My daughter still complains about her new life in the group home every time I visit her.
“I don’t like that I have to wait when I have to go to the bathroom,” she says. “There’s too many pillows on my bed so there’s no room for me and my blankets keep falling down and they won’t let me play with my baby dolls and I can’t look at my books and the table’s too small when I want to color and this other person wants to use my crayons and I don’t like it…!”
The list is always long and her voice is always loud with frustration. No matter how much fun we have together out walking the dog or going to the library, she always remembers to tell me that she’s actually miserable.
Other people tell me she looks great at the group home. I hear about her singing to her new friends and laughing when her new aids do something “silly.”
She saves her anger and frustration for me, punching me in the heart so I understand how unhappy she is. When I leave her home I’m usually worn out, tearful and doubting that I made the right choice for her.
During this recent visit, we walked along the sidewalk near the ocean with our little dog trotting beside her wheelchair. Waves sent droplets of sea water onto our skin and pelicans flew in the air. I pointed up at a group of them flying above our heads and Rhia gasped. “Those are big birds!”
Then she began telling me everything she didn’t like about her new home. This time, I didn’t get upset. I took a deep breath and concentrated on staying in the moment. Hundreds of people gathered at the edge of the sea, some holding binoculars and cameras, watching for the whales traveling past, hidden under the water. I saw a whale spout and laughed, then I explained to Rhia why I was excited and what everyone was looking for. She grinned. “I like whales.”
When I dropped her off at her house later she was still smiling.
Maybe that’s the secret: take a deep breath, stay present, and redirect.
Later, I said to a dear friend, “Every time I see her she spends thirty minutes reminding me how unhappy she is and complains about everything. It’s exhausting!”
“You’re a safe person to vent to,” they said. “She trusts you the most.”
“I know. I get it. I’m mom so everything must be my fault.”
“Everyone blames their mom when things are bad,” they said.
“Mom’s get all the blame,” I said.
We laughed together, and then I said, “I wanted to just be Rhia’s mom and not her full-time caregiver. Now I am just mom, which includes having all of her anger hurled at me. Does this mean I got my wish?”
“Yeah, you did,” they said quietly.
“She’s mad at me and I feel guilty.” I sighed. “It’s hard, but this change in our lives is probably the most normal thing Rhia and I have ever experienced together.”
It’s been two months since Rhia moved into the group home. The guilt is slowly lessoning, but I suspect it will never completely go away. Mom-guilt arrives the moment your child is born and only grows as your child grows. But I no longer feel guilt like an open wound that leaves me weeping whenever I leave Rhia at her new home. I’m proud because she’s creating her own life. She is learning to make new friends and trust others to help her without my intervention. I am learning to let go and trust her to advocate for herself. We’re both evolving.
I still grieve that my little girl is all grown up and living away from me, just as the majority of “empty-nesters” do. Some days I feel depressed and untethered. Other days I’m ecstatic I can go out to dinner without struggling to find coverage for my daughter. This emotional rollercoaster is exhausting, but is also one of the most ordinary things I’ve ever experienced as a parent. I get to grieve and feel excited and worry and celebrate just like a typical mom when their kid leaves home. I also get to experience the stress when my child is furious with me and blames me for everything.
Just like an ordinary mom.