This essay was published in the June 2021 issue of Catfish Creek, A National Undergraduate Literary Journal (https://www.loras.edu/majors-programs/english-creative-writing/catfish-creek/#).
It was an assignment in a creative nonfiction class I was taking through Central Michigan University. My professor had told the class about an opportunity to be published so I submitted it and was thrilled when they accepted it for their June issue.
Let me know what you think.
A Prayer for the Biter
My Daughter
Small and lovely and twelve years old. Much prettier than I was at that age. Sweet but spunky with a devilish dimple perfectly placed upon her right cheek. That dimple wasn’t always there. It is the remnant of a collision with the edge of a coffee table when she was four years old. I can still see that perfectly plump cheek with a blue square bruise. It happened when my parents were visiting, and my mom and I left to run some errands. I don’t usually leave my children with my dad. Even though he is well into his 70’s, he has not yet learned what it means to be in charge. To him, in charge means that there is an adult in the house. Nothing more. Nothing less. As I suspected, he settled himself onto the sofa to watch television while my children raced through their new house like wild beasts free from their cage. Circling two small wooden coffee tables and cutting it too close on the final lap, my daughter tripped and met the edge of the table with her face. I can only imagine the shrill scream that would have come from her tiny frame and the look of panic that must have washed over my six-year-old son as he watched his little sister’s face bloom into a swell of deep crimson and violet. I can also imagine the effort it took my dad to pull himself up to standing and shuffle over to the scene. I see him clumsily giving her some ice or maybe a bag of frozen peas, but mostly I see him praying that proof of this accident would fade away before I returned.
I came in through the front door about an hour later. I was loaded with bags and thoughts of dinner plans when suddenly, I stopped dead in my tracks. Before me was a whimpering little child with tear moistened whisps of blonde hair stuck to a swollen and discolored cheek. That beautiful perfect face. Creamy ivory complexion with caramel colored eyes and just a sprinkle of freckles over the bridge of her nose. I felt as though I was looking at a masterpiece that someone had just spray painted with graffiti. I looked to my dad for explanation, but he just stood sheepishly in the corner. It took weeks for that bruise to heal but when it did, it left behind a perfect little dent that shows itself just as a grin begins to take shape. In the end, that imperfection defined that sweet face and made even more her own. We now refer to her early childhood as PD (pre-dimple).
My Daughter
The biter at daycare. No one wants to be the mother of the biter because no one wants to believe that their child can switch from a calm and peaceful stream to rocky rapids that toss unwanted visitors violently to the shore. Yes, my biter personified that stream. She was, and still is, beautiful, exhilarating and frightening all at once.
Multiple times a week I would walk into the center, only to be greeted with a slip of paper that described an “incident” that had taken place where my child was the perpetrator. The judgmental look in Ms. Taffy’s squinty blue eyes made me feel like I was failing at motherhood. Honestly, did she really believe that my husband and I were teaching our child to bite her friends? Maybe she was hungry. Maybe they pissed her off or maybe this little toddler just can’t express herself any other way. None of that mattered really. I left the daycare feeling embarrassed and annoyed. Annoyed with Ms. Taffy, my child, the victim who now wore my daughter’s dental records on their forearm and with my husband who worked horrendous hours with very little pay which meant that I too had to work and raise small children mostly on my own. Oh, the mother of the biter carries the weight of the world on her shoulders.
One evening, after a particularly awful day at work followed by bumper to bumper traffic along the concrete tube that is I-696, I was exhausted and heavy with weariness. I sluggishly walked up to the door of the daycare. It took all my strength to reach up and ring the bell. I love my children, but I was dreading the second part of my day where if every task didn’t happen at warp speed, Armageddon was sure to ensue. First dinner, then bath time, a quick game, a quick story, and then bedtime.
