theories on westernized medications and the media’s overt stigmatization of mental health issues in general. And that’s fine. Their views don’t make them any less awesome and mine don’t make me weak.
I will say, however; that teaching kids that all therapy is the answer or all therapy is the devil is obviously not what I’m advocating. The answer is empathy. And compassion. And understanding. And knowing that, what is right for one person may not be OK for you and that is fine.
But creating an environment where seeking help is riddled with shame is dangerous. It’s irresponsible. It’s why it took me years to figure out what my four- year- old daughter instinctively knew:
It’s OK to ask for help. Just breathe. Take notes. Then move on stronger and wiser.
Or, if you can, don’t take the hit at all. Just let the floor bleed.
Note to self: “your mom” insults don’t work when directed at your own daughter. Dangit.
FLASHBACK: October 21, 2013
Billie: “My horsey is so cool and I am so cool–“
Sissy: “Hey, cool kid, your shoes are on the wrong feet.”
Billie: *looks down* “Aw, man!!”
Sissy: “I betcha feel real slick now, dontcha?”
Billie: *holds up her hand* “Ok, OK! Who told you you could keep talkin’?”
…we’ve got plenty of sass to go around here, folks
FLASHBACK: April 1, 2013
::Billie Translations::
What she means: “why, thank you mother, I do believe you are a delightful chef.”
What she says, “Mommy, you da best maker!”
What she means: “Greetings, sir or madam, pray tell what are you up to?”
What she says: “Aye, Bay-beh, whatchoo doin’, bay-beh?”
What she means: “I am overwhelmed with excitement.”
What she says, “I got, like, ALL the HAPPIES!”
If we’re being honest I like her take on the English language better…
FLASHBACK: November 23, 2013
I just walked in on Billie desperately cupping the poor dog’s face with both hands while pleading, “tell me. Just tell me! TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT TO BEEE!!!”
When I inquired as to why we were screaming at the dog like some wack job televangelist she replied:
“Jazzie won’t tell me what she wants to do with her life, mommy!! I need to know what she wants to be- I NEED TO KNOW!!”
Um. I didn’t have the mental capacity to explain to her, you know, basic animal biology so instead I just told her that Jazzie wanted to be a Lion and paint rainbows with her mane.
So now Billie is in the other room making the dog a Lioness Headress thing out of plastic bags and watercolors.
I can’t tell if I’m a lazy parent or a brilliant arts and crafts teacher.
…That’s true for most days, actually.
FLASHBACK: November 4, 2012
Billie’s taken to memorizing my shopping list and screaming it in the middle of the grocery store. I pity the poor old lady who stopped us to compliment Billie on how cute & sweet she was. Billie’s response?
“POPCORN AND MEAT!!!!”
The lady just glared at me & walked away. There’s really no recovering from that.
FLASHBACK: November 12, 2011
Dad: “Your daughter likes to tie up the limbs of her stuffed animals.”
Me: “Um. That’s worrisome.”
Dad: “Oh, You have nothing to worry about. You don’t have to date her.”
…It’s always illuminating when the parents come to visit…
It’s 3:30am. I jolt awake and roll over to see Billie, wide eyed and smiling, at my bed.
“Mommy. I think we have to dance.”
Uh. Hell yes we do.
And we did.
And it was awesome.
I didn’t even think about it, guys. My kid was like, “dance party?” And I was like, “duh.”
Except now I’ve been up since 3:30 and I have a super long day ahead of me.
Damnit.
…When am I going to realize that I’m the parent in this relationship?
FLASHBACK: August 17, 2012
There were grandiose promises of going to the water park before naptime today. Billie put on her “babe-ing” suit and was ready to go when I discovered that she had broken into the refrigerator and emptied the entire contents of her almond milk on the floor. I think this was partially my fault. We were talking about being brave and fearless while watching Dora the Explorer do random gymnastics moves today. She wanted to be brave, too, I guess, so she said she was “milk skating.”
I could’ve killed her.
Instead, we sopped up the mess and I told her that, because mommy had to mop the entire house (which, of course, had milk tracked all over it by a certain milk-skater), she had to go down for a nap- thus no water park. Well, until after nap at least. She was devastated. The whole, “we will go later” argument doesn’t compute to a two year old. I might as well have told her I had, single handedly, burned the water park to the ground and then danced on the ashes. Fits were thrown. Tears were cried. Curses of “you’re a MEAN MOMMY” were heard throughout the neighborhood. Still, it was naptime.
