Your children are not your children

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
. . . . . . . Kahil Gibran

Kathy hasn't been home since we had that argument in March. It was one of those mother-daughter things that usually blows over quickly enough when the mother and daughter live in the same house. Somewhere amid the daily routines of making dinner and casual chats you can each find forgiveness or at least grudging acceptance that we're family. Kathy lives with her father 50 miles away in another state. I only see her on weekends and vacations.

Thirteen years ago I thought it was the best solution. He was the stay at home parent while I supported the family. Now I'm not so sure it was a good choice. I lost so many opportunities to give her my view on life. She was always his daughter. Even when he beat her 2 years ago and she moved to my house full time.

She is his daughter. She thinks like he does and has his worldview. The same worldview that made it so difficult for me to stay married to him. Six months ago she decided to move back to his house. Now she lives there and I only see her on weekends and vacations again.

That was before March. She used my address and information to commit fraud. I believe that children should be accountable for their actions. It doesn't do them any good to cover things up for them. I called the state and alerted them to the fraud. The state police called her, then she called me. She was screaming and swearing at me. I was the one who ruined her life. She hates me. She was screaming and crying all at the same time. I couldn't understand her mostly. I asked her to calm down. Told her that I couldn't understand her over the phone.

"You sound like you're really upset. Why don't you calm down and call me back when you're in a better place to talk about what is going on?" That was the last time we talked at each other.

I Emailed her a week or so later to find out if she was coming to my house for the weekend. She Emailed me an excuse as to why she could not. It started a bi-weekly pattern that now passes for communication between us. I Email her to confirm her plans. She Emails me an excuse as to why she won't be visiting.

It's Memorial Day weekend and everyone else in the house is knee deep in our bi-annual clothing and stuff purge. The boys have sorted their winter and summer clothes and made the short list of needed items for the summer season. My other daughter has sorted her clothes and made a considerably longer list of needed items, including a semi-formal needed for a school function in 2 weeks. I've sorted my clothes and my husband's. The pile of unwanted clothes stretches along the upstairs hallway waiting to be packaged up and taken to the local women and children's shelter.

It's Monday afternoon and I'm rushing to finish the project. There is only one thing left on the list: Kathy's room. No one has been in there since March. She's not here to do it herself. She hasn't been here in over 2 months. I open the door.

Her room is the usual jumble of empty water bottles and clothes strewn over the floor. She hasn't been here in over 2 months and I don't know when she'll be coming for a visit. I remember the ants that we've found in the kitchen on their annual pilgrimage through the neighborhood. I tell myself that I just want to make sure that there isn't any forgotten food in her room.

I pick up the clothes and fold them into a chair. I pick up the water bottles and take out the trash. I dust the computer and put on the plastic cover designed to keep dust out. I hang up some of the clothes and move to strip the bed so I can wash the sheets. I begin to pile her stuffed animals on the floor next to the bed when I catch a glimpse of green.

I am transported to that first weekend visit all those years ago. She was only 4 and barely understood what was happening. I gave her a small green stuffed dinosaur from the Barney TV show. The character's name was Baby Bop. It was her favorite TV show.

"Mom can't always be there for hugs right now," I said. "That's why I got you Baby Bop." "I filled her up with hugs all week so you'll have them when you're at your dad's. When you need a hug, you hug Baby Bop and it'll be just like I'm hugging you back." She smiled and hugged Baby Bop tightly. The picture is in my office.

I pick up the green dinosaur from underneath her pillow and sit down on her bed. There are tears pouring down my face. I can't move. My husband comes in and asks what's wrong. I've been in here for an hour. I turn to him with tears still streaming down my face. I can't talk. He sees the dinosaur and knows. Silently he sits down next to me. He puts his arm around me and stays until there aren't any more tears.

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