I was giving myself a well-meaning but ineffective pep talk when I saw the matriarch waddling quickly down the hallway toward me with her short orange bob swinging atop a short thick neck. I was thinking about how compact her features were but also how she was almost as wide as she was tall. She had that look in her eye, like she needed to urgently tell me something. I felt myself tense and I mumbled quietly through a clenched smile, “good God woman, leave me alone.” She opened the door and said, “Mrs. Adams” but I abruptly cut her off with the snippy response of “who did she bite today?” To my surprise, Ms. Taffy told me that my daughter had been the victim. I have never been so happy to hear that my child was injured. I smiled to myself, feeling that the balance of good and evil was made right again. Her little friend had had quite enough and finally took matters into his own pudgy little hands and bit her back.
At last, the Golden Rule presented itself and the era of biting ended. I would remind her of this chain of events every time she squabbled with her brother or her friends. Telling her that the universe has a way of leveling itself so always treat others as you want to be treated. I’m sure I don’t say it quite as prophetic as I do in my mind. It’s probably more like a screechy, “if you can dish it, you have to take it!” The point remains.
Once my husband finished his residency and accepted a job in Traverse City, I was able to resign from my less than satisfying office job and be home with the kids. On the last day of daycare, Ms. Taffy said to me, “I know she gives you a lot of grief, but she has so many qualities that will make her a successful woman.” Unfortunately, none of those qualities served my daughter very well as a toddler so I wasn’t exactly sure what she meant but I held on to those words anyway. I held tight to them with pride and hope. Yes, she would be just fine in this world.
As my daughter became more vocal, she developed a very dry and adult like sense of humor. Her sarcasm sent many of her school friends running to the teacher. They didn’t understand her and frankly, I think they were a little afraid of her. Picture a tiny little blonde, sans front teeth, who loved to sleep with sponge rollers so that she had big bouncy curls in the morning. See that sweet dimple and those bright caramel eyes. Picture her navy knee socks and pink converse with a school plaid skirt and white peter pan collar shirt. Now, see her telling everyone she had a Beyoncé. Imagine the confusion on her fellow kindergarteners. It did not phase her that the word she was searching for was fiancé because the looks of confusion would not have faded.
Exasperated, my daughter would breathlessly explain how she planned to marry the love of her life, her cat Dino. A ceremony was planned, and a dress was chosen. A rather formal white gown, a replica of Glenda’s from the movie Oz the Great and Powerful. Another furry friend, Belle, would be the maid of honor and officiate the ceremony. Pictures would be taken and cake (specifically Swiss Cake Rolls) would be eaten in celebration. Kids thought she was speaking in tongues and her red cheeks would signal that she had no tolerance for such ignorance.
Her greatest downfall has always been that she wears her emotions like a late-night neon sign. If she’s happy, tired, angry, or annoyed, you know it. If she runs into a child that she doesn’t particularly like, that child knows it. I’ve tried to teach her to fake it a little, but she reminds me that lying is wrong. Hard to argue.
As grumpy as she sometimes appears, she also gives love in vast quantities. Up until a few years ago, she would wrap her tiny body around me and press her warm rosy cheek to mine and tell me all the ways she loved me. She drew pictures of her and I holding hands, she would make me cards and bookmarks with sweet words that professed her love. She would change the words to Taylor Swift songs so that they were just, “mommy, mommy, I love mommy.” She would hold my hand tightly as we walked from the living room to the kitchen. If I sat down, she was climbing on my lap or snuggling up close as if any amount of space between us was too great. If I could fit her in my pocket, she would have climbed right in. In all my life, I have never been so loved.
I told her once that a day would come when she wouldn’t think that she loved me so much. Her face contorted in utter confusion as if I was speaking in tongues. She scrunched up her nose as she tried to decipher my words and then quickly threw her arms around me and promised me that day would never come.
My daughter
Twelve years old now and still terrorizing the boys and speaking her opinions freely and without apology. She still has a wicked sense of humor with a laugh that’s somewhere between Woody Wood Pecker and Julia Roberts. She does not describe herself as a “girly girl” but has recently confessed that she does in fact like pink. She still loves me, I know, but she doesn’t reach for my hand that often and is too big to sit on my lap. Snuggling is more about being near but not with our arms wrapped around each other and not with her warm sweet head tucked under my chin. Now, she finds me annoying when I think I’m being quite charming. My hilarious jokes aren’t as funny as they once were and I’m terribly embarrassing in stores when I try to talk to small children. She squirms away when I try to kiss her cheeks and instead of being right by my side, she prefers to be in her room. There are more times now when she wants to expand the space instead of fill it.
