Three Dark Circles: Part 3

Alex Gonzalez for openphoto.net

Though I’d hoped our hectic work schedules would make the days go quickly, they actually seemed to slow them down.  I’d never known time could crawl so slowly.  The first year was by far the worst.  It wasn’t even the kids and their extreme behaviors that made my experience so torturous, though there was no lack of stealing, swearing, spitting, sneaking, slamming, screaming, and sobbing that went on within the walls of our pretty, white house.  No—it was the fact that I felt so inadequate to help them.  Their treatment involved a wide gamut of specialized teaching on our parts.  Coping strategies, impulse control, appropriate social interaction, family-style living, and independent living skills were just a small sampling of the knowledge we were expected to impart to the boys within our care.  We were trained and had plenty of support from our superiors within the organization, but I felt I was personally lacking in a lot of those areas.  How was I supposed to teach the kids things I was still learning myself?

Needless to say, I cried a lot.  So much so that pink rashes developed under my eyes from all of the salty tears, along with the dark circles I already had from exhaustion. Out of all my private break downs, one in particular stands out above the rest. It occurred on a crisp, fall morning, when my husband and I were riding in the backseat of another couple’s van.  Our boys had all gone off to school for the day, and we were going out for brunch so we could have a chance to visit and become better acquainted with one another.   I was holding my husband’s hand, trying to memorize the passing sections of the city, when the man, who was driving, flashed his eyes up at me in the rearview mirror and proudly remarked, “All of the women who work here are women of steel.”  He recited the last three words slowly, almost ominously, as he beamed over at his wife—a woman who was considered nothing short of legendary amongst the other house parents.  He then looked back up at me, as if to encourage me that I could be just as resilient as her, and I couldn’t return his gaze, because I knew I was not made of steel.  I just nodded and looked at my feet, a twenty-five-year-old girl with twenty-five cent-sized tears welling up in her eyes.  He must’ve picked up on my silent reaction, because he quickly changed the subject.  I couldn’t help but wonder if he was adding my name to a mental list of the ones who couldn’t cut it. 

I couldn’t cut it, and I knew it, but somehow, through enduring a rigorous, day-in, day-out repetition of the chaos and confusion, I woke up one morning no longer feeling so bewildered.   It was through the gentle guidance of God, the constant support from my husband, the direction from supervisors, the advice from fellow house parents, the emotional phone calls home, and an unstable-yet-stubborn refusal to throw in the towel, that I was one day able to come out on the other side out of the Adult-O-Matic feeling more confident and comfortable in my adult wardrobe than ever before.  Over time, those formidable dark circles on our sign post were eclipsed by our own hard-earned trio of discs, signifying the three years we completed as certified house parents.

When the last days of summer rolled around in our third year and the kids prepared to go back to school, my husband and I packed up our belongings and prepared to move on to the next chapter in our lives.  As we drove the U-Haul off the campus grounds and away from the most difficult season I’ve ever endured, I could honestly say that I finally looked forward to starting my own family and to taking on the role of mother—a role that, as I write this, I’ve already occupied for a very precious, very joy-filled seven months.  And I’m so happy to be able to say that this time, it fit right away. 



(To view parts 1 & 2, click on the "Older Posts" link below.)