Failure

Like most high-achieving individuals, I base a lot of my sense of self-worth on what I do.  Related, I base my own evaluation of my success as a parent on my children's experiences. 

In looking at negative experiences there are, indeed, some experiences I cannot control.  Those are the source of much grief for me as a mother. 

And then there are those experiences for which I could control.  Today, I believe, was one of them.

I took my baby daughter to the hospital and left her there.  I walked in on my own two feet and out on the same feet.  I made the choice to do this, and there is a part of me that feels like it has died inside because I have failed.  I had to do most of this alone because my husband had to go back to work. 

Typical me?  Able to withstand anything.  Already withstood everything.  Just another day and experience.

Today, I feel as thought I may not make it.

Logically, I can go through all the shit that tells me I have not failed.  Logic does not apply in these types of situations.  Right now, it's the series of photos and experiences and memories running through my head that matters.  It's the tiny little angel with her first Easter bonnet at age two.  And the way I always made sure her clothes were clean and matched and that although we were living on one salary, I shopped so that she would not look like what she was:  a foster child.  Bows in her hair to match her clothes.  Books to develop that incredible IQ.  A room filled with furniture that MY mother worked and saved her money to buy for me.

I remember when we finally took her out of her crib at age three and put her in a big girl bed.  She was late but the crib was her safety.  But we'd had her long enough that it was time for her to make that move.  From her crib, she would call me each morning to come and get her out.  When she moved to her bed, she continued that same routine even though she could easily get out on her own. 

I remember taking her to the beach for the first time.  She had been burned in a bathtub before coming to us, and although the pool at the hotel was such a draw to her as a child, she was deathly afraid of it.  We worked gently and carefully with her until she would tolerate the water and even forget herself occasionally and enjoy it.  And every time, she would have a bowel movement in her bathing suit forcing us to leave to clean her up.  She had been potty trained quite easily for some time, but her gut reaction was to panic, and her gut responded in kind.

I remember the first time she waddled away from us on the beach in her bathing suit.  She was precious, and I was determined not to let her past create negativity in her future.  I failed.

She is still afraid of water, even her own shower.  She's afraid of being alone, even in her own house.  She's afraid of using public restrooms without someone going with her.  And I just left her with people she does not know in a place she's never been where she'll sleep alone.  There were two other children her age on the floor, and one was being discharged today.  Therefore, she will be there with one other child.  Possibly, eventually, she'll be the only child. 

I forgot to tuck a note in her suitcase telling her I loved her.  Even though I just did what I said I would never do.  What I HAVE never done.  Leave her with people she does not know. 

There are times when I wish I'd never become a parent because of the heartache involved.  Now that to protect my own children and to care for them, I've made myself so sick that it's unclear if I'll recover.  When I think of the things I endured as a child--what made me think I could protect one child, much less my brood, from all that is out there.  Including myself. 

I took my second Valium of the three-a-day allotment more than an hour ago.  This is more than Valium can handle.  This is more than Valium can erase, even momentarily.  And my other children have returned home.  I have to put on the face that tells them it's all going to be okay. 

When I have no idea in hell whether or not it will be.