I knew this time would come. I’ve been ready. I’ve read all the right books and done my research on the perils of pre-teen-hood. But still, things are shifting in an odd direction and I feel as though I’m entering unchartered territory.
2020 has been a defining year for many. Normal life came to a screeching halt, sealing us inside and taking away everything that felt normal. Can I blame my daughter’s personality shift on the pandemic? Can I say that her life has been altered so much that she can’t find her place within it? That would be easy, but we are the lucky ones. My husband’s job had not been affected. I’m able to be home with them. We have all that we need and honestly, I thought we all enjoyed the break from our crazy schedule. Maybe the busy routine kept her grounded and connected to her friends. Maybe she felt more alone and isolated than I realized. Maybe this was a normal part of raising an almost teenage girl. How is a mother to know?
Parenting is really a game of chance. Most days you are just rolling the dice and hoping for the best. I foolishly believed that the hardest part of motherhood was over. I mean, I kept a fragile tiny person alive. I fed her, bathed her, clothed her, kept her safe from scary things like honey, blankets, and processed foods. I taught her not to stick her fingers in outlets or place her hands on the stove. She learned the hard way about running too fast or jumping from swings. Mostly, though, I just loved her.
Now, that she’s older, we talk and laugh, and I love her even more. I still feed her, but she can bathe herself and keep herself from suffocating at night while she sleeps in piles of blankets. It wasn’t that long ago that I thought about how special these years were where she liked to spend time with me and still said I love you.
But here we are now at this place where everything is slightly tilted and off balance. I knew she worried about things like burglars, kidnapping, and alligators and I recognized how she liked everything neat and orderly in her room, but those little quirks were just a few of the many reasons I love her. She just needed a little extra assurance that she was safe, and I praised her for keeping her room so clean and tidy.
Those quirks however, started to bloom sometime in the spring. She began worrying that her brother would fall asleep before her. In her mind, if he was awake, he provided a layer of protection. If he went to bed, she was alone and vulnerable. Next came the need to put things in three’s and then the avoidance of even numbers and then the sadness, anger, and tears. Not the toddler tears that spill over because the cookies are gone. Quiet tears, alone in the bathroom or in her bed. Quiet tears that cannot be consoled because they aren’t understood. Tears with no origin and no destination. It was time to call in the professionals.
The therapist’s little quaint office with its soft light and comfortable sofa had ironically, just one year prior, been the loud, messy studio of my daughter’s eccentric piano teacher. The foam panels that covered the walls in an attempt to muffle the sound of amateur pianists were now replaced with calming pale blue paint and trendy reclaimed wood shelves decorated with inspirational quotes in white matted frames. The endless maze of cords from keyboards and amps that were secured by grey duct tape were swapped out for a cream shag rug and open bookcases with neat fabric containers. Such a strange twist of fate to be in this room again but for a different kind of therapy.
The soft-spoken woman in the casual leggings and lavender tunic was in stark contrast from the piano teacher who fancied button down shirts in bold Hawaiian prints and Birkenstocks with black crew socks. She had such a warm presence that I had to fight the urge to hug her. How inappropriate. I’m not the one there to pour out my heart. Besides, I’m terrible at therapy. I can type my deepest darkest thoughts, but I am far too clumsy to speak them.
I started to fill the therapist in on what was happening, but emotion immediately took over the tone of my voice making it quiver and echo in my ears while my brain pleaded for me to stop talking. Fight or flight? Always flight. Luckily, my brave daughter politely asked me to leave. Ever so grateful, I awkwardly stumbled out and left her alone to tell her story to this stranger.
Therapy provided great relief for both my daughter and me. She could finally expel the feelings that had been rolling around in her mind and I could finally breathe because the calvary had arrived and I no longer had to navigate this terrain on my own.
