Thursday - Sweet William
May. 11th, 2006 04:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ninanevermoreToday on my drive into work, I was thinking about the mother of a little boy in my son's class at his daycare. She is going through something awful, and there's nothing anyone can do for her until she finds the strength to stand up for herself.
I don't even know this woman's name, but her son is called William. He is about 12 months old. His first few weeks in daycare, he whimpered a lot and always seemed very sensitive. Because he always looked so concerned, I always think of him as Sweet William, like the flower. He was used to being with his mother all day, everyday, and neither of them were dealing with the separation very well. Not that they were all that separated; his mother works at the daycare center as a substitute teacher who moves from one room to another each day.
The second day that Sweet William and his mother were at the center, Sweet William and my son were the only two toddlers left in their room when I came to pick him up. I was talking to my son's afternoon teacher, Amber, while I gathered up his diaper bag and collected his stuff, when my son decided he wanted to steal a magnet off of the metal door that led outside. The magnet was too high for him to reach easily, so he was leaning on the door while he stretched his arm toward the desired magnet. Without warning, Sweet William's mother opened the door and he fell forward onto his hands and knees and let out a cry of annoyance.
I picked up my son and determined that he wasn't hurt. He stopped crying as soon as he was in my arms. Sweet William's mother burst into tears, however, and began apologizing profusely. Seeing his mother in such distress, William started to cry, too. I was stunned by her reaction; it seemed very extreme. She could barely look at me, and acted as if she expected to be yelled at or maybe hit.
"Shhh. It's okay. These things happen," I told her. I laughed it off. She still sobbed. I was holding my son and she had her arms wrapped tightly around her own baby. I kind of wanted to set my son down and wrap my arms around her, as she seemed much more damaged from the incident than my little boy was.
After she left, I looked at Amber. My expression must have been stunned.
"She cries like that all the time," Amber says, "She's just like that."
The next few times I saw her, I noticed how on edge she always looks. It's as if the only thing holding her tears back at any given moment is surface tension, and the slightest touch makes them flow down her face in a torrent. The other teachers all comment and joke about how often she cries. This woman is very young, with an olive-skinned Mediterranean prettiness. Her hair falls around her face in soft black ringlets that willfully escape from her pony tail. Her big brown eyes, always wary, always on the brink of tears, make her look like a little girl about to face some boogeyman who might jump her from around any corner she passes.
This morning, I learned she lives with that boogeyman. No wonder Sweet William and his mother always look ready to cry.
My son's morning teacher, Katy, wanted to ask my opinion about something when I dropped him off today. Everyone at the center is aware that Sweet William's mother is being abused at home. She showed up today with bruises on her arms where her husband grabbed her. She told the other teachers that William had accidentally done this somehow.
"But you could see they were big hands, man hand," Katy said. William's mother is always afraid, and very alone. She has no friends anymore. She has no family close by. She is not allowed to drive the car (her husband tells her it is a privilege that he even lets her ride in it). She has been opening up to the women she works with, but they aren't certain how to help her. Even Katy, who left an abusive first husband, doesn't know what to do for her.
I thought back to when a friend of mine was going through a very similar situation, and offered up what her other friends and I had done.
"He's worked so hard to tear her down," I said, "You have to build her up. Tell her everyday that she doesn't deserve this, because he's convinced her that she does." I told her that they should give her phone numbers to abuse hotlines, to clip every article they found on domestic abuse and slip it to her. "Keep at her until she has the courage to get out. It might take awhile." We both agreed that if William showed any abuse, then the police can be called. But William's father doesn't leave physical marks on him, just the psychological scars a child gets from watching his mother be destroyed day after day.
The situation makes you feel sick with helplessness. You know a crime is being committed, but you have no proof. The victim whispers it to you, but not to the authorities because she has been told that if she goes to the police, she will be killed. She believes what he has told her: that she is stupid, that she is worthless, that no one can love her, that she can't take care of herself without him, that he will murder her and hide her body and no one will do a damn thing if she ever tries to escape.
I think what made the difference for my friend years ago was when I stopped talking about how she needed to get out for her own sake, and how she should do it for her then 6-month-old daughter.
"What are you going to think 20 years from now when Joanna shows up with a black eye, because she learned from you and Aaron that this is how men treat women and that it's okay?"
My friend looked stunned. "He doesn't hit her. I wouldn't let him touch her."
"But she's learning to be hit from watching you get hit. She's learning that this is normal, instead of that it's sick. Think about it."
Two weeks later, she finally left Aaron. It took at least four other women and myself to build her up for months on end before she found the strength to do it.
I'm hoping Sweet William's mother finds the strength somehow, and soon. If not for herself, then for William. Perhaps if she can't do it for William, she can for her next baby. She just found out that she's pregnant again.