And then the thunder started.
See, we just came back from a two-month hiatus in California. I had forgotten all about the mid-day thunderstorms that plagued our quaint little part of Louisiana. Half of me felt vindicated. Like, “See? We couldn’t have gone to the water park anyway! Who’s the mean mommy now, sukkas!?” And then the other half of me remembered: Shit. Billie’s afraid of thunder.
I walked into Billie’s room to find her huddled desperately in the corner of her bed with her hands over her eyes. She was shivering in fear held to the bed by the imaginary threat of mean mommy going nuts on her if she were to get out. The “stay consistent” mommy in me should’ve let her ride her fear out alone. Most mommies of two-year-olds know better than to interrupt the pre-sleep-naptime process. You leave the kid alone, no matter the circumstance, and let them pacify themselves into sleep.
But, damnit, that’s my kid.
She’s shivering in fear as the thunder raps intensely at the ceiling above her, as if it wanted inside her room. Am I going to let that fear consume her until she falls into an uneasy sleep? Am I going to let her “figure it out” on her own? Should I be consistent? Stick to my guns? Why do I have the sudden urge to sit on the couch in sweats and stuff my face with ice cream while watching reruns of “The Talk?” Get it together, Heather. Make a decision.
She’s still covering her eyes so she doesn’t see me when I enter her room. I don’t bother explaining to her how futile it is to cover her eyes (especially since you can’t see thunder), I pick her up and hold her. She’s freaked out, “NO MOMMY! No! I want the bed! I want to hide! The bed!!! The bedddd!” She’s crying now.
“Can I show you something?” I ask gently.
She’s still sobbing when I walk her outside and she clutches desperately to my chest. It’s raining harder than I anticipated and she starts crying more.
“My bed! My bed! Let me hide! I want my beeddddd!”
“Wow, Billie, look!” I say, pretending not to hear her screaming nonsensical ‘mean mommy’ curses, “Look at the plants! They’re drinking allllll the rain up. And see that? The animals will be able to drink that puddle and play in it! And, over there! What a pretty flower! I bet that flower is happy for the rain!”
“Flower happy? For the rain?”
“Yes,” I say, “And look how green everything is! I bet it’s because of all this rain.”
The thunder crashes again, Billie’s clutches me tightly but doesn’t scream. I explain to her that the thunder is saying, “Hi,” and that the thunder is helping the rain feed the plants and animals (that’s technically incorrect but, c’mon, she’s two. Baby steps).
“Nooo,” she whines, “It’s scarrry.”
We’re soaked now. The rain is relentless and I’m beginning to think this lesson was more idealistic hippy thoughts than actually good practice. Shit. Well, I’m in deep now, might as well keep going.
“It is scary,” I say, “But if it didn’t happen then things wouldn’t grow. Then you wouldn’t have flowers. Or birds. Or bunnies.”
“No bunnies?”
“Nope. No bunnies.”
She thinks a minute. I watch the rain drops collect in her hair before eventually soaking into her curls. She finally sighs.
“The thunder is scary, Momma. But I’m brave. And we need bunnies.”
“We definitely need bunnies,” I agree.
We decide to go inside and re-try the nap thing. I lay her down just as the thunder roars right above us. She shakes and looks as me expectedly. “It’s OK. You’re OK. The rain will end and the bunnies will be happy and then we will go play.”
She seems to be at ease with that logic. I kiss her on the forehead and walk to the door.
“Momma?”
“Yes?”
“The thunder says hi?”
“Yes. It’s saying hi.”
“Well. You tell it I need to go ni-night.”
She was asleep within five minutes after that.
I will never cease to be utterly captivated by her resilience. Her thought process. Her.
And I think I learned something. Lately I’ve been consumed by fear. I live in a new place where can’t find a job worth having to save my life. I’m consumed with the fear of failure to a point where it sometimes immobilizes me. I often feel that, maybe, these problems are too big for me.
…But I just watched my daughter conquer something that felt too big to her.
And she did it anyway with grace and wit and courage.
So, next time shit gets too real- too scary- I’m going to think to myself, “Yes. This is scary. But I’m brave. And we need bunnies.”
…Keeps it all in perspective, if you ask me.
Billie's Momma 