It’s hearing “children are children”
And “they just need love”
Fake smiles and knowing that
Not all children are born equal
Because this shit starts in the womb
And “love” scares the shit out of them.
It’s people who “don’t believe in diagnoses,”
Or think they “just need firm boundaries.”
So we put up boundaries around our edges
That those people cannot see beyond
And as night falls on our shrinking island
We think, “Were they right?”
“Are we just bad at this?”
“What does firmer look like?”
Shouting louder? Scarier faces?
Removing more of what they love?
No. They’ve had enough of that
To last a lifetime.
It’s the insistence that you’re just like them
Then the silence when you’re not.
“How was parent’s evening?”
“How are they getting on?”
“The holidays go so fast don’t they?”
“That problem all sorted now?”
Your hopes and glories—the things they take for granted.
Their hopes and glories—the things that would break you.
Your choices are to pretend or let them go
But really you’re just choosing different types of lonely.
It’s cheery morning hellos,
Knowing they categorise you into naughty and nice
Knowing how much yours wants to be on the good list
Even though sometimes they pretend they don’t
Because it hurts too much to admit they do. But can’t.
Knowing “good” runs through their core, their soul, their bones, their little soft heart.
That, if they had the same luck as the others,
They’d make the “good choices” too.
Instead, they get to wonder if they’re bad.
They have no choice about that.
Now try teaching them about fairness.
It takes a village to raise one.
It takes a village to cast one out.
It’s being asked “if you’ve tried P.A.C.E?” five hundred times
But the PACE of the system that fails them is too fast
And the PACE of the system that supports them is too slow
So their shame gathers momentum
At a PACE your love can’t outrun
Like bad dream quicksand.
It’s Professionals who preach self-care
But offer no respite,
Who tell you to “just persevere”
Because that’s better for their caseloads,
Then they point fingers when you break,
“Aha! See? It was them making it worse all along!”
Case closed. Another outcome. Next!
It’s Professionals who’ve never lived it
Scrutinising your empathy and compassion
(No matter what, every day of your life, 24/7)
Who cannot stop their empathy-mask slipping
For the duration of your allotted one-hour meeting
You waited 40 broken days and nights for, probably more.
It’s watching them hide their smirks at the classroom doors,
As you, the neurotic helicopter parent,
Try to explain, to prevent more pain.
“They’re all like that,” they smile knowingly.
But it’s no longer funny when there’s an incident.
Then it’s very serious and they need you
To somehow do something about the thing
That’s already happened
That you broke your heart trying to prevent.
It’s “How are YOU?”, frown-lines and head-tilts,
More parent-blame tied with a faux-empathy bow,
That interrupts you as you try to explain politely
That your child needs yet more support.
Yes more. And more. And more.
Sorry for being too greedy? Demanding? Special?
Sorry for not knowing how to fix this.
Everyone loves inclusion
Until it means real change;
Until it costs too much money,
Then it’s phone calls and emergency work cover
And looks in the playground
And families on their own
Going home alone
To think about what they’ve done.
It’s love that absolutely nothing can compete with.
It’s loving the world and the storm
All the light and all the dark
It’s loving all the generations of trauma
So fiercely that we make things right forever.
It’s knowing “I hate you” means “I love you”
And “leave me alone” means “stay”
And that sometimes the best we can say
Is “tomorrow is another day.”
It’s flashes of a future where we are victorious
Our potential realised like all the others
Stronger for all that nearly broke us
And flashes of a future
Where we are broken, the odds never in our favour.
Striding towards both with purpose,
Every day, at the same speed,
Ill-prepared and desperate to get there
If only to find out.
It’s all the bad things suddenly making sense,
Our trauma being the very thing
That connects our dots:
Our constellation prizes.
It’s the beaming pride
In a social interaction
It’s the heaven
Of affection, given or received,
Like a butterfly landing on you
It’s the utter magic
Of watching their little kindnesses
It’s the euphoria
Of seeing them proud of themselves.
It’s the laughing
In the car singing
It’s us against the world and winning
And love. And love. And love.
But this isn’t rose-petal love
That poets write of.
No. This is Dandelion-love
That gets into the cracks, takes root,
Grows where it is needed,
No matter what the world thinks,
No matter what life throws at it,
And, in the end, only multiplies gloriously.