Understanding Grace

I met Grace while volunteering in Cora's kindergarten classroom. She had long brown hair that seemed permanently tangled and deep-set hazel eyes. Empty eyes. Hollow eyes. Eyes that never made contact with mine. She rarely spoke and when she did she would whisper with her head down, eyes forward. If you leaned towards her in an attempt to better hear her, she would immediately move away from you.

She peed her pants at least twice a day. It was so routine that she no longer mentioned it to the teacher. She just grabbed a spare set from her backpack, bagged up her soiled clothing and quietly sat back down.

She did not know how to use a pair of scissors or write her name. She did not interact with the other students and would stare blankly at the wall while Cora's teacher gave instructions.

But Grace was not dumb. Cora's teacher knew that. The daily aides that worked with her one-on-one knew that. I knew that. She was learning. Soaking up every bit of information presented to her. She was smart.

Her file said otherwise. A child of the foster system; passed from "mother" to "mother."

Her test scores said otherwise. Grace was below average. Grace could not keep pace with grade level. Grace was failing.

Grace said otherwise. "I can't," she would repeat when asked to identify numbers. "I can't," she would say when quizzed on letter sounds. But, as I learned on Monday, she could.

Monday was Grace's last day in Cora's class. She was being placed with another foster family out of district boundaries. Grace softly told me her old mother decided she couldn't keep that house anymore and so it was best for Grace "to be in a new better house with a great big swing and a new mother." And then, while I was giving her an exit exam, she proceeded to identify every letter and correctly make the letter sound. She identified every written number through 20, and began counting and wouldn't stop. She made it to 140. I was floored, puzzled really.

During recess I showed the test results to Cora's teacher. She was not surprised. She had known all along Grace was smart, but she said sadly, she was a product of her environment. They did everything in their power to help her. They gave Grace individual attention. Coached her. Mentored her. Loved her. But nothing worked. Until she was told she was moving.

Each time Grace packed her suitcase, she came out of her shell. Even though she was told otherwise, Grace believed she was moving back home. To be with her real mother. Each time she arrived on a new doorstep, one not belonging to her real mother, she closed herself off to the world again.

I wanted to cry right there on that brightly-squared kindergarten carpet. Mostly for Grace, but also because I knew my daughters would never experience heartache like that.

I know I make mistakes as a parent. I always will. I know I am not patient enough. I never will be. I know I am not qualified to be a mother. I will forever feel inadequate. I know in 30 years I will look back with a fresh perspective and wonder why I made the choices I made as their mother. And I know I am not the only mother who feels like this. I have heard this spoken during playgroups. I have had this very phone conversation with my best friend. I have read this in blog posts.

Stop it. We need to stop beating ourselves up. You are enough. We are enough. Our children will never understand what Grace is going through.  We have made that possible.  In the midst of all of our screw ups, we have done something right.

My daughters are loved. They are loved by people who not only show it, but say it. Over and over. They have and will always have two parents who think they hang the moon. They will always have a mother stuffing homework folders in their classrooms and a father who spends endless hours kicking a soccer ball around with them. They will always have warm clothes and enough food and someone to read them a goodnight story. They will never have to pack a suitcase.

We are doing something right. Please believe that.