As I wait for my Discovery Toys Kit, reference letters and the Police Check to arrive I find myself practicing my Russian for about twenty minutes to an hour a day, I still found time to crack open another book which deals with an emotionally traumatized child.
I found “Building The Bonds of Attachment” by Daniel A. Hughes, absolutely wonderful. Though it was based on fictional characters, they themselves were based on several incidents that could be applied to children with an attachment disorder. The thing I found most gripping was how they showed how the child’s mother neglecting her by simply ignoring her, letting her father beat her, and just giving her what she wanted to stop her from bothering them. She was well kept in her appearance but love and acceptance and boundaries were denied to her.
Several parts of the book hit home with me. How easily I could see this neglect happen. Being a Mom and Dad (I cannot forget Fathers) is hard work. You do get little time to yourself, the demands are always there, always more of yourself needing to be given. I remember starting to make the kids their lunches and throwing in the middle of it, sick with the flu. It would have been so easy just to lie in bed and let them make do with cookies.
But then there are moments when you find your youngest asking if he could make you a cup of tea, (turns out he wants a taste of it too) but the offer was still there. When I needed to help one with their homework because he forgot to do it the night before and the other two pack their lunches and went the extra mile making their brother’s as well. It makes every sacrifice worthwhile.
I’m glad I fought against taking the easy route of ignoring their cries when they were little. I’m glad I played and sang with them when they were babies, hug and held them, kissed their hurts when they needed it, and told them they were fine when they didn’t. I’m glad that I joined them in playing their video games, air hockey, tag and hide and seek. I’m glad I let myself enjoy my kids, and embraced their childhood with them.
My boys have their challenges, and life won’t always be so carefree for them, but they know their place in my heart. They are happy and confident that no matter what happens I love them. They are my pride, my joy, my frustration at times and my comfort. They know that “Home” is a safe, loving environment that accepts them for who they are. I could go on and on here, but I won’t.
Instead I’ll sum up and say that the best homes I’ve ever been in were the ones whose parents listened to my problems, it didn’t matter the time of day (or night). They had an open door policy that I cherished. There were so many times when I was hurt and angry at my own parents, they listened without judging, kindly told me how my parents might have interpreted my actions, and just by them sitting there, being with me, talking with me instead of at me, helped me set the foundation of the home I wanted for when I had my own family.
So to them I press my hand against my heart and say, “Thank you for showing me what a happy home was suppose to be like.”