My first child

I know I am a single mom of an only child. But Ladybug wasn't my first child.

When I was in college I decided to major in social work. When I did my internship I immediately picked a group home for teenagers. No hesitation. I could not have been more excited.

It was TERRIBLE! I hated it. I dreaded every single moment I had to be there. Until I quit. I couldn't believe how wrong I had been. And I was left with wondering what to do with my life.

About 6 years after graduating from college a friend of mine (who is no longer my friend -- but that is another story) came to me glowing about her job. She loved it. She worked for a group home for teenage boys. Juvenile delinquents. Sex offenders. Drug users. Aggressive and violent. And she told me I had to apply for a job there. I had to. I didn't want to. I could not go back to doing that work. Six years was not enough time to make me forget how miserable I was during my internship. She convinced me that I had to go for an interview. I could do that. It didn't mean I needed to take the job.

But I took the job. And I loved it. I loved going to work. I looked forward to talking with the boys. I felt competent. I had a purpose back. It was like I had found where I was suppose to be.

There was a 15 year old boy in my unit. He was quiet and shy. He rarely talked. He was tall and gangly. He made friends with the other boys. He did what he needed to do to work the program. He didn't make waves. He didn't get attached to the staff. But he decided he liked me. I didn't know this was significant because I was new. The other staff understood. Maybe I was the person who was going to get through to him.

He became my first child. I fell in love. And I do not mean that inappropriately. We developed a tight bond. Parental. He blossomed. He came out of his shell. It turned out he was a really funny kid. He got a job. He did well in school. He committed to his therapy. I could not have loved that kid more if he had actually been my child.

In the year and half I worked with him I met his parents twice. I took him home for a visit. For an hour. And his parents stopped by the unit once for about 20 minutes. I was really his only parent. They didn't call him. They didn't visit. They didn't know him. I didn't know his parents. I know he was in the unit because of his actions. But he was such a fabulous kid that I didn't understand how they stayed away.

Eventually all of the staff and treatment team decided he was ready to move into independent living. He was ready to graduate from the program. I disagreed. He was doing great. But he was young. He had come a long way but it didn't mean he was ready to fly the coop. The team disagreed with me. I knew him better. But it didn't matter. He was going to move on. And it was my job to make him believe he could do it. I never told him he wasn't ready. I never told him I was scared for him. I never let him see my doubt that the team was wrong. I encouraged him. I told him he was ready. And I let him go.

For a year he called me. For a year he leaned on me. For a year I continued to do my job with this kid. I was right. The team was wrong. But I would not let him fail. He stumbled. He failed. He struggled. And each phone call I helped him figure out how to pick himself up. For a year I watched him question himself. For a year I watched my boy slip. And at about a year after leaving the program, he got it. He got stronger. He made better decisions. He made life work for him. And I lost him. He left his new program. I left my job. My boy had grown up and left me. Because it was what was right for him. But I still loved him.

Now I silently stalk him on facebook. He doesn't know it. He joined the military. He married his high school sweetheart. And he recently found out he is going to be a dad. It has been 10 years since I have had contact with him. He did it. He made a success of his life. He beat the odds. And I am a proud mama. But he doesn't know it.

Mean Mama