I hear that she cried when she told everyone at her work.
I don't even know this woman's name, but her son is called William. He is about 12 months old. His first few weeks in daycare, he whimpered a lot and always seemed very sensitive. Because he always looked so concerned, I always think of him as Sweet William, like the flower. He was used to being with his mother all day, everyday, and neither of them were dealing with the separation very well. Not that they were all that separated; his mother works at the daycare center as a substitute teacher who moves from one room to another each day.
The second day that Sweet William and his mother were at the center, Sweet William and my son were the only two toddlers left in their room when I came to pick him up. I was talking to my son's afternoon teacher, Amber, while I gathered up his diaper bag and collected his stuff, when my son decided he wanted to steal a magnet off of the metal door that led outside. The magnet was too high for him to reach easily, so he was leaning on the door while he stretched his arm toward the desired magnet. Without warning, Sweet William's mother opened the door and he fell forward onto his hands and knees and let out a cry of annoyance.
I picked up my son and determined that he wasn't hurt. He stopped crying as soon as he was in my arms. Sweet William's mother burst into tears, however, and began apologizing profusely. Seeing his mother in such distress, William started to cry, too. I was stunned by her reaction; it seemed very extreme. She could barely look at me, and acted as if she expected to be yelled at or maybe hit.
"Shhh. It's okay. These things happen," I told her. I laughed it off. She still sobbed. I was holding my son and she had her arms wrapped tightly around her own baby. I kind of wanted to set my son down and wrap my arms around her, as she seemed much more damaged from the incident than my little boy was.
After she left, I looked at Amber. My expression must have been stunned.
"She cries like that all the time," Amber says, "She's just like that."
The next few times I saw her, I noticed how on edge she always looks. It's as if the only thing holding her tears back at any given moment is surface tension, and the slightest touch makes them flow down her face in a torrent. The other teachers all comment and joke about how often she cries. This woman is very young, with an olive-skinned Mediterranean prettiness. Her hair falls around her face in soft black ringlets that willfully escape from her pony tail. Her big brown eyes, always wary, always on the brink of tears, make her look like a little girl about to face some boogeyman who might jump her from around any corner she passes.
This morning, I learned she lives with that boogeyman. No wonder Sweet William and his mother always look ready to cry.
My son's morning teacher, Katy, wanted to ask my opinion about something when I dropped him off today. Everyone at the center is aware that Sweet William's mother is being abused at home. She showed up today with bruises on her arms where her husband grabbed her. She told the other teachers that William had accidentally done this somehow.
"But you could see they were big hands, man hand," Katy said. William's mother is always afraid, and very alone. She has no friends anymore. She has no family close by. She is not allowed to drive the car (her husband tells her it is a privilege that he even lets her ride in it). She has been opening up to the women she works with, but they aren't certain how to help her. Even Katy, who left an abusive first husband, doesn't know what to do for her.
I thought back to when a friend of mine was going through a very similar situation, and offered up what her other friends and I had done.
"He's worked so hard to tear her down," I said, "You have to build her up. Tell her everyday that she doesn't deserve this, because he's convinced her that she does." I told her that they should give her phone numbers to abuse hotlines, to clip every article they found on domestic abuse and slip it to her. "Keep at her until she has the courage to get out. It might take awhile." We both agreed that if William showed any abuse, then the police can be called. But William's father doesn't leave physical marks on him, just the psychological scars a child gets from watching his mother be destroyed day after day.
The situation makes you feel sick with helplessness. You know a crime is being committed, but you have no proof. The victim whispers it to you, but not to the authorities because she has been told that if she goes to the police, she will be killed. She believes what he has told her: that she is stupid, that she is worthless, that no one can love her, that she can't take care of herself without him, that he will murder her and hide her body and no one will do a damn thing if she ever tries to escape.
I think what made the difference for my friend years ago was when I stopped talking about how she needed to get out for her own sake, and how she should do it for her then 6-month-old daughter.
"What are you going to think 20 years from now when Joanna shows up with a black eye, because she learned from you and Aaron that this is how men treat women and that it's okay?"
My friend looked stunned. "He doesn't hit her. I wouldn't let him touch her."
"But she's learning to be hit from watching you get hit. She's learning that this is normal, instead of that it's sick. Think about it."
Two weeks later, she finally left Aaron. It took at least four other women and myself to build her up for months on end before she found the strength to do it.
I'm hoping Sweet William's mother finds the strength somehow, and soon. If not for herself, then for William. Perhaps if she can't do it for William, she can for her next baby. She just found out that she's pregnant again.
I hear that she cried when she told everyone at her work.
