Little Sponges
Over and over again I have heard adults say “the kids are resilient, more so than adults, don’t worry.” Those who say that generally are attempting to make the parent feel better about a reaction, a move, a major change that is happening in their family and affects the children. Well, do worry. Those decisions affect your children in ways they don’t even know, until much, much later. More specifically, remember that harsh words dig deep, traumatic scenes imbed themselves in little minds. The littles see you.
Even after my own childhood, I started raising my own child with the idea that children are resilient, they bounce back easily, they love you. I was wrong. Most decisions I made, I believed, were for the benefit of my child. In most cases they were. In others, it was because “I didn’t want” or “I didn’t need” or “you don’t deserve”. Whatever the case may be, those were often foolish and/or just selfish ideas to deflect what may be happening with my child. While saying that, I do not condone just remaining in a situation when a negative outcome of staying would far outweigh the results of leaving that situation. The littles hear you.
What is your very first memory? What was your age? Are you sure? Was it negative or positive, the memory? Psychiatrists and neuroscientists are known for advising that stress and strong emotions are the most significant factors impacting memory, especially traumatic events.
We were at the movies. The kids movie had long been over and I was asleep in the back seat with my Boo Bear. I was roughly 3 years old at the time because that car blew up the summer I was three and my Boo Bear and I had to be rescued out of it by a family friend and my Uncle and I used to play in it, sitting on its cinder blocks in the back yard after that. I digress. We were at the movies and I awoke from that back seat. I watched a scene in the movie where a man literally r%^$d a woman with a knife and there was blood everywhere. All I said was “why did he do that”. Both parents turned their heads quickly to me and said “what are you doing awake?” Lay back down, go to sleep!” So I did. But I never forgot. For reference, look for the movie Macon County Line. It’s about the summer of 1954 and the description tells you of the scene.
At the age of 9, sitting at the dining room table, in the “townhome” my parents rented, in New Orleans, a simple question, (I thought) led to quite a bit more. My half sibling was being admonished for behavior unbecoming, sex was mentioned and I blushed. I was asked what I knew about a specific body part on the male form (imagine a much more direct, hillbilly accented, evil kind of look when being asked) and I said “oh but mom you told me..and repeated the conversation we’d had’. That was not liked and I was screamed at, being advised there was much more to my red face. So, I told of a 3 year old memory of someone close to us, me in a particular clawfoot bathtub, up to my neck in water, and what happened. I had no idea that this was bad. None. Also, the detail of the room, the placement of even the heater, where the soap was and so on, that I was to her credit, immediately believed. Also to their credit, action was immediately taken. It caused strife among loved ones, but a daughter was defended, mostly unbeknownst to me. I was kept out of it and just told “you can forget that now, it’s all done”. You never forget.
When I was 13, riding in my dads orange pick up, while he drove me to school, I asked a question that stopped my bonding with daddy time and remained sore spot between us for months. “Daddy, can I ask you a question?”. “Sure can, you can ask me just about anything”.
So, I believed that. “Daddy, I just need to know if this is a dream or not, because I have had it off and on for the last year I think”. He said “ok, no problem, what is it?”
“Daddy, I remember hearing you pound on the door at Grannys, you were outside and we were all inside - I then recalled every person in the room, where each was standing, who was yelling back, and then the police at the door with you daddy”. My dad, immediately red faced, hit the steering wheel with both hands while driving, yelled “who the %$&& told you that?! NO ONE was EVER to speak of that, EVER”. I said “no one daddy, I’ve been dreaming it I thought, but it was so real I had to ask.” He said that was a lie because I was only 6 months old, there was no way I could remember it. He was wrong. I’d never asked anyone else about it at all. No one had spoken to me on it. Additionally, in my forties, after my dad had passed, I asked one of the members that was in that room about it. They diverted the conversation. I know it was important, I know it was not good and I understand it was always to remain a secret. It was not a dream. Maybe I remember because that was also the first time my parents left me with someone else, drove away, and for the most part - forgot about me. What I don’t remember is the year I spent with two people who loved me dearly, cared for me, and were ready to file for abandonment so they could adopt me. I learned that in my forties connected a few things.
On that note, I also remember Ann & Perry. I remember a swingset, an Easter dress, a winter, and summertime orange dreamsicles. Vanilla ice cream on a stick, wrapped in an orange popsicle. I still like those dreamsicles and also swings. I remember feeling so loved. I also remember that later, much later, when my parents took me back (I was there over a year as well), that one day while eating I tapped my tummy with my finger and said “see, I am full, okay mommy?” She looked bewildered, and asked “what do you mean?”. I said if Papa Perry poked my tummy and he could tell it looked full, then I could quit eating”. Now, in her twisted thought process, she needed to blame them for something horrible so she would no longer have to hear about all the good fun at Ann & Perry’s, or me asking to see them.She turned that small tummy statement to a form of abuse. She made claims that they force fed me, mistreated her daughter etc….and refused to let me ever see them again. That was all before first grade, so I was about 4-5 years old. I did not see Ann again until my 9th birthday. My mother called me to the front door. When I walked up to her, she said “she’s here to see you so hurry up”. Ann was at my front door. Sadly I tried to hug her and she held her hand up as to not do that. She had tears in her eyes and told me that no matter what, she, Perry, and Jesus would always love me. She gifted me my first Bible. That was almost fifty (50) years ago. I still have that Bible. It has the same picture used on this blog. So beautiful.
In many ways my innocence was stolen or damaged. There's much more but these, these formed me. These framed decisions later in life or thought processes. In my opinion, children should be children, learning to play, socialize, and most of all learning that Jesus loves them. That's a love that can never be taken from them, even when they hide it themselves. Let the babies be babies. Help them stay little, protect them, help them enjoy childhood. It does not last long. The littles see you.. They may not understand but they feel. They hear. They see. Littles are like sponges soaking it all in until they can soak no more, and it leaks out drop by drop.