Helpless.

Once again in my parenting career, that’s exactly how I felt.  No words could ease my daughter’s pain.  No band aid could heal the wound.   A hug couldn’t stop the fear.  Not even the promise of a giant cream-filled donut could make a dent in her sadness.

As my children grow older and begin to experience the realities of true hurt, not emergency-room-hurt but my-parents- will-NEVER-understand-this kind of hurt, I feel like I have been knocked down time and again trying to find a way in.  Not to make it all better, but to let them know I get it.

A few weeks ago, I found myself in that familiar place -pacing the halls, wracking my brain, trying to find the right words, wanting desperately to ease my child’s burden.

Maybe it was a strong wind that blew in off of Lake Michigan and cleared away my brain-clouds. Or maybe it was the quiet voice of my 11-year-old self that had finally found a way to be heard.  Regardless, I suddenly knew what to do.  Stashed on a high self in the back of my closet was the answer.

Without thinking twice, I took my daughter by the hand and said, “So, you think I don’t understand?”

And from the depths of my past, I pulled out my sixth grade journal.

Curled up together on my bed, I read it out loud to my daughter in the same way I had read so many books to my kids over the years. As the words of my childhood came tumbling out of hiding, I could see my daughter’s eyes in constant motion.  Back and forth between the twirly-girly cursive handwriting that poured out my most heartfelt secrets and up to the woman with the wrinkles and the reading glasses that is known to her only as a mom.

You think I don’t understand about grade school love?

“At the beginning of the year I loved liked David G. Then I couldn’t stand him.  Then I had a crush on Tim S. I went with him about 3 months. Then I realized it was dumb to go with him because nothing great ever really happened.  So I broke up with him.  But we are still good friends. Chuck D. is sooo cute.  I go crazy over him.  But I hate David G., Greg M., and well Tim.  I still think Tim’s cute.”

Yes, that was all one paragraph.  Probably best if read out loud using only one breath.

You think I don’t understand people making fun of the way you look?

“I just found out that David and Greg and Tim call me “fat lady” because of that patch on my new jumpsuit. It says some kind of French club name but they told me it says “fat club.” Joey said that Chris C. will never ever go with me unless I pump up my flats. Chris thinks I’m a creep but maybe my luck will change.”

It was like one massive run-on sentence of a life.

You think I don’t understand about being afraid to go to sleep at night?

“I don’t think anyone really understands me.  I am really scared of sleeping up in the attic alone! I want to trade rooms but no one will believe I’m really scared.”

Looking back, the attic was really cool.  Remember the attic Marsha and Greg Brady fought over?  Way cooler than that.  But still, I had terrifying nightmares almost every night.

You think I don’t understand wanting to be something other than what you are?

“From now on I’m not going to eat any sweets except from Mrs. Anderson. I’m going to try to lose some weight and get more pretty.  I’ll keep my room clean and do my homework and be a different person.  I wonder if I’m really pretty or if it’s just me that hopes so.  Well at middle school next year I’ll find out!”

I’m still working on a few of those things.

You think I don’t understand what it feels like when best friends break your heart?

And this is where I pulled out the secret weapon, the heavy artillery in my battle to reclaim my relationship with my children.

The Letter.

Back when I was in sixth grade, I returned to school after a family vacation to find a letter waiting for me inside my desk.   Hot pink words screaming at me from neatly folded notebook paper.  The letter sat menacingly on top of my language arts folder.  I knew before I even opened it that it contained certain social ruin.  It was from my best friend.  She knew one of my closest held secrets and I could tell from the drawing on the outside of the letter that she was going to use it against me.

To this day, what I saw when I opened that letter makes me cringe.  Not only had she revealed my secret, but she had collected signatures from all of my friends, including all of the boys on my crush list.  My journal tells me I let my anguish be known to my not-so-best-friend-anymore but what I really remember is the feeling that there was nothing I could do to erase the damage that had been done. Even so, I had no choice but to continue on through that school day and return again the next.

As we both stared in silence at the horror of that letter, my daughter began to ask me all kinds of questions.   Did you cry?  Did you tell anyone? Did the boys tease you? Did you still stay friends with her?  What was most important was that she knew that I had survived.  And thrived.  Clearly, she was listening.  Not to the words of a 48-year-old, but to the voice of someone just like her.

Maybe it was the handwriting that made it real to her.  Or the ramble on sentences and heart-dotted “i”s. Or the names of my boyfriends written out in capital letters to emphasize how much I loved them.  Or the folded up notes that reflected the roller coaster ride of friendship.  No way could my grown-up voice have conveyed that world in the same way that reading the journal had.

What I do know for sure is that my daughter survived.

And thankfully, there’s a whole box of my middle school journals stashed under the stairwell just waiting for their moment.

 This post was orginally published on mommologues.com