We were a few weeks in when the therapist asked me to join the session. I climbed the stairs to her office, nervous that I would be asked to participate in the session and wondering if I put on enough deodorant to endure any kind of talking. Much to my relief, she only wanted to talk about my daughter’s progress and suggest that she be assessed for Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Okay. This wasn’t surprising and I was open to the process. I did not feel sad or fearful. I really felt more curious than anything. I hold a Bachelor of Science degree in psychology because I’ve always had an interest in the intricacies of the human brain (really, I just pursued the degree to figure out my own issues but let’s not split hairs).
Our next step was a televisit with a psychologist. This was weird and the psychologist seemed as uncomfortable as we did but we chatted and answered what felt like hundreds of questions while the middle-aged woman in her living room, fidgeted and did her best to sound professional. I liked her. Fidgeting and uncomfortable is my jam. As the meeting concluded, she told us that some questionnaires would come via email that we were to complete separately. I would fill one out based on what I was seeing, and my daughter would fill one out for herself. I completed mine right away as did my daughter.
Now, if I thought our world was just a little tilted, soon I would be tipped over, spun in a circle, shaken and left lying in a dizzy haze of stars.
On a very normal Thursday afternoon, I was doing my usual rounds of picking up everyone’s trail of junk and sweeping up cat hair and talking to the incredibly cute but stinky guinea pig. I walked into my daughter’s dark room to pull up her shades and neaten her bed when I noticed her OCD questionnaire lying on her blue dresser. Remembering that I needed to get this to the psychologist, I picked it up. I examined the way she printed her name and date at the top of the page. Her handwriting seemed so childlike and it made me smile. Perfectly straight letters in purple ink. It didn’t look like the rushed scribbles of an adult and it didn’t have any adornments of a teen. It was just small purple letters spelling out her name. I glanced through the pages and noticed that she checked a lot more boxes than I had. These boxes proceeded statements such as: Checking locks, toys, schoolbooks/items, and so on; Excessive touching, tapping, rubbing (e.g., repeatedly touching particular surfaces, objects, or other people, perhaps to prevent a bad occurrence). None of this seemed particularly scary because I had noticed these rituals.
It was the next page that slapped me in the face. It was there that everything changed.
Next to the statement: Fear might harm self (e.g., using knives or other sharp objects), was a purple check mark.
That little checkmark sent my stomach into my throat.
I felt weak and sick, so I sat down on her bed, letting the paper rest in my lap. Just a piece of paper with some purple check marks but it felt like it was alive with electricity. It sent prickly sensations through my legs and forced me to hold my breath until the pulses passed.
I looked up to see my reflection in her gold framed mirror and the face was not mine. It was a much older woman. A much sadder woman. I closed my eyes and let my head drop to my lap. Terrible thoughts began filling my mind and I found myself in dark places where I imagined finding my daughter dead. The tears began to flow as I watched the whole scene, including the funeral where I could hear people say, “how did her mother not know she was in so much pain?” How didn’t I know? Tears continued to gather in the corners of my eyes and then ran for their life as I blinked them away. I blinked it all away and did the only thing I knew to do, I walked over to her statue of a guardian angel standing with a child.
This statue has been in her bedroom since she was born. I placed my hands on the faded, painted figures with chipped corners and began to pray. I offered my prayer, pleading that she finds her way, that she finds the strength she needs, that she has the armor she requires to battle each day, and most of all that she knows how very loved she is. I prayed for my biting two-year old that is now on the brink of womanhood, and who is struggling, clawing her way through her own pain.
Biting is no longer an option.
Now, she has to search within herself to get what she needs out of this life.
My daughter
She has so many qualities that will make her a successful woman. Those words come floating to the surface just as I feel as though we are sinking into something very cold and dark. Images of my daughter swim up with those words. I can see her at all stages of her life, and one thing is constant, her strength. She knew that her struggles were becoming too heavy and trying to sink her, so she asked for help. My daughter has so many qualities that will make her a successful woman. Yes, she is brutally honest and insightful, and she will not let this current pull her down. She will rise above and go after what she wants. She will climb out of this and walk with steady steps and if anything tries to block her path, she will sink her teeth into it.
This is my prayer.
